silly supi

just a lil silly

[supi-wupi]

Supi [Sup-e] (noun) -- a human that has way too many interests and hobbies

22 | ISFP | avid kpop fan | carrd

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[dividers by @cafekitsune]

[all banners are made by me, @supi-wupi, unless otherwise stated]

[smileysuh]

slumbering torment

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo & Kim Mingyu x afab!Reader  

🔮 preview. “There’s a tether of fate between us, one that she can physically see in the waking world,” Wonwoo explains to Mingyu. “She knows we care about her, and she can correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like our little recruit wants two of her captains to fuck her brains out in a dream realm free of consequences.” 

tw/cw. Unprotected dream realm sex, sub/dom themes, power imbalance/power play, semi-tyrant all-powerful dom!Wonwoo, threesome, foreplay, pussy eating, oral, deep throating, slight pain kink, nipple clamps, fingering, squirting, breast/body worship, multiple reader orgasms, hand job, cum/squirt kink, voyeurism, dirty talk, cumming on demand, praise, finger sucking, fingers and cock in pussy at the same time, stretching kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby. (Wonwoo’s) Captain. (Mingyu’s) Sir. 

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 10.1k 

🍭 aus. Fantasy au, knight au, magic user au, polyamory au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. “Quiet vice-captain Wonwoo, a sexual tyrant in his own dream world” I feel like most of the Mingyu/Wonwoo threesomes I write have Wonwoo being not the most vocal of participants, so I had a lot of fun with this one. 

Prologue: 

You can feel your heart practically beating out of your chest during your trials to get accepted onto a magic knight squad. With so many amazing teams to join, you hardly know what to expect. Will you be joining SKZ? Or perhaps ITZY? Or maybe even NCT?

No, NCT hasn’t recruited in years, but ITZY is a contender… if they choose you, that is.

You have no hopes of getting recruited by SVT. They’re the powerhouse squad. In fact, they’re so adept at magic that when their last Captain had stepped down, the young vice captains had created a whole new structure for the squad, with three teams focused on defence, offence, and dual-wield uses for power.  

Seungcheol, the head Captain of SVT, stands regal on a platform looking down at the recruit arena. With him are Hoshi, the offensive captain, who wields an ability called animal instinct; he can communicate and even become animals at will, and Woozi, the regal defence team leader, who is as adept with plant healing magic as any of the top mages who provide the Capital with hospital assistance. 

Behind the three head members of SVT are a few of the extra vice captains. You recognise Wonwoo and Mingyu, of the dual team, arguably the most dangerous of the three subgroups, as their magic can act as both defence and offence.

There are rumours about these men, about the power they wield. Wonwoo with his dream magic, the ability to trap enemies in a dreamscape that they can never leave, and Mingyu, with blood magic that can shake a man to his very core, incapacitating with one hand and healing with the other.

No, there’s no way you’ll make it onto SVT with your thread magic… and yet, their eyes are on you.

The power that radiates from their gazes alone makes you falter, but you adjust, intent on proving yourself.

You won’t mess this up, you can’t afford to.

You’re eighteen, and this is your first recruitment trial. Many of the people around you are fifteen-year-olds, having come to this event at the first opportunity, but not you. You haven’t lived a life with a silver spoon. Your family comes from the outskirts of the kingdom, where farming is a way of life and no one ever gets to join the royal guard. You have been working hard for three years to convince your parents to allow you to come to this, and you won’t waste the opportunity. 

You suppose your thread magic has both offensive and defensive uses, but you’re more comfortable with your protection magic, so that’s what you showcase.

Fine black threads appear in the air, and they can be woven thick enough to create a barrier that blocks most magic. It’s not easy work to summon and weave at the same time, but you’re proud of yourself for what you’re able to accomplish, and when the trials are done, you wait patiently for a result, fingers crossed.

“We will take the girl with thread magic,” Seungcheol’s voice booms over the crowd. “She is our third pick today.”

None of the other Captains even bother to argue, because everyone knows that the right to join SVT is not easily won, and even harder to refuse.

You can’t believe your luck, but as you stare at these domineering magic users, you wonder if this is a good thing or not. ITZY is an all-female squad, and part of you had been hoping to join them… but you suppose that string of fate has spoken, and you must now walk the path in front of you.

SVT seems to be your destiny, and as a wielder of thread magic, which touches on fate itself, you’ll be damned if you resist.

One:

Wonwoo never sleeps, and at times, that can be tiring. As a dream magic user, when he closes his eyes, he’s transported into his own world, where he’s the king and in control of everything. He’s as awake in the dream world as in the real one, and there’s only so much he can do while ‘asleep’ to entertain himself.

So, Wonwoo often slips into the dreams of those around him. He knows it’s invasive, but he can’t help himself. The unconsciousness of others is something he can bear witness to, without the need to control or dictate.

Often, Wonwoo finds himself in Mingyu’s dreams; they seem to be the most entertaining.

Seungcheol dreams of battle and blood, Woozi dreams of science and plants, and Hoshi… well, his dreams are almost exclusively of himself in tiger form running through forests and giving in to his animal instincts.

Mingyu, on the other hand, is more creative in his subconscious. He enacts bizarre scenarios that always keep Wonwoo guessing. One time, he dreamt of fishing in a small boat on the coast. Then a tsunami hit, the waves a coppery orange colour. The ocean erupted with pretty mermaids who took Mingyu to shore, only for the mermaids to transform fully into disgusting, blubbering fish when they touched dry land. Mingyu had woken from that dream as if it were a nightmare, and Wonwoo had laughed about it discreetly to himself for weeks afterward. 

Wonwoo generally makes it a rule only to enter the dreams of other vice captains. But even that is starting to get boring.

Wonwoo is just so bored. 

He sighs as he walks down the dark corridors of the SVT headquarters. Everyone else is asleep, and he can sense the inkling of dreams as he walks past bedroom doors.

Soft echoes of screams and the sound of attack magic permeate from Seungcheol’s room, and Wonwoo lets out another deep breath. How can someone have such a one-track mind that their entire life is dedicated to battle?

Outside of Mingyu’s door, Wonwoo takes a peek into his best friend’s subconscious and finds Mingyu trekking up a mountain made of gold and diamonds, battling wind as the sky flares orange and purple behind him. 

Climbing a mountain isn’t exactly enthralling today.

Wonwoo continues, seeing glimmers of dreamscapes as he passes each room, but then something catches his attention.

The colours are what stand out to him first. Moody purples, royal blues, flickers of crystalline light. Wonwoo licks his lips, temptation flaring over him as he stands outside your door. He knows it’s your room, and this isn’t the first time he’s been tempted to take a peek inside your mind.

You’re hard not to notice. It’s been a year since SVT recruited you, and in that time, you’ve been a star pupil. You follow commands with a determination Wonwoo has never seen, and you push yourself to be better every day. You’ve never caused any problems on expeditions or quests, and Wonwoo has always gotten a sense that, behind your quiet, rule-following demeanor, there’s more than what meets the eye.

His fingers twitch, and he aches to take a peek into your dream.

Then Wonwoo hears his own voice, a barked command, followed by a ‘Yes, Sir!’ that is unmistakably you.

So… you’re dreaming about him?

Well… It’s as if he’s being invited into your head.

It would be so easy for him to just… slip into the version of himself that you’re seeing in your unconscious mind’s eye.

So that’s exactly what he does. Wonwoo leans against the wall outside your door, and a moment later, he transports himself into your subconscious.

Two: 

The first thing Wonwoo notices is that the location of your dreamscape appears to be inside a cave. But the walls are covered in glittering gems. He can see amethysts and lapiz lazuli, and the precious stones glow as if a light resides within their cores. The whole cavern is illuminated with these glittering, vivid colours.

It seems to be some kind of dungeon, the type that the squad has cleared before, except it’s the most beautiful dungeon he’s ever seen. Wonwoo’s power is all about creativity, but he’s not sure even he could have ever dreamt up a scene like this. 

On a raised platform sits a massive treasure chest, and it seems to be made out of a sparkling crystal material that glitters even brighter than the gemstone walls.

“Sir!” Your voice captures his attention, and Wonwoo whips around to find you standing there. Your hands are raised, delicate black strings weaving through the air toward the ceiling of the cavern, which is when Wonwoo notices the bat-like creatures flying there.

With eyes like rubies that glint viciously, the circling enemies are thwarted by your magic, but Wonwoo can see you are struggling.

“Your dream magic!” you insist.

Wonwoo lifts a hand, ready to use his power to completely pacify the enemy- but then, he would be in control of this dream. He would take ownership as the creator, stripping your unconscious of the work it’s doing. 

Another rule Wonwoo doesn’t like to break: tampering with the power one holds over their own subconscious.

“I can’t,” Wonwoo tells you, lowering his hand.

“You must!” you insist, your gaze shifting down, and that’s when Wonwoo notices Mingyu is lying at your feet, his throat bloodied as if from an animal bite. “I can’t hold them off on my own! And I can’t help Mingyu while fighting off this attack!” 

So you dream of both him and Mingyu… that’s interesting. 

Not another royal guard is in sight. 

Wonwoo sighs; he can sense your panic and can see that this dream is swiftly becoming a nightmare with his inability to perform. 

Rules are arbitrary anyway.

Wonwoo flourishes his wrist, and a moment later, every single bat creature comes crashing to the floor of the cave, incapacitated and seemingly asleep.

You sink to your knees, your hands finding Mingyu’s throat, where you weave your thread magic to stitch up the wound.

Wonwoo stands there awkwardly watching the way you cradle Mingyu against yourself. He suddenly feels as if he shouldn’t be here, as if he’s witnessing an extremely intimate moment. It’s rare to find himself in sexual or even sexually adjacent dreams, and Wonwoo can feel the tension radiating off of you even from underneath the cloud of concern.

But… the real Mingyu, the one dreaming about climbing mountains… he’s not in a relationship with you.

Wonwoo would know if his best friend were keeping secrets. 

So this is an unrequited love, the kind of love you can only experience in your dreams like this.

“Mingyu, wake up,” you urge, staring down at the bloodied man.

With a twitch of his fingers, Wonwoo wills dream Mingyu to wake, and the man’s eyes flutter open.

Wonwoo turns, not wanting to see what happens next, and his gaze lands on the glowing treasure chest. He begins to walk toward it, tuning out the words exchanged between you and Dream Mingyu.

“Sir, wait!” you call. “There might be traps!”

As the words leave your mouth, Wonwoo steps on a stone, and a fire arrow shoots through the air toward him. Wonwoo lifts a hand, stopping the magic before it hits him.

He hears a gasp, and he turns around to see you holding Mingyu up, your gaze locked on him.

“You… you stopped the arrow,” you whisper.

At first, Wonwoo’s not sure what you mean, and then he realizes, in your dreams, he has the same powers he has in real life. He can put things to sleep, but he shouldn’t have been able to stop that arrow… except that you’re currently in a dream, so he can control anything he wants.

Surely there’s no way your slumbering mind can comprehend this, right?

Before Wonwoo can consider it further, the whole world goes black, and Wonwoo’s eyes snap open in the real world. 

You’ve woken up in a panic, and he can hear your bedsheets shifting. 

Without a second thought, Wonwoo quickly retreats down the corridor.

Three:

You’ve been a vivid dreamer for your whole life, but nothing has been more vivid than the final minutes of the dream you had last night. You can’t get it out of your head; the image of Wonwoo stopping an arrow with the wave of his hand.

With an analytical mind, you can always count on your dreams following logic. Sure, the locations might be fantastical, and the situations are sometimes not the most likely, but without fail, when you dream of your squad mates, they always have the same powers and personalities they do in real life.

So, how was Wonwoo, a user of sleep magic, able to stop an arrow in your dream like a man with telekinetic powers? 

There seems to be only one true answer; the real Wonwoo was in your head last night.

You don’t want to believe it.

Has this happened before, or was this the first time?

How often does he go into the dreams of others?

Do other people allow him into their dreams?

What has he seen in your mind’s sleeping eye?

What secrets has he borne witness to?

What desires has he observed in your most private moments of slumber? 

You sit at breakfast hunched over your meal, unable to look up to meet the gaze of anyone around you. But you can feel eyes on you, dark eyes, the eyes of the man who intruded in your subconscious last night.

There’s a connection between you now, a thread of fate that wasn’t there before. 

In your time training, you’ve come to the understanding that you may weave threads and make them visible, but you can also see the invisible strings of fate that tie everyone together. 

There’s been a tie between you and Mingyu for some months now, a thread that grows thicker week by week, building with every interaction, but you’ve hardly spoken to the silent vice-captain who wields dream magic. 

There’s never been a thread with Wonwoo, and today, all of a sudden, there’s a string connecting you to Wonwoo that is as thick as the one between you and Mingyu. 

You suppose the only question is, where do things go from here?

Four: 

It’s been a week since Wonwoo has visited your dream, and every night, you go to bed with a tingle of anticipation, wondering if you’ll see him again.

In your waking hours, Wonwoo continues to play the part of regal, silent vice-captain. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t say a word, but something tells you that when he does decide to visit your unconscious again, there might be movement in this whole debacle.

Tonight, you’re dreaming about Hoshi for some reason, except he’s in tiger form. You know it’s Hoshi because even as a tiger, he’s on his hind legs dancing, and it’s quite the spectacle. 

Time is fuzzy when you’re asleep, and the vividity of your dreams comes and goes. 

Something is making this scene very clear, and it only takes a few moments for you to realize what.

Standing across the field is a familiar man: Wonwoo.

He’s watching you, like he does every day in the mess hall and during training.

You force a wave and begin to approach him.

Wonwoo turns to leave.

“Wait! Please!” you call, your pace quickening. “I need to talk to you!”

Wonwoo pauses, and you see him release a sigh. “I just wanted to say I was sorry for invading your dream,” he tells you when you reach him.

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I uh… is this something you do often?”

“Not with anyone but other captains,” he assures you.

“Why?”

“Because it’s intrusive.”

You consider his words. “So why did you come into my dream?”

Wonwoo stares at you. “The other captains get boring.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I don’t… I don’t get to sleep like you do. I’m awake every moment of my life. I can go into my own dream world and create what I want to see, but there are limits to my own imagination. It gets so very boring.” He pauses. “I saw the colours of your dream, and they drew me in. You have a sleeping world that’s different from any I’ve ever been in.”

His gaze shifts past you to tiger Hoshi, who is still dancing. “Don’t mind him,” you say, suddenly embarrassed.

Wonwoo laughs, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him smile.

God, he’s beautiful.

The string appears between your bodies, and Wonwoo’s laugh is cut short. He looks down at it.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, uh…” It feels like your throat is closing up. “I think it’s a string of fate.”

“You think?”

“It’s a new part of my power I unlocked a few months ago,” you try to explain. 

“Do you see these when you’re awake?” Wonwoo reaches down and touches the string, marveling at the way it connects the two of you, heart to heart.

“Yes,” you admit. 

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” you confess. “I’ve read about soul ties, that sort of thing, but these appear gradually, and they build over time.”

“Hmm.” Wonwoo lets go of the string. “And are you tied to anyone else?”

Mingyu appears beside you, conjured by the suggestion Wonwoo has just sent to your subconscious. A matching thread connects you to the wielder of blood magic.

“I see.” Wonwoo nods. “Well, this is interesting.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Why?”

“I have a fate thread tying me to two of my Captains; it’s not exactly ideal.”

The edges of Wonwoo’s lips quirk slightly, as if he finds the whole thing so very amusing. 

“There are no rules prohibiting captains from… being with their subordinates,” Wonwoo points out. “If that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know if you or Mingyu are even interested?” you blurt out.

“This string goes both ways,” he muses softly, tracing the thread with his index finger.

“Well… we’re always so busy…” you insist, not wanting to believe what your captain is saying.

“You forget, I control dreams. If this is something you wanted to explore, we could all explore it while you sleep, and no one would ever have to know.”

“How would that work?” you ask, your inhibitions practically nonexistent as your unbridled unconscious takes control. 

“I can put people to sleep and draw them into my dream realm. I could bring you and Mingyu into my mind, and in my dream world, you can feel every touch, as if it were happening while awake.”

“Into your dream realm…” you repeat. “Where you control everything.”

“Yes.” He nods, assessing your every facial expression with watchful eyes.

“I…” you swallow thickly, overwhelmed with this information.

Could you really… explore this soul tie with both Wonwoo and Mingyu while in a dream realm?

What would the exploration look like?

“You don’t have to answer now,” Wonwoo tells you. “I’d prefer to hear your decision while you’re awake. In here, in your own dream… well, your primal instincts often take over while your civilized mind is at rest.”

“My primal instincts,” you whisper.

“Yes.” Wonwoo steps closer, leaning forward until his lips are almost ghosting over your own. “Let’s talk about this again soon.”

The world collapses around you, and you sit up in bed, breathing heavily, the anticipation of a kiss leaving tingles on your lips.

Five:

You’re walking back to the training yard after lunch when you realize someone is tailing you, and you turn to see Wonwoo. He makes a motion with his head, indicating toward a storage closet that will take you away from the prying eyes of other members of the guard.

Your heart is racing practically out of your chest as he follows you into the small space. 

“So?” he says when he closes the door.

“So?” you repeat.

“So what are you thinking?”

God, he’s standing so close to you, and now that you’re wide awake, you can even feel his breath. 

The invisible thread between you is practically pulsing with your proximity, and you swallow thickly. “I want to,” you tell him.

“Want to what?” he grins. 

“I want to have a dream with you and Mingyu,” you clarify. “I want to explore this. Without having to sneak around and hide in closets.”

“I kind of like it in here,” he muses, leaning closer.

Your whole body is tingling with desperation. You’re not a virgin, but you haven’t had sex since you joined the guard; you’ve been too focused on training and tasks. 

God, you really need to get fucked.

Something tells you Wonwoo does as well. All this man does is work, day and night.

Having your dreams to explore sexual fantasies in would be amazing. Hell, half of your life is spent asleep. You can’t even imagine what it will be like to be able to partake in Wonwoo’s dream realm any night you want, without it impeding on your rigorous waking schedule.

You can’t help yourself; you grab his shoulders, pulling him to you.

Your lips smash against his own, and his hands tug at your hips, pressing you firmly to his chest.

Wonwoo has always been extremely handsome, but he’s kept to himself. This whole dream invasion thing has opened a door you never thought would be unlocked, and now, you want to dive in headfirst. 

He’s quiet, but domineering, and obviously considerate. Intelligent men have a certain appeal, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the inherent power both Wonwoo and Mingyu have over you as vice-captains.

Your entire body is tingling as you kiss each other, getting lost in the throes of passion, squished secretly together in a closet at the SVT headquarters like teenagers kissing in a confession booth at church.

You grab the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss and allowing his tongue into your mouth. Wonwoo groans, and it’s the most delightful sound you’ve ever heard. You can feel your panties sticking to your core-

Someone coughs loudly outside of the storage closet, and you pull apart quickly, your heart racing.

“Sorry guys, but uh, that’s a broom closet, and as a vice-captain, I have to suggest you move it elsewhere.” The voice is unmistakably Mingyu’s, and the realization flashes in Wonwoo’s eyes as you stare at each other.

All it takes is a moment, and you know through the way the invisible thread jolts that you’re thinking the same thing.

Wonwoo throws the door open, grabs Mingyu, and tugs him into the closet.

“What the fu- Wonwoo?” Mingyu gasps in shock. “Y/N? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I just sensed rushing blood in here-”

“It’s okay,” Wonwoo assures him.

“Uh…” Mingyu swallows uncomfortably, pressing himself back against the wall of the closet. “So…”

“We all need to talk, but not here,” Wonwoo explains. 

“Yeah, it’s kind of stuffy in here,” Mingyu notes. “Also… I’m not going to tell Cheol I saw the two of you in a closet.”

Wonwoo sighs, shaking his head at his friend. “That’s not what we need to talk about.”

“Is it something bad? God, I explained to Hoshi last month that my blood magic can’t be used as birth control-”

“What? No!” Wonwoo narrows his eyes at Mingyu. “That’s not-”

“You guys can talk it out, but Seungcheol is expecting me in the training yard. You two can be late, but I can’t,” you interject.

“Yeah, no one’s in the hallway,” Mingyu confirms, utilizing his blood sensing power. 

“We’ll catch up to you,” Wonwoo assures you, opening the closet door so you can skitter out.

Your entire body is flooded with jittery energy as you run toward the training yard, anticipation a more intense drug than most.

Six: 

You’re really not sure how this is going to work, so you wait patiently in your room. From what you understand, Wonwoo can enter dreams and take control, but for him to invite you into his own dream kingdom, he needs to put you to sleep, something that is easily done using his power.

It’s late when there’s a knock at your door, and you open it to allow Wonwoo to slip inside.

“I was worried you weren’t coming,” you confess.

“Had to make sure no one saw me come in here,” he explains. “Woozi patrols these halls like a guardsman.” 

“I know we have no rules about fraternization, but Woozi definitely makes it seem like we do.”

“Yeah, that’s Jeonghan’s fault. He got one of our best recruits pregnant a few years back, and it took them both out of the game. He’s back now, but she decided to be a stay-at-home mom.”

“So pregnancy is a definite no,” you laugh awkwardly.

“I’m not planning on having kids anytime soon, are you?” he cocks a brow.

“Not even in my wildest dreams.”

“Good.” Wonwoo clears his throat. “Doing things this way, in a dream state, will protect us all from that nonsense; the only problem is, if I’m letting you into my dream world, I have to come and physically see you when we want to do this.”

“And then you put me to sleep?”

“Yes, and then I leave and join you in the dream world from my own room.”

“So there’s still an element of sneaking around,” you note.

Wonwoo shrugs. “I can be pretty quiet when I want to be.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed. I thought you hated me this entire time.”

“I don’t hate you,” he laughs. “I’m just not as open about my feelings as Mingyu is.”

“Whatever the two of you feel for me, you’ve both done a very good job hiding it.”

“Well… we can’t have vice-captains making recruits feel uncomfortable if things are unrequited,” Wonwoo muses. “Could you imagine how horrible that would be?”

“It wouldn’t be the best,” you agree. “So how do we do this?”

“Lay down,” Wonwoo instructs. “Mingyu is already waiting for you.”

“Oh?”

“I figured you two should have a moment or two to talk privately before I get back to my own room. I know you and I are on the same page, but I probably didn’t do the best job explaining this to him in that storage closet.” Wonwoo laughs at himself, following you as you head to lie down.

“So… I’ll still be myself in the dream?” you ask.

“Yes. Unlike your dreams where I’m invading your subconscious, when you come into my dream world, it’s as if you’re completely awake just in a different realm. You will be able to touch, feel, taste… pretty much anything you can do in real life.”

“Except get pregnant.”

“Yes.”

You don’t want to bring it up with him, but you know the extra caveat he’s not mentioning; if you die in his dream world, you die in real life. That’s what makes Wonwoo so extremely powerful: he can wipe entire factions of enemies off the map just by trapping them in his dream world and summoning a tsunami, or a fireball, or anything he can imagine.

But you’re not afraid; you’re sure that wherever Wonwoo places you in his dream realm will be nice. After all, you’re going there to get secretly fucked stupid by two of your vice-captains. 

Seven:

You find yourself transported to a large bedroom. The floor beneath your feet is dark marble, and large crystals jut out of it, their cores casting a glow around the room. It’s cavernous, almost, with what looks like a hot spring bubbling in one corner. And then your eyes find a massive bed, and your gaze meets Mingyu’s.

“Y/N!” he stands up abruptly.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly, not quite sure how to approach him given the circumstances.

“Can you explain what’s going on?” 

Your words get caught in your throat, and you fight with yourself on how to do this, but you decide being honest is probably the best idea.

“Wonwoo invaded my dreams recently, and it caused a tether of fate to form between us, a tether that I’d only ever seen between you and me.”

“A tether of fate?” he repeats.

“Yes, like… a thread,” you try to explain. “From my heart to yours.”

“Oh.” You notice the way his cheeks turn a rosy pink. “Was I that obvious about liking you?”

“Without the tether, I may not have noticed. You and Wonwoo are both quite good at keeping your secrets.”

“We have to be; it wouldn’t be fair to put pressure on you like that.”

Both of these men truly are wonderful people. Here they are, vice-captains with an interest in you, but neither is willing to put you in a precarious situation due to the innate power imbalance that resides between you.

“I feel the same way, though. I’ve been interested in you both since the trials; I just never knew what to do about it,” you blurt out, then pause. “Is this weird for you that I like you both?”

“Not really,” Mingyu admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wonwoo and I grew up together; we’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember. When he jumps, I jump. I suppose it’s not the most surprising thing that we’d be interested in the same girl. And, well, sharing you is better than one of us being left out, I guess.”

Mingyu is adorable. This is a side to him you’ve never really seen.

Both men have always been quite reserved in speaking about personal feelings. All the Captains are strictly business, so it is nice to see Mingyu - and Wonwoo - in a new light.

“So… is this like a double date sort of thing? And by double, I mean, well, both of us with you,” Mingyu laughs awkwardly.

“I mean, it can be,” you tell him, embarrassment washing over you. 

It’s clear you and Wonwoo have more sinful intentions, but you have never stopped to consider if Mingyu would want to take things slow.

“You two are cute,” comes Wonwoo’s voice, and you turn to see him standing by the bed. You’re not sure when he had appeared, but you’re happy he can handle this awkwardness now. 

“Why are we cute?” Mingyu asks.

“We’re in a dream world,” Wonwoo responds casually. “We don’t have to take things slow here if we don’t want to. I understand you like to be a gentleman about these things, Mingyu, but y/n doesn’t want us to be. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d prefer it if, while we’re in this realm, we behave the opposite.”

“Wait, so you’re saying…” Mingyu looks between you and his friend.

“There’s a tether of fate between us, one that she can physically see in the waking world,” Wonwoo explains to Mingyu. “She knows we care about her, and she can correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like our little recruit wants two of her captains to fuck her brains out in a dream realm free of consequences.” 

Both of their gazes shift to you, looking for confirmation, and you manage a nod. “He’s right,” you admit. “Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but as a weaver of thread magic who is learning about the fate aspect of my power, there’s something inside of me that innately trusts the string that connects us all. I can’t explain it, but I know the universe wouldn’t steer me wrong on this.”

“And we’re all pent up from being too good at our jobs when we’re awake,” Wonwoo points out. “This seems like the perfect fit.”

“I just… are you sure you don’t want us to buy you dinner first or something?” Mingyu laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You sneak a peek at Wonwoo, and both of you can’t hide your laughter. “You’re very cute, Mingyu.”

“I just mean…” the tall man says, clearly flustered, “I don’t want you to think we’re taking advantage of you.”

“I think she’s taking advantage of us, actually,” Wonwoo grins. “Very naughty of her.” 

God, Wonwoo can be so sexy when he wants to be. Your core throbs at his words, and you’re shocked at how you can feel it so vividly. So the word about Wonwoo’s dream realm was true; you’ll be able to feel everything they do to you.

“So are you in or out, Mingyu?” Wonwoo asks. “I can always allow you to wake up, take her to dinner on your own time, and miss out on this.”

Mingyu glares at his friend. “Don’t you dare.”

“So we’re in agreement,” Wonwoo concludes. “Dream sex now, a proper dinner later.”

“You guys don’t have to take me out for a proper dinner,” you laugh.

Wonwoo’s grin widens. “Mingyu seems dead set on it.” 

“I am!” 

Your giggling intensifies, but it dies down when you see the way the men are staring at you. “So, Wonwoo,” you clear your throat. “What now?”

“So if we’re all consenting, then we’re all consenting,” Wonwoo clarifies, earning nods from you and Mingyu. “Now, you let me work my magic,” Wonwoo concludes. “Starting with your outfit.”

He raises a hand, and you feel the brush of air across your skin. When you look down, you find yourself in a black nightdress. It’s short, with a silky fabric that brushes your mid-thigh, and the cool air of the room caresses your bare shoulders. 

You know Wonwoo controls everything here, but the fact that he’s dressing you up like his own personal doll leaves you breathless.

“She’s beautiful,” Mingyu says.

“What do you think, baby?” Wonwoo asks, directing his question at you. 

“I’m not sure,” you admit.

Another twitch of his fingers and a massive mirror appears in front of you, giving you a full view of the outfit he’s chosen. You marvel at yourself in the reflection, shocked by how well Wonwoo has chosen a nightie for you. Had he spent a long time considering this? 

The mirror disappears, and you stare at the two men, unable to help but smile. “It looks good,” you confirm. 

“Now for us,” Wonwoo turns his attention to Mingyu, and the next moment, the vice-captain is shirtless. Mingyu jumps from the sudden change, and Wonwoo grins. “I think this is probably up our baby’s alley.”

“I feel… exposed,” Mingyu admits, clearly unused to being a puppet whose world is controlled by a sinful master like Wonwoo.

“Tell him you like this,” Wonwoo says, turning to you.

“I do like it,” you admit, taking in Mingyu’s body with hungry relish. God, he’s so ripped, but you suppose you have quite a physical job. His skin is marred in a few places with old scars, but you think it adds to Mingyu’s beauty.

“Well, what about you?” Mingyu asks his friend. 

“I think I’m good like this for now,” Wonwoo responds, looking down at the black knitted sweater and pants that hide his body from your view.

The dynamic between these men is certainly interesting. You could get used to the friendly bickering, and you can’t wait to explore them more.

Wonwoo’s gaze finds you again, and with the simple crook of his finger, he uses his power to tug you to his chest. You release a gasp, your hands finding his shoulders as you look up at him.

“So, how rough do you want it?” he asks, a sly grin appearing on his lips.

“Break me,” you whisper, skin tingling at the admittance of just how far you want to go tonight. “Don’t hold anything back.”

“Is there anything you don’t like?” Mingyu questions, stepping behind you, blocking you in against Wonwoo while his lips trail just millimeters from your throat.

“I…” you swallow thickly. “I’m not sure yet.”

Wonwoo stiffens. “Are you a virgin?” 

“No,” you assure him. “Just not the most experienced, and I haven’t been touched in a very long time.”

“If you don’t like anything, just say so,” Mingyu tells you, his hand stroking your arm. “I don’t think we need a safe word; just communicate with us.”

“I will,” you promise.

Wonwoo looks at the man over your shoulder, and it’s clear they exchange a wordless agreement. This is a duo of best friends; you’re sure they have an idea of what will work with each other.

They move in tandem, Wonwoo cupping your cheek and drawing your lips to his while Mingyu presses a kiss to your throat, easily narrowing in on your sweet spot.

A moan escapes you, and your whole body melts like jelly, your arms wrapping around Wonwoo to stay standing while they begin to worship you.

Mingyu’s hands find your hips, helping to keep you steady while they slowly explore you. The kiss with Wonwoo is hot and fiery, picking up where you’d left off in the storage closet. You can practically taste his lust for you, and it makes your body surge with pleasure. Mingyu, meanwhile, is slightly more tentative, licking and sucking on your skin.

You press your chest to Wonwoo, arching your back so your ass can brush against Mingyu’s crotch, and the man behind you groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

You can feel his bulge beginning to press in his pants, and knowing that both men want you is a huge turn on. You’d never imagined you’d be engaging in a threesome, let alone a dream threesome with two insanely hot vice-captains of your squad.

Mingyu’s hand rises from your hip, and he massages your breast through the slinky nightie that adorns your body. You groan, breaking your kiss with Wonwoo so both men can hear your sounds of pleasure.

Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and now both men are kissing your neck while their hands trail up your body.

Mingyu continues to touch your chest, but Wonwoo’s hand slips between your thighs. “You’re soaked, baby,” he whispers. “I’ve never seen such a cute, needy little recruit before.”

So he’s leaning into the power dynamic… you’ve never been this turned on in your entire life.

“I just want to be good for you, Captain,” you whimper.

“You’re being so good for us,” Mingyu assures you. 

“Yes, Sir,” you groan when Wonwoo begins to stroke your core through the flimsy piece of fabric between your legs.

Mingyu responds by slowly lifting the nightie off of your body, exposing your torso to both men, then, in tandem, they turn you so your back is now to Wonwoo. Mingyu cups your face, drawing your lips to his while Wonwoo continues to play with your pussy. His hand slips under the fabric of your panties, deft fingers circling your aching clit.

Mingyu’s not holding back anymore, and his tongue invades your mouth deliciously. He takes your breath away, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, loving the way he’s already groaning softly. 

Wonwoo applies more pressure to your clit, and you gasp, pulling at Mingyu’s hair. You break the kiss to throw your head back against Wonwoo’s shoulder, and Mingyu takes the opportunity to let his lips trail down your throat. His breath is warm against your exposed skin, and his mouth is hot when he sucks one of your nipples between his lips.

“Fuck,” you whimper, feeling yourself getting wetter by the second.

“Look at you,” Wonwoo grins. “Such a sensitive baby.”

“It feels so good,” you groan, wiggling your hips, looking for more stimulation.

Wonwoo slips two fingers into your soaked core, and you release a deep moan, eyes shutting as you focus on the pleasure both men are providing you.

“What a warm, wet pussy, baby,” Wonwoo muses. “Is this all for us?”

“Yes,” you whimper, loving the way he’s still using his palm to stimulate your clit.

Mingyu sucks harder on your nipple, pinching the other between two fingers.

“You’re dripping all over my hand,” Wonwoo continues. “How close are you?”

“So close,” you admit, muscles clenching with need.

“I guess we should give you what you need.” Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and he sucks on your sweet spot, his fingers working you open while his palm applies rough pressure to your clit. Mingyu worships your chest, teasing your nipples until you’re aching.

Your whimpers and gasps fill the room, echoing off the cavernous walls. Both men focus entirely on getting you to the edge, and soon, your entire body is throbbing with hot pleasure as you cum hard.

Your core clenches around Wonwoo’s fingers, your screams uncensored as your orgasm overtakes you completely.

“That’s it,” Wonwoo praises you, nibbling on your ear while they work you through your high. “What a good girl for us.”

Mingyu pulls away from your chest, cupping your face so he can press his lips to yours. He eats up your sounds while Wonwoo finishes you off, and the moment your orgasm subsides, Mingyu picks you up.

The tall man carries you to the bed, his lips never leaving yours as he lays you down on the plush mattress before getting on top of you. His hips rock, his hard cock nudging your core through two layers of fabric.

“How about we make this fun for all of us?” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through your lust. “Mingyu, you’re not used to a situation like this; threesomes require a bit of creativity.”

“Huh?” Mingyu pulls away from you, turning to look over his shoulder at his friend.

“I’m not some cuck who’s going to stand and watch,” Wonwoo reiterates. “Lay her across the bed, her head hanging over one side; you can use her mouth, but I’m going to eat her pussy one way or another.” 

You swear; his words could make you cum on the spot.

Dominant Wonwoo is a sight to behold, and it delights you that he has control like this, and the foresight to imagine scenarios where all three of you can be experiencing pleasure in tandem.

“Okay,” Mingyu swallows thickly. “Yeah.” One adjustment has you with your head cocked off the side of the bed, and Mingyu fumbles with his pants. “You okay with this?” he asks. 

“Yes, I told you, don’t hold anything back.”

While Mingyu pulls his cock out, Wonwoo gets onto the bed between your thighs. One snap of his fingers has your panties disappearing, and he groans at the sight of your wet core.

“Messy baby,” he taunts, kissing your inner thigh.

“You made me this way, Captain,” you retort, earning a sharp slap to your leg.

“I’m cleaning up after myself, aren’t I?’ Wonwoo reminds you.

Your core throbs, and Wonwoo presses a kiss to your clit that makes your toes curl. He adjusts your legs over his shoulders, his strong hands grabbing your hips to pin you to the bed while he licks your core.

A squeal escapes you, and you writhe slightly against the bed, only for Mingyu to capture your attention.

“Open your mouth, pretty girl,” he prompts, stroking his massive cock and looking down at you.

“Yes, Sir,” you respond, licking your lips before tilting your head back and preparing yourself.

Mingyu brings his cock closer, not pressuring you to go too hard too fast, and you start by licking his shaft. You bring a hand up, grabbing his base to make it easier for you to tease him.

Wonwoo takes your clit into his mouth, sucking lewdly, and you groan, closing your eyes and doing your best to continue licking Mingyu while Wonwoo pleasures you.

His size is daunting, but you finally wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” Mingyu groans, taking over as he slowly thrusts the tip in and out of your mouth. “This bed is a little low.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even bother to respond, but you feel the mattress raise, making your head level with Mingyu’s hips so he doesn’t have to bend down in an awkward squat to face fuck you.

Thank god for dream magic.

Mingyu pushes a little deeper into your mouth, and you do your best to relax. Your drool is acting as a lubricant, making it easy for Mingyu as he fucks into you.

You close your eyes, enjoying this position and all that it provides. Both men are groaning now, and the vibrations of Wonwoo’s mouth on your clit has your legs twitching.

Mingyu reaches down, pinching one of your nipples and making you whine around his cock.

“What a view,” he muses, pushing his cock even deeper into your mouth with each thrust.

It’s then that you realize you don’t have a gag reflex, and you surmise this must be another one of Wonwoo’s little dream magic quirks. There’s no uncomfortable feeling for you as Mingyu face fucks you with his gigantic cock, and it allows you to focus on your own pleasure.

Two fingers slip into your core, and Wonwoo continues sucking on your clit, crooking his digits up to stroke your g-spot.

You whine desperately around Mingyu’s cock, grabbing the bed sheets to try to anchor yourself while the pleasure builds.

God, nothing has ever felt this good.

You can hear your pussy squelching, and that turns you on even more as you hollow your cheeks around Mingyu. Wonwoo isn’t letting up on your clit, and the lewd slurping has your mind going fuzzy.

Finally, you can’t take any more; you push Mingyu’s thigh, and he backs away. With a loud gasp that turns into a desperate moan, you warn Wonwoo that you’re close.

He stares up at you with dark eyes, finger fucking you even harder.

Something breaks inside of you, all the pressure releases, and you cry out. “Fuck,” Wonwoo groans, pulling away from your clit while his fingers continue inside of you. “You’re squirting all over me, baby.”

“Holy shit,” Mingyu whispers, and you throw your head back to look up at the man stroking his cock above you.

“Just like that, baby, keeping squirting,” Wonwoo coaxes you, his motions unrelenting as he draws even more juice out of your core.

You grab the bedsheets, gripping them hard as you try to stay anchored in this dream reality wherein you’re having truly the most sinful, wet, delicious sex of your entire life.

Wonwoo slows down his pace, removing his fingers from your core to lick them clean before putting his tongue on your pussy again. He groans as he licks up every drop of your orgasm, sucking your clit into his mouth and making you scream from sensitivity.

“I think she’s ready for more,” Wonwoo says with a satisfied grin, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Who do you want first?” Mingyu asks.

“I don’t care; I just need someone inside of me, or I might die,” you whimper, mind feeling fuzzy with desire.

“You can fuck her first, Gyu,” Wonwoo sighs. “You look like you’re about to pop.”

“Do we need protection?”

“You can’t get her pregnant in a dream,” Wonwoo explains. 

“Oh, right, yeah.”

The two men help you up, and the bed sinks to a normal height again so Mingyu can climb on with you. Although Mingyu’s the one who’s about to fuck you, Wonwoo’s the one who takes the lead with positioning, and he adjusts you onto your knees facing him while your back is to Mingyu.

“Come here,” Wonwoo grins, pinching your chin to draw your lips to his while Mingyu’s mouth finds your throat. His free hand slips down your spine, and he prompts you to arch your back, pushing your butt toward Mingyu.

Wonwoo groans as you kiss, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He pulls away, wordlessly tapping your cheek to make you turn and look over your shoulders, your lips meeting Mingyu’s.

The large man behind you moans lewdly, his hands wrapping around you so one can massage your breast and the other can slip down to rub your clit.

You tilt your pelvis and feel Mingyu’s cock prod your wet hole. Then you reach behind yourself, grabbing the base of his cock to hold it steady, which allows you to push back onto it.

The head of his cock stretches you out deliciously, and you both moan. It’s not the deepest position, but when Mingyu sinks down on his knees a little, he’s able to thrust up into you and fill you more. 

Wonwoo, meanwhile, removes his shirt, and in a flash, he’s naked too. You can’t help but reach for his hard cock, and you break the kiss with Mingyu to focus on Wonwoo.

You’re sandwiched between these men, stroking off the one in front of you, while Mingyu ruts into you from behind. 

Mingyu grabs your hips, anchoring you while he finds a good pace, and then something pinches hard on both of your nipples.

You gasp, your eyes flashing open to find Wonwoo has conjured a set of nipple clamps, connected by a beaded chain that he’s gently tugging, working both of your nipples simultaneously. 

“How do you feel about a little pain?” he asks.

“I love it,” you groan, body tingling with pleasure.

“Yeah?” He reaches between your thighs, finding your clit so he can rub you while Mingyu fucks into you.

“Feels so good,” you confirm, biting your lip as the feeling washes over you.

Each gentle tug of the chain between the clamps sets your body on fire, and you love the way both men are worshipping your pussy together.

“So fucking wet,” Mingyu groans.

“I don’t even need to use my powers to make this pussy magic,” Wonwoo grins, leaning forward so his lips ghost over yours. “I can’t believe you were hiding this from us all this time.”

“I can’t believe neither of you wanted to make a move,” you retort, stroking his cock faster.

Wonwoo tugs on the clamps and you cry out. “What was that, recruit? Sounded like you were talking back to me.”

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you whimper, forcing your eyes open to look up at Wonwoo. 

“And?” he tugs the chain again.

“Sorry, Sir, it won’t happen again.” 

Mingyu clearly doesn’t give a fuck about this whole power play thing; he’s too busy railing into you to care, his moans filling the room.

“I wonder if you can fit more,” Wonwoo says, lifting a hand in front of your face. “Suck.” 

You take two of his fingers into your mouth, meeting his eyes as you lewdly suck on them. With a groan, Wonwoo pulls his hand away, dropping it down to your core where Mingyu is entering you.

Your heart leaps with the realization of what he’s about to do, and Mingyu pauses to allow Wonwoo to push his two fingers inside of you, digits now snug along his best friend’s cock. Wonwoo crooks his fingers toward your g-spot, and you cry out, which is enough confirmation of pleasure for Mingyu to begin fucking into you again.

“I kind of like this view,” Wonwoo muses, tugging on the nipple clamps again. “Maybe one day you’ll be able to take both of us at the same time.”

The thought of having both of them stuffed inside of you makes you shiver, and you stroke his cock faster, panting with delight.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you, baby?” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You know, from what I’ve seen in his dreams, Mingyu is quite the ass man.”

“Fuck you,” Mingyu grunts, clearly unaware that Wonwoo’s taken a peek in his dreams before and witnessed his innermost sexual proclivities.

“There’s no shame in it,” Wonwoo insists. “In fact, it kind of works in our favour… just not tonight.”

The idea that Wonwoo’s planning future sexual experiences makes you tingle with anticipation.

“You know, I can take away pain in this realm, as I took away that gag reflex of yours,” Wonwoo continues. “So I can promise that if you want to try us both at once, you don’t have to be afraid of anything.”

“Yes, thank you, Captain, next time,” you assure him, unable to think properly as he continues to stoke your g-spot while Mingyu stretches you out with his cock.

“I think you’re pretty close, aren’t you, baby?” Wonwoo asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Yes,” you gasp when he presses his palm to your clit.

“You want to know what else I can do in this realm?” His smirk widens. “Squirt for us.”

All the tightness in your body releases at once, and an orgasm slams into you like a tsunami. You let out a scream as your core clamps down on both men, pushing them out of you so your juice can flood onto the bed.

“Holy shit!” Mingyu groans, immediately wrapping a hand around your body to rub your clit, which only makes you cum harder.

“Wonwoo!” you whimper, grabbing his shoulders to stay upright on your knees while your orgasm rages through you.

“I like it when you’re messy,” he smirks.

When your orgasm begins to subside, Mingyu slips back into you, and Wonwoo moves out of the way to allow Mingyu to fold you over into doggy position. Rough hands on your hips keep you anchored as Mingyu plows into you, chasing his own release like a madman.

“Shit,” Mingyu moans. “I’m gonna cum.”

His sounds get louder, his thrusts becoming erratic, and then, as he’s buried completely inside of you, you feel him explode. The groan that escapes him is one of the sexiest things you’ve ever heard, and your body twitches, core trying to milk him as he fills you up.

After what feels like a long orgasm, Mingyu finally pulls back, releasing an exhausted huff.

“That’s the most I’ve ever cum,” he admits.

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Wonwoo says sarcastically, helping you back onto your knees.

You can practically sense Mingyu’s jaw drop as the realization floods over you both. Just as Wonwoo can make you cum on command in this dream realm, it appears he can elongate Mingyu’s orgasm too.

“Messy messy,” Wonwoo tuts, flicking his wrist and sending Mingyu toppling down onto the pillows. Wonwoo places you between Mingyu’s legs, and you use his strong chest like a backrest as you get comfortable.

Wonwoo looks over your body, and you stare up at him, wondering what he’ll do next.

“I don’t think I need these anymore,” Wonwoo admits, making a small motion that causes the nipple clamps to disappear. Another twitch of his fingers draws Mingyu’s hands to your breasts, and the man behind you groans at being puppeteered. “I kind of want to make you squirt again.”

“Please, Captain,” you gasp, “I’m so tired already.”

“I can make that go away.”

“No, just… I want to feel you,” you insist. “I didn’t envision a sex marathon tonight.”

“Right.” Wonwoo swallows the lump in his throat, gaze trailing up your body until he meets your eyes. “Another time.”

He lies on top of you, and your legs immediately wrap around his hips. You draw his lips to yours, and he kisses you desperately. The head of his cock prods your entrance, and you wiggle your hips, eager for him to stuff you properly.

Wonwoo adjusts, pushing himself inside of you while you both groan.

Mingyu’s hands continue on your breasts, and you can feel his racing heart behind you as he watches his friend begin to fuck you.

You tangle your fingers in Wonwoo’s hair, kissing him hard as he rails into you. 

“You feel better than I could have imagined,” Wonwoo admits. “I don’t need to change a thing.”

What’s interesting is: Wonwoo is kind of a nerd.

He’s the ruler of this whole realm, but… he’s a nerd about it… sexually.

He’s so endearing, and it makes your body pulse with pleasure as he fucks you, his lips moving to your throat where he bites marks into you that won’t be there when you wake up.

One adjustment has your leg over Wonwoo’s shoulder, and he thrusts deep inside of you, making you cry out.

That’s when you notice Mingyu beginning to get hard again, and you struggle to grab his cock, stroking it to earn yourself a moan from your male backrest.

“Come here,” Wonwoo prompts, pulling you down slightly so your head is level with Mingyu’s length. “Now you can suck on it.”

You don’t even need Wonwoo’s power to prompt you to take Mingyu into your mouth, and you close your eyes, loving the feeling of pleasuring two men at once.

“This is insane,” Mingyu says under his breath, pinching your nipple and making you cry out around him.

“Trust me, it could be a lot crazier,” Wonwoo chuckles, his pace getting even quicker. 

You don’t even want to think about the sexual fantasies Wonwoo could create for you to play a starring role in. You’re sure you’ll live them one night soon enough. 

“I’m pretty close, baby-” Wonwoo begins, and you just know he’s going to ask if you want him to magically hold off from busting, so you pull off of Mingyu’s cock.

“Please fill me up,” you interject. “I need it.”

“Yeah?” Wonwoo stares down at you, eyes clouded with lust.

“Uh huh,” you nod, biting your lip as your toes curl with pleasure.

He watches you for a few seconds, motions unrelenting. “Okay, well…” He swallows thickly, chasing his orgasm. “I guess we can all cum one last time.”

Before you or Mingyu can cut him off, an unexpected orgasm surges through you, making you cry out.

“Fucking fuck!” Mingyu gasps, his cock exploding next to you and coating his chest with spunk.

Wonwoo doesn’t miss a beat; he only grins as he pushes fully inside of you, painting your inner core with his seed. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, gasping as he rides out his long orgasm, stuffing you to the brim with cum while your core tries to swallow him up. 

Wonwoo shivers, coming down slowly. 

“That last group orgasm was uncalled for,” Mingyu muses, still trying to catch his breath.

“It was funny, though,” Wonwoo grins. 

Who knew he had a comedic bone in his body?

“What now?” Mingyu asks.

“Now, we all go into the hot spring that I conjured just for this; I figured it’s aftercare or whatever.”

Aftercare or whatever. 

“Come on,” Wonwoo declares, sitting up and grabbing you. He tugs you off of Mingyu, who is still struggling to recollect himself.

“What about all this cum? Won’t it pollute the water or something?” Mingyu asks, scrambling onto his knees.

“It’s just cum,” Wonwoo sighs. “And it’s not even real. Here.”

With one twitch of his fingers, all the fluid on Mingyu’s chest disappears, and you feel the cum that was dripping out of you suddenly vanish.

“It’s going to take a while to get used to this,” Mingyu groans, following you and Wonwoo to the hot spring in the corner of the room.

Wonwoo slowly lowers you into the warm water, and both men join you with sighs of pleasure. “It’s fun to use my power this way,” Wonwoo admits. “I never thought about using it to fuck the shit out of people.”

You laugh and shake your head. 

Quiet vice-captain Wonwoo, a sexual tyrant in his own dream world- who would have thought?

“You both had fun though?” Wonwoo asks.

“It was amazing,” you admit, turning your gaze to Mingyu.

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” Mingyu says, shaking his head, “but the next time you make me cum with your powers, I’m giving you a blood stiffy while we’re at a Captain meeting with Seungcheol.” 

“Noted,” Wonwoo nods with a grin. “So next time…” 

“Next time, surprise me; I don’t want to be part of the planning process,” you interject. 

“Are you sure?” Mingyu blinks at you.

“Yes. I have to focus on the real world when I’m awake; if I spend too much time thinking of sexual scenarios to act out here, my training will suffer.”

“Spoken like a true recruit,” Wonwoo nods. “You’re cute.”

“I have some ideas,” Mingyu admits.

Wonwoo grins. “Like getting her dinner?”

“Yes!” Mingyu glares. “But other things too.”

You drown out their bickering, and your mind drifts to the thread that ties you all together. Now you know why fate brought you to these men, and you know you were right to trust your intuition. 

You’re not sure where things go from here, but you know that as long as the thread of fate connects the three of you, everything will turn out the way it should, sexual dream magic and all.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I had so much fun with this one! I think I know I'm doing something right when my own fics make me laugh, so I hope you guys got a kick out of this one too :)

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview.  You will never get tired of their bickering, or Wonwoo’s nerdy little rules about the restrictions of his dream magic and the logical way in which a sex scene should play out within the parameters of his abilities.

cw/ tw.  Threesome, unprotected sex, oral, pussy eating, blowjob, masturbation, nipple/body worship, bondage, biting, pain/size kink, werewolf knotting, cum/squirt kink, dirty talk, praise, roleplay, multiple reader orgasms, monster tongue, anal, double penetration, triple penetration, etc…   I petnames. (hers) baby. I In this dream roleplay. werewolf prince!Wonwoo, vampire prince!Mingyu

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3.3k I teaser wc. 200

🌙 starring. Wonwoo & Mingyu x afab!Reader

bonus

In Wonwoo’s dream realm, the only limit is your own imagination, and with three extremely horny adults who all have different kinks they want to play out, you never get bored. 

You’ve lived what feels like a thousand different lifetimes in your dreams with Wonwoo and Mingyu, and leaning into roleplay has spiced up your life in a way you never could have even dreamed of on your own.

You’ve been a siren to two pirate captains who fuck you stupid in an underwater palace. You’ve embodied a priestess welcoming erotic worship from her most devout followers. You’ve played the part of squad captain disciplining her subordinates when you’ve wanted to explore being on the more dominant side of the exchange.

And now, you sit on the bed in Wonwoo’s marble palace, discussing what you want to explore tonight.

“I just think it would be fun if I was a werewolf,” Mingyu says for what feels like the fifth time.

Wonwoo sighs. “You do understand that I couldn’t just will your body to have werewolf traits; I’d have to physically command the base of your cock to swell so you can do your whole knotting kink thing when you cum.” 

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[cosmaris]

Miya Atsumu x Sakusa Kiyoomi Masterlist Part 2 - Short

Note: This masterlist is only for mid range fanfiction (1k - 19k)

Two's more than company - 16k -

Atsumu collapses back on the bench. What was it that Inunaki said? Do ducklings imprint on the first thing they see after they hatch? Is Atsumu a mother duck now? A mother to two invisible ducks?

While stuck together with two invisible babies in an amusement park that grants its patrons magical powers, Atsumu and Sakusa work out their situationship.

2. Miscommunicating - 4k -

Atsumu didn't think it would happen again. This was Sakusa, who was on a whole other level of untouchable. He blows hot then cold, smug in his teasing, sharp in his comebacks, but he remains thoroughly impenetrable. Sometimes during practice, when he nails his serves, Atsumu would send him a grin and yell, "Did'ya see that Omi-Omi? I'm good, aren't I?" And Sakusa would just roll his eyes. Sometimes, he would mock Atsumu's Kansai accent.

It happened again. And again and again, for months on end. They don't talk about it.

--

Or, emotionally constipated idiots fall in love and the internet flips out.

3. the art of folding a handkerchief - 5k -

“Atsumu-san’s just realised he likes Sakusa-san,” Shouyou says simply, as though announcing the weather.

“Ahh,” Bokuto nods sagely, standing up straight and nodding his head, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to hear and not monumental in any way.

“'Ahh?'” Atsumu protests indignantly. “What do ya mean ‘ahh?’”

“We were wondering when you were going to notice,” Bokuto shrugs, and Atsumu gawps at him.

“'Scuse me?” he splutters, and whips his gaze around to Shouyou, who bobs his head at him in confirmation.

“How did you two notice before I did?” Atsumu blurts out.

"Most people do," Shouyou says softly.

-

In which Atsumu develops something annoying, like feelings for a teammate, but at least he has a couple of wingmen and Tobio's seemingly infinite resources to help him out.

4. you have tamed me - 5k - He wants to spend the rest of his life pissing Sakusa Kiyoomi off.

5. The olympic adventures of japan's national volleyball team - 8k -

“Guess what, Japan!” Hinata Shouyou beamed. “I’m home!”

There was an enthusiastic hoot behind him in the otherwise silent bus.

“And I’m also here with the rest of Japan’s National Men’s Volleyball Team, because — we’re going to the Olympics!”

--

A five-part vlog series by the Japan’s National Men’s Volleyball Team, with a generous helping of SakuAtsu.

6. do not separate - 5k -

He knows he likes peanut butter and the tuna onigiri Uncle Shamu makes for him. He knows he likes volleyball and the way his daddy looks so, so cool when he’s on court. He knows he likes drawing and playing with toy swords. He knows he likes reading and it’s even better when Atsumu is the one reading for him. He knows he likes to have pancakes in the morning but he also really, really likes tamagoyaki and he knows his daddy can’t make those at all. He tries, but fails every single time. He knows his daddy’s teammates like him and he knows they’ll help him if he wants to play with them one day. But the thing is he likes Uncle Omi-kun more than he likes the rest of them and that is a secret he won’t tell anyone that’s not his daddy. He doesn’t like to make people sad. “Omi?” “Yeah?” “Nao said he likes you more than he likes the rest of the team. Don’t tell’em.”

or atsumu is a single dad and kiyoomi can't help but fall for him.

7. your body, my home - 8k - “Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll get checked out. But I’m tellin’ ya—” and here he looks heavenwards, issuing a challenge to god themself, “—I’m not sick.”

8. Under Pressure - 8k -

Hinata and Bokuto realize that perhaps, just maybe, Sakusa might show affection differently than most. Unfortunately, it seems Atsumu is the object of such affections.

"Don't worry," Bokuto assures, "we're gonna teach you how to flirt with Tsumu."

9. Sakusa Kiyoomi is Gay - 7k - The pros and cons of swiping right on your very attractive teammate.

10. How to scare away your brother's boyfriend: a tutorial by Miya Osamu - 6k -

Suna was convinced he was overthinking things. That he was being overprotective, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. After all, he wasn't doing this for Tsumu's sake. He was doing it for his own. Because when the two of them inevitably break up, it would be Osamu left dealing with a crying, heartbroken Atsumu. It would be Osamu who would have to drive to his apartment every day with fresh tuna onigiri just to make sure the idiot still remembered to eat. It would be Osamu who would have to hunt Sakusa Kiyoomi down and make him regret ever looking at Miya Atsumu.

So no, this was not for Atsumu's sake. Not at all.

Or: Atsumu brings his boyfriend to Osamu's restaurant. Osamu is decidedly not happy about this.

11. A list of things Sakusa Kiyoomi hates - 7k -

“Just fuckin’ write shit down so ya remember it then.”

It was probably supposed to be a joke, just Osamu being as annoying and unhelpful as always, just reminding him that he shouldn’t have bothered trying to count on his brother for help. He’s forgotten about the whole thing until a few days later when he’s shopping and comes across a small, black notebook shaped like a cat, and his brother’s stupid suggestion flashes through his mind. Before he knows it, the cute little notebook is dropped in his basket, purchased, and in his possession.

Or, the one where Osamu suggests Atsumu keep a notebook to track all the things Sakusa hates that he does, and he takes it further than he means to.

12. Notice - 7k -

Embarrassingly, Miya Atsumu is the third person to notice his crush on Sakusa.

And it's his crush in the first place.

13. all that you were - 4k - Sakusa confesses to Atsumu with all the enthusiasm of someone reporting a traffic jam.

14. Tethered - 5k -

Kiyoomi and Atsumu aren’t dating, but Atsumu thinks they are.

__

“Hey, so what’re we doin’ on Friday?” Atsumu asks. He tucks his head over Kiyoomi’s shoulder and watches him pour hot water over the coffee grounds.

“Friday?” Kiyoomi says, looking halfway over his shoulder and nearly bumping noses with him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Friday? The 23rd? Our anniversary, dumbass,” Atsumu says. He pulls away and goes to grab mugs for their coffee when Kiyoomi pours out the last of the hot water. When he turns back, he raises his brows at Kiyoomi’s blank expression.

15. terminal curiosity - 9k -

“Hey, Miya—”

“I saw the sex stuff in your bathroom,” Atsumu violently blurts against his will.

Time stretches out, eternal, unending… the void at the beginning and end of all things coming to claim Atsumu as he stands in his borrowed house slippers by Sakusa’s door. There’s a ringing in his ears, or perhaps it’s the laughter of some vengeful god.

Sakusa’s expression doesn’t outwardly change. His eyes feel like they’re drilling holes in Atsumu’s head.

“It’s not sex stuff. It’s bondage gear.”

16. all i do is crave - 12k -

If Sakusa is looking straight at Miya, instead of the back corner where he’s supposed to be aiming, it is not of his own volition, or in any way his own fault. So it is also not his fault when his serve— with all of the power he can muster— goes on a very different trajectory than he intends. It is most definitely not his fault when his serve hits Miya fucking Atsumu straight in the side, and Miya bites down on his own tongue.

Five times Sakusa didn't know what to do about how attractive he found Miya Atsumu, and one time he did.

17. confessions - 9k -

So far their relationship had progressed with minimal complications. Kiyoomi had somehow managed not to ruin anything yet, or scare Atsumu away with just how crazy in love with him Kiyoomi actually was.

And that’s why Atsumu could never, ever find out about Kiyoomi's secret fanboy infatuation with him.

18. Wishful thinking - 5k -

Atsumu said into the heavy silence, “You can’t say you’ve never thought about it.”

"Thought about what?" said Sakusa.

Atsumu smiled to himself, smug. "You know."

"No, I don't."

"You know. Of course you’ve thought about it. There’s no reason to be ashamed, Omi-kun. I’m a real catch.”

Sakusa was appalled. "You're disgusting."

"You flatter me. I'm not judging you. I can't lie and say I haven't thought about it, too."

Sakusa shifted, slowly, to peer over his shoulder. He wasn’t scowling, but his expression was unreadable. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Atsumu wasn't joking, and he was about to get more than he bargained for.

19. Building momentum - 9k -

“Well yeah, but I didn’t think… I didn’t know if you’re that kind of boyfriend,” said Atsumu.

Sakusa raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t seem to understand what Atsumu meant, and that wasn’t surprising. Atsumu wasn’t sure what he meant, either.

After a moment, Sakusa said, “How many kinds of boyfriends are there?”

Atsumu winced. “Well, uh… two kinds, I guess. The kind you take home to your family and the kind you don’t.”

Sakusa seemed to consider that. “Which kind am I?”

Atsumu didn’t want to talk about this He wondered if he could fake a heart attack to get out of the conversation. “I dunno. That’s up to you, I guess.”

20. Fall into you - 8k - He’s dating Narcissus himself, but it’s fine. Kiyoomi knew this side of Atsumu from the beginning, and he fell for him just the same.

21. moisturizer? i hardly even know 'er! - 18k -

That was the worst thing about Atsumu Miya that Sakusa had logged to date. Even against his preexisting list of offending traits, nothing else even came close. There was no way it was normal for one person’s faults to occupy his mind so goddamn much, and for so goddamn long, too, but here he was, and he utterly loathed it. Whatever the case, after much deliberation, Sakusa had landed on this. Atsumu Miya was tragically, objectively, extremely attractive. or sakusa takes it upon himself to get atsumu into skincare. falling in love was not necessarily part of the plan

[clint-triumphs]

Msby 4 in the national team

Atsumu approaching Sakusa on the bench : I think we should get a divorce.

Sakusa : What are you doing?

Atsumu : Just practicing!

Sakusa : Why are you already planning our hypothetical divorce?

Atsumu : I don't know. i'm getting old, i think i'm having a mid-life crisis.

Sakusa : We're not even married yet?

Atsumu : Hypothetically divorce me!

Sakusa : Okay, then i'm hypothetically taking half of your assets.

Atsumu : Well, you didn't sign the hypothetical prenup!

Atsumu, to hinata : It's called a prenup, right?

Hinata : Yeah, it's a prenup, and you DID hypothetically sign one...

Sakusa : Who the fuck is this guy??

Hinata : I'm his hypothetical lawyer in this divorce case.

Sakusa : Well, then, i'm taking the hypothetical kids.

Sakusa, to Bokuto : Right? we can get those, right?

Bokuto : Yes, we can definitely get the hypothetical kids, don't worry about it!

Atsumu : Who the fuck is this hypothetical fucking idiot?

Bokuto : Wow, that is a lot of- hypothetical insults!

Sakusa : This is MY hypothetical lawyer, and we have been hypothetically sleeping with each other. ;)

Atsumu : How could you hypothetically DO THIS TO ME ?!

Sakusa getting up : Because you hypothetically ARE AN ALCOHOLIC!

Msby four : *Yelling at each other in the distance*

The rest of the team :

Iwaizumi : ... Please tell me that they are not always like this-

Kageyama : They are.

[boochans]

seungkwan:

the rest of seventeen:

[boochans]

seungkwan:

the rest of seventeen:

[randomsvt]

Dino : "And, also, around the age of 10, your teeth start falling out"

Jeonghan : "At the age of 10, they would already have grown ba--"

S.Coups : "No, I was in the middle of getting them pulled out!"

Jeonghan "A bit slow weren't you....?"

[randomsvt]

Mingyu : "You know Top Gun, right? Top Gun? Please edit us like that" *strip off his top and pretending to play in the beach*

S.Coups : "He's so odd!"

Dokyeom : "What's with him?"

Dino : "Thats a really drunk man"

Mingyu : "Do you know this from Top Gun?"

Seungkwan : "I TOLD YOU THAT I DON'T KNOW IT WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING THAT??!!"

S.Coups : "What an eyesore"

[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Soulmates — Wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader synopsis: He doesn’t believe in fate. You do. So when you get paired together in a sociology class to prove or disprove soulmates, you’re determined to change his mind—or die academically trying. wc: 9.6k (im shook) genre: Slow burn, University AU, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Light Angst, Comedy, Slice of Life warnings: SOOOOO MUCH DIALOG IM SORRY, I had to compress the text a lil bc there were too many blocks so it might sound weird in some places, Brief Misunderstandings, Social Anxiety (in 1 part), Mild existential discussions about relationships and compatibility a/n: Happy (late) birthday to wonwoo!! Sorry this took so long, i miscalculated how long this would get. This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!

There was something strangely comforting about the first week of a new semester.

Maybe it was because everything still felt temporary enough to reinvent yourself if you wanted to. Lecture theatres filled with unfamiliar faces who smiled politely without expecting names, tutors who still believed everyone had completed the readings, and fresh notebooks whose untouched pages hadn't yet become victims of rushed handwriting and coffee stains. Every semester began with the same promise that this one would somehow be different, that assignments would be started early, lectures would be attended diligently, and perhaps this time your sleep schedule would survive beyond Week Three.

You believed it every single semester.

Whether that made you optimistic or hopelessly naïve was still up for debate.

The Sociology of Human Relationships was one of the electives you'd chosen almost impulsively, although you preferred calling it intuition whenever your friends questioned your decisions. The course outline had sounded interesting enough—attachment theory, interpersonal communication, social expectations—but what had caught your attention was a single sentence tucked away beneath the assessment schedule.

Major Research Project (40%) — Investigating the Concept of Soulmates.

You had smiled at the screen for far longer than necessary.

It wasn't because you expected university to confirm the existence of some invisible red string connecting strangers across cities or oceans, nor because you thought there was one singular person waiting somewhere with your name written into the universe. Your belief had never been that simplistic. Soulmates, at least to you, were never about destiny removing the need for choice.

If anything, they were about choice itself.

People met thousands throughout their lives. Friends came and went, lovers arrived and left, families grew complicated, and yet somehow, every now and then, two people chose one another so completely that the rest of the world became background noise. Whether that was destiny or simply extraordinary luck hardly mattered.

The feeling was real either way.

"Y/N!"

Your attention lifted from the printed course guide as someone dropped into the seat beside you with enough force to make the fold-out desk wobble. Mina grinned without a hint of apology, balancing an iced coffee in one hand while already scrolling through her timetable on her phone with the other.

"I swear," she whispered dramatically, "if this professor starts with an icebreaker, I'm transferring."

"You say that every semester."

"And one day I'll mean it."

The lecture theatre continued filling around you in waves of conversation, backpacks thumping onto the floor, chairs scraping against concrete, students greeting friends they hadn't seen over the break with exaggerated enthusiasm. Somewhere near the front, someone was already arguing about textbook prices, while further back a group was debating whether attendance was actually compulsory.

The room buzzed with that peculiar kind of organised chaos unique to universities, where everyone seemed simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.

At precisely nine o'clock, the chatter softened. The professor walked in carrying nothing except a tablet and a stack of manila folders.

No introductory slideshow. No welcoming speech. Just a quiet smile.

"I'll save everyone's time," she began. "Yes, attendance is recorded."

A collective groan echoed through the theatre. She nodded knowingly.

"I appreciate the honesty."

Even Mina laughed. The first twenty minutes passed exactly as expected. Assessment breakdowns, consultation hours, textbook recommendations no one intended to purchase until absolutely necessary. Pens moved lazily across notebooks while laptops clicked open around the room.

Then the professor reached for the folders.

"This," she said, holding one up between her fingers, "is the assignment students remember long after they've forgotten everything else from this course."

The room immediately became quieter.

"For the remainder of the semester, each of you will work with one randomly assigned partner."

Another groan, she ignored it.

"Your task is deceptively simple."

The projector behind her flickered to life.

DO SOULMATES EXIST?

Silence. Then scattered laughter.

"No," someone near the back called.

"I haven't even had breakfast," another complained.

The professor continued as though neither interruption had happened.

"You'll investigate the claim from a sociological perspective. You are expected to collect qualitative and quantitative evidence, conduct interviews, examine existing literature, perform behavioural observations, and construct an argument either supporting or rejecting the concept."

Your hand was already writing before she'd finished speaking. Interview couples. Different age groups. Longitudinal relationships? Cultural perspectives. You underlined the last one twice.

"This assignment is not about proving your own beliefs," the professor continued. "It's about learning whether your beliefs withstand scrutiny."

You liked that. Beside you, Mina looked significantly less enthusiastic.

"I wanted multiple choice."

"You chose sociology."

"I made mistakes."

The professor began distributing the folders down each row.

"Each folder contains your assigned partner."

Someone sighed dramatically enough to earn a laugh from the surrounding students.

"You don't get to choose," the professor added before anyone could ask. "Yes, they're random. No, I won't swap anyone. Half the purpose of this assignment is learning to work with perspectives different from your own."

The folders travelled slowly across the lecture theatre. One by one. Closer. Closer. Eventually one landed in front of you with a soft papery thud. Your name had already been printed neatly across the cover.

Below it—Research Pair: Group 14

You opened it. Your assigned partner's name sat beneath yours.

JEON WONWOO

You frowned thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar. Not personally, academically. Someone who answered questions during lectures with suspicious confidence. Someone tutors seemed to recognise. Someone you'd seen around campus more than once without ever speaking to. Mina leaned across immediately.

"Who'd you get?"

You turned the page towards her.

"Oh."

"What?"

She gave you a look that somehow managed to communicate both sympathy and amusement.

"Good luck."

"...That helpful?"

"I've got a friend in psychology who had a class with him last semester."

"And?"

"He argued with the lecturer."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"He won."

Before you could ask another question, the lecture theatre door opened. Five minutes late. A tall figure stepped quietly inside, carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder as though arriving after the lecture had begun didn't concern him in the slightest. There was no frantic apology, no awkward attempt to avoid drawing attention. He simply offered the professor a brief nod, received one in return, and scanned the room for an empty seat. You recognised him immediately from the photograph attached to the research folder.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He settled into one of the remaining seats a few rows ahead without speaking to anyone, pushing his glasses back into place before opening the folder that had been left on the desk for him.  You watched his eyes skim the first page. Pause. Then continue. Nothing about his expression changed. Not surprise. Not annoyance. Nothing. He simply closed the folder again.

The professor clapped her hands together gently.

"Now that everyone knows their partner, I'd like each pair to spend the remaining class introducing yourselves and discussing your preliminary position."

Chairs scraped backwards across the room almost instantly. Students stood, searching for unfamiliar names and uncertain faces.

"Group Four?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Who's Olivia?"

Mina squeezed your arm.

"Good luck."

"You've said that twice."

"Because I think you'll need it."

She disappeared into the growing crowd before you could respond. You stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, scanning the room until your eyes found him again. He had already found you. Not because he waved, not because he smiled, simply because he was looking directly at you with the quiet recognition of someone matching names to faces. He approached first. Up close, he seemed somehow taller than expected, though perhaps it was only because he carried himself with an unhurried confidence that made everyone else seem louder by comparison.

"Y/N?"

His voice was calm. Lower than you'd imagined.

"That's me."

He nodded once.

"Wonwoo."

"I figured."

A brief silence settled between you, not necessarily uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar. You offered a small smile anyway.

"I guess we're partners."

"It seems that way."

There was something almost amusing about how matter-of-fact he sounded, as though being assigned to work together ranked somewhere between receiving a library receipt and checking tomorrow's weather forecast. You gestured towards two empty seats near the side of the lecture theatre.

"We should probably start?"

He followed without objection. The assignment brief sat open between you, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten annotations that already looked wildly different. Your notes wandered into margins with arrows connecting ideas that hadn't yet fully formed. His remained perfectly organised, concise, almost clinical. You noticed he had already circled one sentence.

Construct an evidence-based conclusion.

"You've started already?"

"I was reading."

"You've highlighted one sentence."

"It seemed important." You couldn't help smiling.

"You seem like the type to colour-code your lecture notes."

"I do."

"I knew it." He looked almost confused by your satisfaction.

"You say that like it's unusual."

"It isn't. I just enjoy being right." Something very close to amusement crossed his face before disappearing again.

"So," you began, tapping the title page, "what's your opinion?" He didn't need time to think.

"Soulmates don't exist." The sentence landed with complete certainty. Not dismissively, not mockingly, simply factually. You blinked.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"No hesitation?"

"No." You leaned back in your chair.

"Interesting." He tilted his head slightly.

"You disagree."

"I do."

"I guessed."

"Was it the fact I highlighted interview ideas before the assignment had even been explained?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"You smiled when the professor introduced the topic." Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

"You noticed that?"

"You were sitting in front of me."

"So?"

"So I noticed." The simplicity of the answer somehow made it more convincing. You folded your arms loosely across the desk.

"I think soulmates exist."

"In what sense?"

"That depends." He waited. Not impatiently, just quietly.

"I don't think there's one perfect person pre-selected by the universe," you explained. "I think there are connections that feel statistically impossible. People who arrive in your life and alter its direction so completely that calling it coincidence almost feels inadequate." He considered your words for a moment before responding.

"People are good at assigning meaning to random events."

"And people are equally good at dismissing meaningful ones because they can't quantify them."

"Our brains search for patterns."

"Sometimes because patterns are there." He looked at you for another second.Then, unexpectedly, a small smile. Barely noticeable.

"Professor was right."

"About what?"

"This is going to take the entire semester." You laughed before you could help yourself. It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a particularly graceful one, but it escaped all the same, drawing a brief glance from the pair sitting nearby. Wonwoo looked almost surprised that he'd been the cause of it. Perhaps you were equally surprised.

Maybe this assignment wouldn't be quite as straightforward as you'd imagined. Or perhaps that was exactly what made it worth doing.

—

[CASE FILE 001 — Department of Sociology, Research Pair Registration]

Pair Number: 14

Student A: Jeon Wonwoo Preliminary Position: The concept of soulmates is a cultural construct that cannot be empirically supported.

Student B: Y/N Preliminary Position: Soulmates exist as meaningful interpersonal connections, regardless of whether they can be objectively measured.

Professor's Observation: Significant ideological contrast.Encourage both students to challenge assumptions rather than defend them.Productive disagreement often produces the strongest research.

—

"You've highlighted the entire article."

"I highlighted the important parts." Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop just long enough to give you a look somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation before returning to his own notes.

"You've highlighted eighty percent of the paper."

"The remaining twenty percent wasn't relevant."

"Then you didn't need the highlighter."

"It helped me read."

"I don't think that's what highlighting is for."

"It is for me." He paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as though debating whether correcting your study habits was worth the effort. Eventually, he decided it wasn't, and the faint shake of his head was so subtle that you almost missed it.

It had been just over a week since the first lecture. Long enough to settle into a routine. Every Tuesday after class, the two of you met in the same corner of the university library, occupying a table tucked beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus courtyard. The location had never been discussed. After the first meeting, you'd simply wandered towards the empty table, and Wonwoo had followed without comment. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the space had somehow become yours. The first ten minutes were always quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You unpacked your bag in exactly the same order every time—laptop first, notebook second, pencil case last—while Wonwoo plugged in his charger, aligned three different coloured sticky tabs along the edge of his notebook, and opened whichever academic journal he had downloaded that morning.

Somewhere nearby, the library printer whirred to life. Pages shuffled. Chairs scraped softly against carpet, and the occasional muffled laugh drifted from the collaborative study rooms before being silenced by a passing librarian.

It was strangely peaceful.

"So," you said eventually, breaking the silence. "How many papers have you read?"

"Twenty-three." You blinked.

"...Twenty-three?"

"They were relatively short."

"You read twenty-three sociology papers in a week?"

"I skimmed seven."

"Oh, well that makes it normal." He ignored the sarcasm.

"There isn't substantial empirical evidence supporting the soulmate hypothesis."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm stating a finding."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You wanted one to prove wrong." He looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

"I wanted evidence."

"You wanted a challenge."

"I have one." He gestured vaguely towards you. You tried very hard not to smile. Instead, you opened your own notebook, where the page labelled Possible Interview Subjects had become increasingly crowded over the past few days.

"We're supposed to start collecting qualitative data this week."

"I know."

"The professor wants a minimum of ten interviews."

"I know."

"You keep saying you know."

"Because I do." You leaned your chin into your palm.

"You're no fun."

"I've been told."

"Really?"

"No."

"...That was almost a joke."

"I don't joke."

"Liar."

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"I didn't intend to."

"Still counts." He sighed so quietly it almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

—

The sociology department had prepared interview consent forms, questionnaires, and recording equipment for every research pair, though the professor had insisted that the interviews themselves be arranged independently.

That was how the two of you found yourselves standing outside the weekend farmers' market early Saturday morning, clipboards tucked beneath your arms while people wandered past carrying reusable shopping bags and bouquets of flowers.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"This seems inefficient."

"It's perfect."

"There are too many variables."

"There are too many people."

"Exactly."

"That's the point." He looked unconvinced.

"You picked this location because..."

"There are families." He waited.

"Couples." Still waiting.

"Grandparents."

"...Continue."

"And everyone walks slower because they're buying vegetables." He stared at you.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting the vegetables."

"They're essential."

"To sociology?"

"To catching interview participants."

"...Right." You smiled innocently.

"Trust me." He didn't. That much was obvious. Still, he followed you towards the first elderly couple browsing homemade honey.

"Excuse me," you asked politely, "would you mind answering a few questions for a university sociology project?"

The couple exchanged a look before smiling warmly.

"We've got nowhere to be." You glanced sideways at Wonwoo.

"See?" He simply uncapped his pen.

—

The first interview lasted nearly twenty minutes. The couple had been married for forty-eight years. When you asked whether they believed they were soulmates, the husband laughed before his wife answered first.

"Oh, goodness, no." You blinked.

"No?" She smiled.

"I couldn't stand him when we first met."

"I still don't know why she married me," her husband admitted.

"You proposed six times."

"You counted?"

"I rejected five." Wonwoo wrote something down. You tried not to laugh.

"So..." you asked carefully, "when did you know?" The woman looked at her husband for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think there was a single moment." Her fingers reached absentmindedly for his hand.

"I think one day we realised we'd spent years choosing each other." Her husband nodded.

"Love isn't fate."

A pause.

"Staying is."

Silence settled over the table. The market continued bustling around you. Someone called out prices for strawberries. A child laughed somewhere behind you. Nearby wind chimes clinked softly against one another. You scribbled the quote into your notebook almost immediately. Beside you, Wonwoo didn't speak. You waited. Normally, he would've already pointed out retrospective bias or emotional reconstruction. Instead, he quietly underlined something in his notes. Only after thanking the couple and watching them disappear into the crowd did either of you speak again.

"...Well?" He closed the notebook.

"It was interesting."

"That's all?"

"It was."

"You don't have an argument?"

"Not immediately." You looked at him in surprise.

"I'll need to think about it." For some reason, that felt like a victory. Not because he'd agreed with you.  Because he hadn't dismissed the interview outright.

—

The afternoon passed in much the same way. An engaged couple who had met online through a video game. A divorced woman who insisted soulmates existed but timing mattered more. A university student who believed compatibility could be calculated using personality tests.  Each interview challenged one assumption only to reinforce another.

By the time the market began packing away stalls, your voice had become slightly hoarse. You dropped onto a nearby bench with a sigh.

"My social battery is gone." Wonwoo handed you a bottle of water.

"You forgot this." You frowned.

"When?"

"You've carried it since this morning."

"...I completely forgot."

"I noticed."

"You notice everything." He considered that.

"I notice patterns."

"You noticed I hadn't had water."

"You'd spoken continuously for nearly three hours."

"And?"

"You usually drink after about forty minutes." You stared.

"...You know that's a little creepy."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

A breeze stirred the trees lining the footpath. People continued filtering towards the train station, conversations fading into the distance. Without thinking, you reached into your backpack and pulled out two convenience store sandwiches you'd bought earlier that morning.

"I completely forgot these too."

"You forget a lot."

"I remember important things."

"You forgot lunch."

"I remembered eventually." You held one sandwich towards him.

"Here." He hesitated.

"You only bought two."

"I know."

"You'll be hungry."

"I'll survive." Another pause. Eventually, he accepted it.

"...Thank you."

"You said that like you weren't expecting me to share."

"I wasn't."

"Why not?"

"You've known me for eight days."

"So?"

"So..." He looked faintly puzzled by the question. "People don't usually do that." You shrugged.

"I had two." The explanation seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Wonwoo looked down at the unopened sandwich in his hands before quietly peeling back the wrapper.

"You know," you said after a while, "I thought you'd be colder." He glanced sideways.

"I've barely spoken."

"Exactly."

"And yet?"

"And yet you keep noticing little things." He frowned slightly.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"It has nothing to do with being nice."

"I didn't say nice."

"You implied it."

"I implied observant." Silence.

"...You think I'm observant?"

"I think you pretend not to care." He looked away first.

"You've reached that conclusion after eight days?"

"Maybe."

"...Your sample size is too small."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"Turning everything into research."

"It is research."

"I know." You smiled despite yourself.

"But you're still doing it." He didn't deny it.

—

Later that evening, after the interviews had been transcribed and uploaded to the shared folder, your phone buzzed with a new notification. Wonwoo uploaded a file. Curious, you opened it. 

Instead of another journal article, it was the transcript from the elderly couple. One sentence had been highlighted.

Love isn't fate. Staying is.

Beneath it, in the comments section, was a single line.

Potential distinction between destiny and commitment. Worth exploring further.

You smiled at the screen. Without thinking too much about it, you replied beneath his comment.

Maybe soulmates aren't found. Maybe they're built.

Three minutes later, a new notification appeared. Wonwoo replied. 

Interesting hypothesis.

It was only two words. But somehow, for the first time since meeting him, it felt less like the beginning of an argument and more like the beginning of a conversation.

—

[Interview Transcript — Couple #01]

Question: Do you believe you were soulmates?

Response (Wife): No. Not when we met.

Response (Husband): We became them.

Handwritten annotation (Y/N): Maybe soulmates aren't discovered. Maybe they're something people create together over time.

Comment added later (J. Wonwoo): Interesting hypothesis. Investigate whether this idea appears in attachment theory literature.

—

By the third week of the semester, the library had become less of a meeting place and more of a habit.

Neither of you remembered making the decision to continue studying there after every lecture. It simply happened. Tuesdays were reserved for sorting interview transcripts, Thursdays for reading journal articles, and Saturdays, more often than not, ended with another round of field interviews somewhere around the city. Somewhere between colour-coded folders, shared Google Drive documents, and arguments over citation formatting, the line separating obligation from routine had quietly disappeared. You were beginning to suspect Wonwoo noticed it too.

He was already sitting at your usual table when you arrived that Thursday afternoon, though he hadn't messaged to say he'd gotten there early. His laptop was open, half a dozen journal articles tiled neatly across the screen, while an untouched cup of coffee rested beside his elbow. Judging by the faint curl of steam that still rose from the lid, he'd only been there a few minutes.

"You ordered coffee before I got here?" you asked, setting your backpack down with a muffled thud.

"I ordered mine." You looked around the table.

"There are two." Without looking up from the paragraph he was annotating, he reached across and nudged the second cup towards your side.

"You usually buy one before we start." You blinked.

"I... do."

"You were running late."

"So you just..."

"I was already there."

"...Bought mine too?" He finally looked up, expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses.

"It saves time." You stared at the cup for a second longer than necessary. It was the same order you'd been buying since the first week. Medium vanilla latte. One sugar. No whipped cream.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered it six times."

"You counted?"

"I noticed." There it was again.

That quiet way he answered every observation as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He never seemed aware that most people didn't remember how someone took their coffee after a handful of meetings, or which hand they wrote with, or that they always tucked loose strands of hair behind the same ear whenever they were concentrating. He simply noticed.

"You know," you said, peeling back the lid carefully, "if sociology doesn't work out, you'd make a terrifying detective."

"I've considered it." You laughed.

"I'm not joking."

"I know."

"...Wait." He returned his attention to the article without another word. You narrowed your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"I considered forensic psychology once."

"You can't just casually mention that and keep reading."

"I didn't think it was particularly interesting."

"It is to me."

"Hm."

"You really don't understand what people find interesting about you, do you?" His fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a brief moment, silence settled between you.

"I've never thought about it." The answer came so honestly that you didn't know how to respond.

—

The professor arrived ten minutes late to the afternoon tutorial carrying a stack of printed worksheets that looked considerably thicker than anyone appreciated. An audible sigh rippled through the classroom.

"Good afternoon." No one returned the enthusiasm. She smiled anyway.

"I've read through your interview transcripts." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"They're promising." There were a few relieved exhalations around the room.

"However..." Collective dread.

"...interviews only tell us what people believe happened." She placed the worksheets on the front desk.

"Human memory is remarkably unreliable." Wonwoo’s pen immediately clicked. You recognised that look. He agreed.

"So," the professor continued, "we're moving on to behavioural observation." Several students frowned.

"You'll spend the next two weeks observing your assigned partner." Someone near the back groaned dramatically. The professor ignored them.

"You are not trying to prove they're your soulmate." A few laughs broke out.

"You are observing unconscious patterns." She began writing on the whiteboard.

Walking pace. Eye contact. Speech rhythm. Personal space. Gesture mirroring. Listening behaviour.

"You may record anything you find relevant," she explained. "The important rule is this."

She underlined the next sentence.

Do not tell your partner what you're recording.

The room erupted into confused chatter.

"What?"

"That's so weird."

"They're going to overthink everything."

"Exactly," the professor replied. "Which is why I don't want you discussing your observations until the fortnight is over." She looked around the classroom.

"People reveal the most about themselves when they believe nothing important is being noticed."

—

The walk back to the library felt strangely different. Not because anything had changed. Because now you couldn't stop wondering whether it had.

Were you walking normally? Did you always swing your backpack from your right shoulder? Did you speak with your hands this much?

You caught yourself fixing your posture halfway across campus before realising exactly what you were doing. Beside you, Wonwoo seemed completely unaffected. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding it.

"This assignment is cruel," you muttered.

"It'll produce better data."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It probably will."

"You aren't even a little curious about what I'm writing down?"

"I'll find out eventually."

"...That's it?" He shrugged lightly.

"If I change my behaviour because I'm thinking about it, the observations become less useful."

"You've accepted this frighteningly quickly."

"It's interesting."

"You called interviewing strangers inefficient."

"It was."

"And spying on each other is interesting?"

"We're not spying."

"It feels like spying."

"It's structured observation."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm defining the methodology." You laughed under your breath.

"See?"

"What?"

"You've already started."

"I haven't."

"You've become more formal."

"I always speak like this."

"When you're trying to win an argument. I noticed."

He looked at you for a long second before the corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly.

"So did I." You frowned.

"So did you what?"

"I noticed."

"...You smiled before disagreeing."

You hadn't even realised.

—

That evening, your shared project folder gained two new files.

Behaviour Observation Log — Y/N

Behaviour Observation Log — Wonwoo

Password protected. You opened your own template first. At the top of the page sat a single instruction.

Record observations objectively. Avoid interpretation until analysis is complete.

You snorted softly.

"That's going to be impossible."

You had barely spent ten days working with Wonwoo, yet already every observation seemed to carry two versions. The objective one. And the one you couldn't quite explain.

Objective: He waits for elderly people to exit the lift before entering.

Subjective: He never seems aware he's doing it.

You sighed, deleting the second sentence before replacing it with something more academic. At least... you tried.

—

[CASE FILE 003 — Behavioural Observation Study]

Subjects: Pair 14

Observation Period: Weeks 3–5

Research Objective: To identify unconscious behavioural patterns that influence perceived interpersonal compatibility.

Reminder: Observation is not interpretation. Record what occurs. Explain why only after sufficient evidence has been collected.

—

The observation period began on a Monday. You hated it almost immediately. Not because it was difficult to write observations—if anything, there were too many things to write—but because the assignment had transformed every ordinary interaction into something strangely self-conscious. Every time you caught Wonwoo glancing in your direction, your immediate thought was no longer Is something wrong? but Did he just write that down? By Wednesday, you were convinced you had forgotten how to exist naturally.

"You've looked at me three times in the last minute."

"I wasn't counting."

"You definitely were."

"I wasn't."

"You paused before answering."

"I was thinking."

"Exactly." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"...From who?"

"You."

"I don't think I've actually said it."

"You implied it."

"You keep doing that."

"What?"

"Turning everything I say into evidence."

"It is evidence."

"It isn't."

"It could be." You let out an exaggerated sigh before dramatically opening your notebook.

"Observation number twenty-seven." He looked up.

"'Subject is deeply irritating.'"

"...That's not objective."

"I'm making an exception."

"It'll affect the validity of your findings."

"It'll improve my emotional wellbeing." Something that looked suspiciously like amusement crossed his face.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I disagree."

"You can't disagree with your own facial expression."

"I'm questioning your interpretation."

"You absolutely smiled."

"I don't have sufficient evidence." You stared at him for a long moment before laughing.

"You know, for someone who doesn't believe in soulmates, you're weirdly committed to making sure I never win an argument."

"I've accepted that I won't."

"...What?"

"I've accepted that you won't stop arguing."

"...That's not what you said."

"I know."

—

The campus café became another unspoken routine. Originally, it had simply been somewhere convenient between lectures. Now the barista greeted both of you before either of you reached the counter.

"The usual?" You nodded automatically, Wonwoo answered at almost exactly the same time.

"Yes." The barista smiled.

"I'll have them ready in a minute." You didn't notice anything unusual until you sat down.

"You ordered for me."

"You were looking for your student card."

"...I was."

"You usually spend about thirty seconds searching your bag." You blinked.

"You've timed that too?"

"No."

"You know that's somehow worse."

"I've noticed it happens."

"You make it sound completely normal."

"It is."

"No, normal people don't know how long someone spends looking for their wallet."

"They might."

"They absolutely don't." He took a slow sip of coffee before answering.

"I think people notice more than they realise."

"You definitely notice more than average."

"You've said that."

"And I keep being proven right." He didn't argue this time. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below, where students hurried between buildings carrying umbrellas against the light drizzle that had started sometime during your lecture. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think most people notice."

You looked at him.

"They just don't remember." There was something unexpectedly thoughtful about the way he said it. Not detached. Not analytical. Almost personal.

"What makes you remember?" His fingers paused around the paper cup.

"I don't know." He considered the question carefully before continuing.

"I think... once I've noticed something, it feels wrong to forget it." The sentence lingered in your mind long after the conversation had moved elsewhere.

—

Thursday's tutorial required each research pair to spend forty-five minutes silently observing one another while completing a collaborative puzzle. No discussion. No planning. No speaking. Only observation.

"This feels unethical," someone complained.

"It's educational," the professor replied.

"It's creepy."

"It's sociology."

"I'm changing majors." The professor laughed.

"No, you're not."

Sheets of coloured wooden blocks were distributed around the room, each pair receiving an identical puzzle that required recreating a geometric pattern using only non-verbal communication. You and Wonwoo exchanged a look.

"No talking?" you mouthed.

He nodded once. The timer began. Almost immediately, you reached for the wrong piece. Before your hand even touched it, Wonwoo gently slid the correct block towards you without looking up from the diagram.

You frowned. How had he—

You placed it into position. He rotated another piece exactly ninety degrees before setting it beside your hand. Again, correct. By the ten-minute mark, neither of you had spoken a single word. You barely needed to.

He seemed to understand what piece you were reaching for before you reached for it, quietly moving obstacles out of the way without interrupting your train of thought. When you hesitated over where a triangular block belonged, he tapped the corner of the diagram once before continuing with his own section. It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. It simply worked.

Across the room, other pairs whispered apologies after instinctively speaking, argued silently through exaggerated gestures, or accidentally reached for the same pieces at the same time. Your table remained almost entirely still. When the professor called time, she'd barely finished the sentence before stopping beside your desk.

"You finished?" You both nodded. She examined the completed puzzle. Perfect.

"Hm." She made a note on her clipboard.

"Interesting." As she walked away, you finally looked at Wonwoo.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"We didn't even talk."

"The puzzle didn't require talking."

"It definitely did."

"I don't think so."

"Everyone else talked."

"We didn't."

"You handed me the exact pieces every single time."

"You usually solve left to right."

"...I what?"

"You start from the outside corners."

"I've never noticed that."

"I have." You stared.

"When?"

"You've organised every interview transcript the same way."

"..."

"You also unpack your stationery in the same order."

"..."

"You always finish reading the introduction before looking at the headings."

"..." He stopped.

"...Was I not supposed to notice those?" For a second, all you could do was blink.

"No."

"I thought they were obvious."

"They are to you." Another pause settled between you before you laughed quietly, shaking your head.

"I don't think you realise how different your brain works."

"I've never had another one to compare it to." The answer was so genuine that it caught you completely off guard.

—

That evening, after returning home, you opened your observation log again. The cursor blinked expectantly. You read back through the objective notes you'd managed to record over the past four days.

Day Four Subject remembers every source cited during discussion without checking notes.

Day Five Subject notices environmental changes before verbal acknowledgement by others.

Day Five Subject consistently positions themselves on the outer side of the footpath when walking together.

You frowned. You hadn't noticed writing that last one.  When had that happened? You thought back. 

Leaving the library. Crossing the road after interviews. Walking between lecture buildings. Every single time, without ever mentioning it, Wonwoo had quietly shifted to whichever side was closest to passing bicycles, traffic or crowds, leaving you on the inside of the path. It wasn't dramatic enough to draw attention. If anything, it was the kind of habit you only recognised once you'd seen it repeated enough times.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed another line.

Day Six Subject performs considerate actions automatically, often without appearing aware of them.

You hesitated. Then deleted the word considerate. Too subjective. After another moment's thought, you rewrote it.

Subject changes behaviour in response to environmental conditions affecting others before changing his own.

Technically objective. Technically. You weren't entirely convinced.

— 

[Behaviour Observation Log — Extract]

Observer: Wonwoo

Day 4 Subject unconsciously smiles before disagreeing with someone.

Day 5 Subject says "interesting" when they are actually confused.

Day 5 Subject thanks bus drivers regardless of whether anyone else does.

Day 6 Subject slows walking pace when speaking about something important without appearing aware of it.

A line beneath the final observation has been crossed out, the original sentence is no longer legible. Only three rewritten words remain.

Worth remembering.

— 

The midpoint presentations arrived far sooner than either of you expected. It wasn't that the semester itself had moved particularly quickly. If anything, the weeks had been packed so densely with interviews, observation logs, literature reviews and tutorial discussions that every day felt longer than the last. Somewhere between the seventh transcript and the fifteenth journal article, however, the project had stopped feeling like a university assessment and quietly become part of your routine. You no longer wondered whether Wonwoo would be in the library after class. He always was.

Likewise, he had stopped asking whether you wanted coffee before starting work. At some point, the question had disappeared entirely, replaced by a second paper cup already sitting opposite him whenever you arrived a few minutes late. You weren't entirely sure when that had started. More strangely, neither of you had acknowledged it.

"You know," you said one afternoon, dropping your bag beside the chair opposite him, "normal people would probably think this is weird."

Wonwoo didn't look up from the spreadsheet he was editing.

"What part?"

"You buying my coffee."

"You always pay me back."

"That's not my point." He finished typing the sentence he'd been working on before finally closing the laptop halfway.

"What is your point?"

"My point is..." You paused, realising you hadn't actually thought this through. "Well..."

"You don't have one."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I think..." You tapped absentmindedly against the side of the coffee cup. "I think we've become suspiciously efficient." He considered that.

"We've spent approximately forty-seven hours working together."

"You counted?"

"I estimated."

"...That somehow isn't better."

"No." A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. You caught it anyway. There had been more of those lately. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice. Enough that you did.

—

The tutorial room buzzed louder than usual as each research pair prepared their midpoint presentations. Laptops opened, extension cords snaked across the floor, and conversations overlapped as students made frantic last-minute edits.

Your professor moved quietly between the rows, occasionally stopping to answer questions before reminding everyone, for what felt like the tenth time that morning, to keep their presentations under ten minutes.

"You look nervous." You glanced sideways. Wonwoo was organising printed handouts into perfectly aligned stacks.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've rearranged your slides three times."

"I was fixing formatting."

"You changed the font."

"It was inconsistent."

"It was one title."

"It was bothering me." You smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The perfectionism."

"I prefer consistency."

"I know." He looked at you for a second before speaking again.

"You've rewritten your opening sentence eleven times. I counted." You folded your arms.

"I hate that you're right."

"I usually am."

"You sounded far too pleased saying that."

"I wasn't."

"Liar." He looked down to hide another almost-smile.

—

The presentations themselves varied wildly. Some groups had already reached confident conclusions. One pair argued that soulmate beliefs were largely reinforced by media representation. Another claimed attachment styles explained every interview they'd conducted. Someone else presented an elaborate statistical model that attempted to predict relationship longevity based on personality inventories.

When your turn came, neither you nor Wonwoo rushed to the front. You walked up together, setting your notes on the lectern without speaking.

"Our research question," you began, "asks whether soulmates exist."

"At this stage," Wonwoo continued, "our findings remain inconclusive."

A few classmates exchanged amused looks. You noticed.

"We've interviewed twelve participants across varying demographics," you said, changing slides. "Our qualitative findings reveal strong personal belief in soulmate concepts, although definitions vary considerably."

"Existing literature," Wonwoo added, "does not currently provide empirical evidence supporting soulmates as an objectively measurable phenomenon." You nodded.

"However..." He glanced towards you.

"...the interviews suggest something different." You continued seamlessly.

"Participants consistently described long-term relationships using language centred around choice rather than inevitability." The presentation flowed more naturally than either of you expected. Neither of you needed prompting. You instinctively knew when the other had finished speaking, quietly continuing each explanation without interrupting or repeating information. By the final slide, you almost forgot everyone else was watching. Until question time. A student near the back raised their hand.

"If you've spent over a month researching together..."

They looked between you and Wonwoo.

"...have either of you actually changed your minds?" Silence. You opened your mouth first.

"I..." Nothing came out. Because the truthful answer wasn't simple anymore. Had you changed your mind? Not really. You still believed soulmates existed. But your understanding of them had shifted. You looked towards Wonwoo. He spoke first.

"Our arguments have become more complicated." The classroom waited.

"We disagree about the conclusion." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.

"But we've stopped disagreeing about the evidence." A thoughtful silence settled across the room. The professor smiled.

"That's one of the best answers I've heard all day."

—

After class, while packing away your laptop, you overheard two students speaking just loudly enough that they clearly weren't trying very hard to keep the conversation private.

"I honestly thought they were dating." You froze.

"Nah."

"They've got that weird old married couple thing."

"They literally finish each other's presentations."

"Maybe the soulmate project worked." Someone laughed.

"Imagine." You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo. He had stopped placing papers into his bag. Only for a second. Then, without saying anything, he finished packing his things and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"We should go." His voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

—

The walk to the library was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Simply lacking. Normally, one of you would comment on the presentation, complain about another journal article, or argue over interview methodology before reaching the main courtyard. Today, neither of you started a conversation. You tried twice.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

He nodded once. The silence returned. It stayed with you through the rest of the afternoon. Through organising references. Through editing transcripts. Through packing your bags. When you finally left the library, he offered the same polite goodbye he always did.

"See you Tuesday."

"Yeah." He hesitated almost imperceptibly.

"See you." And then he walked away.

—

It wasn't until later that evening that you realised something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Nothing had happened. No argument. No disagreement. No misunderstanding that you could clearly identify. And yet you found yourself opening the shared document twice before remembering he wasn't editing tonight.

You almost messaged him a journal article before remembering he'd probably already found it himself. You even caught yourself glancing towards the empty chair beside yours during dinner. You frowned. That was unusual.

Across town, Wonwoo was staring at the unfinished observation log on his laptop. The cursor blinked beneath today's date. He typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Eventually, he closed the document without saving. For the first time since the assignment had begun, he wasn't entirely certain how to describe what he'd observed.

—

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM]

Research Pair 14

Midpoint Progress Review

Completed

✓ Literature Review

✓ Behavioural Observation (Phase I)

✓ Participant Interviews

✓ Preliminary Presentation

Outstanding

□ Emotional Bias Assessment

□ Final Analysis

Professor's Margin Note:

Excellent collaboration. Be mindful that prolonged observation can influence participant objectivity. Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

Someone—neither you nor Wonwoo—has circled the final sentence twice.

The next chapter is where the misunderstanding quietly deepens, forcing both of you to question whether your growing closeness is helping the research—or making it impossible to stay objective. It's also where the assignment begins to stop feeling like an investigation into soulmates and starts becoming an investigation into each other.

—

There was a peculiar kind of silence that only existed between people who had grown accustomed to one another.

It wasn't uncomfortable. Nor was it empty. It was the sort of silence built over weeks of shared routines, where conversation became optional because neither person felt responsible for filling every quiet moment. You had never thought much about it before meeting Wonwoo. Silence, to you, had always been something to fix—a pause that invited another question, another story, another attempt to keep the conversation moving.

Now, sitting across from him in your usual corner of the library, you realised nearly twenty minutes had passed without either of you speaking.

The only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the turning of pages somewhere nearby, and the distant hum of rain against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Strangely, you hadn't noticed the time. Wonwoo was reviewing the coding categories for your interview transcripts, occasionally making neat annotations in the margins of the printed pages spread around him. You were rereading the behavioural observation logs, trying to identify recurring themes before beginning the final report.

Every so often, one of you would slide a document across the table. No explanation. The other would read it, nod once, and continue working. It had become almost effortless. The realisation should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled you. Because the professor's feedback from the midpoint presentation refused to leave your mind.

Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

You had laughed when you first read it. Now it seemed less like feedback and more like a warning.

"Can I ask you something?" Wonwoo looked up immediately.

"You already are." You rolled your eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He closed the notebook in front of him, giving you his full attention.

"What is it?" You hesitated longer than expected.

"Do you think..." The words felt strangely difficult.

"...we've become biased?" He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the question with the same care he gave every research problem.

"In what sense?"

"The assignment."

"Our conclusions?"

"No."

You shook your head.

"I mean..." You searched for the right wording.

"...do you think we've spent so much time observing each other that we've stopped being objective?" His expression remained thoughtful.

"I think..." Another pause.

"...that was probably inevitable." You stared.

"You're admitting that?"

"It would be difficult not to."

"You always argue objectivity."

"I still do."

"But?"

"But objectivity doesn't mean pretending bias doesn't exist." He folded his hands together on the table.

"It means recognising where it exists." You looked down at your own notes.

"So we're biased."

"Yes."

"...That's a problem."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether we're willing to acknowledge it." The answer lingered between you. It wasn't the answer you expected. Nor was it the one you wanted. Because admitting bias meant admitting something else.

That neither of you had remained detached observers. Somewhere along the way, the research had stopped being about strangers.

It had become about the two of you.

—

Your final task before writing the report was deceptively simple. Each research pair had to submit an individual reflective statement answering one question:

How has this project influenced your understanding of human relationships?

No word limit. No references required. Only honesty. You stared at the blank document for almost fifteen minutes.

Eventually, you began typing.

I entered this project believing soulmates were something people found.

You stopped. Deleted the sentence. Started again.

I don't think I believe in coincidence any less than I did twelve weeks ago.

Delete. Again. Nothing sounded right.

Across the table, Wonwoo had already begun writing.

His expression gave nothing away. You resisted every temptation to lean across and read his screen.

"You've already started."

"I have."

"How?"

"I know what I think."

"You always know what you think." He looked at you for a moment before answering quietly.

"Not always." The admission surprised you enough that you forgot your own frustration.

"You don't?" He shook his head.

"I just usually don't say anything until I do."

—

The deadline for the reflective statements was Friday evening. You submitted yours at 11:43 p.m. Wonwoo submitted his at 11:46.

Neither of you mentioned what you'd written. Neither asked. It felt oddly personal. Some thoughts belonged to the report.

Others, perhaps not.

—

Monday arrived with your final consultation before presentation week.

The professor skimmed through your draft silently, making only occasional notes in the margins.

When she finally looked up, she smiled.

"You've both done excellent work."

Relief settled quietly across your shoulders.

"Your analysis is thoughtful."

She tapped one particular paragraph.

"Especially this section."

You glanced down.

It was the conclusion the two of you had rewritten four separate times.

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to develop through repeated acts of mutual investment rather than a single defining event.

The professor nodded.

"I agree." Then she closed the report.

"There is only one thing I'd like you to think about." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"What is it?" She smiled knowingly.

"You've spent three months studying why people choose one another." A pause.

"I wonder..." She gathered the papers neatly into a pile.

"...whether either of you has considered that question outside the assignment."

Neither you nor Wonwoo answered. The professor didn't seem to expect one.

She simply handed back the report.

"I'll see you both next week."

—

The walk back across campus was unusually slow.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The afternoon sun had finally broken through after nearly a week of rain, leaving the pathways crowded with students reclaiming patches of grass between classes. Someone was playing music beneath the science building, while clubs recruited new members with handmade signs and bowls of wrapped lollies.

Life continued around you exactly as it always had.

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about the professor's question.

Eventually, Wonwoo broke the silence.

"I think she's wrong."

You looked at him.

"About what?"

"She's assuming the assignment changed us."

You frowned slightly.

"You don't think it did?"

He shook his head.

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...it only gave us enough time to notice."

For the first time since the semester began, you found yourself without an argument. Not because you disagreed. Because you thought he might be right.

—

[CASE FILE 014]

Research Status: Final Analysis Pending

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Current Findings

No empirical evidence conclusively demonstrates the existence of predetermined soulmates.

Participants consistently describe enduring relationships as products of repeated choice, trust, and shared experiences.

Extended observation significantly increases interpersonal understanding between research partners.

Researcher's Note: Variables initially considered external may have become internal. Further separation between observer and subject is no longer possible.

—

The final presentation was scheduled for nine o'clock on a Thursday morning.

Campus looked no different from any other day. Students hurried across the courtyard balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments, cyclists weaved between lecture buildings, and somewhere outside the student union someone was advertising a bake sale with far more enthusiasm than the audience deserved.

It felt strangely unfair.

For the past three months, this assignment had quietly reshaped your entire semester, and yet the rest of the university continued exactly as it always had, blissfully unaware that a forty-percent assessment somehow carried the weight of something much larger.

You arrived outside the sociology building fifteen minutes early. Wonwoo was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood beneath the awning reading over the printed copy of your presentation one final time, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other absentmindedly turned pages already memorised. He looked up almost immediately when he heard your footsteps.

"You beat me."

"I usually do."

"I was early."

"You were."

"So you've been here a while."

"Seven minutes."

"You timed it?"

"I looked at my watch."

You laughed softly.

"I don't know why I still ask."

"I don't either."

The conversation settled into a familiar quiet. Not because either of you had run out of things to say. Because neither of you felt pressured to fill every second.

Eventually, Wonwoo held out a paper cup.

"I got your coffee."

"You keep doing that."

"You keep forgetting breakfast."

"...I had toast."

"You had half."

You blinked.

"I finished the other half while walking."

"No."

"...How do you know that?"

"You always carry your keys in your left hand when you're eating."

"..."

"You've got jam on your sleeve."

You looked down. Sure enough—

A tiny smear of strawberry jam sat near your wrist.

You sighed dramatically.

"You really would've made a terrifying detective."

"I know."

"You admitted it."

"I've had time to think about it."

The corners of your mouth lifted.

"So have I."

—

The presentations passed one by one. Some groups argued that soulmate beliefs were entirely cultural.

Others concluded that compatibility could be explained through attachment theory, personality traits, or shared values.

One group confidently declared that love was nothing more than neurochemistry and evolutionary advantage.

Another insisted destiny existed because statistical improbability could not adequately explain meaningful coincidence.

You listened carefully. Three months ago, you would have known exactly which side you agreed with.

Now you weren't so certain. Or perhaps you were certain for entirely different reasons.

"Pair Fourteen."

The professor smiled.

"Whenever you're ready."

You and Wonwoo walked to the front together.

No discussion. No deciding who would speak first. By now, neither of you needed to.

The first slide appeared behind you.

Do Soulmates Exist?

You looked out across the room before beginning.

"When we started this project, we approached the question from opposing viewpoints."

Wonwoo continued naturally.

"One of us believed soulmate relationships could not be empirically demonstrated."

"And one of us believed they existed regardless of whether they could be measured."

He changed slides.

"Our original objective was to determine which perspective was better supported by evidence."

"It didn't happen."

A ripple of quiet laughter travelled through the room. You smiled.

"Instead..."

The next slide appeared.

Findings

"We discovered something neither of us expected."

You looked briefly towards Wonwoo before continuing.

"None of the couples we interviewed described love as something that simply happened."

"Regardless of whether they believed in fate," he added, "their relationships depended upon repeated choices."

"They described commitment."

"Consistency."

"Trust."

"Attention."

"Shared routines."

"Mutual understanding."

Neither of you had rehearsed the alternating rhythm.

It simply happened.

The presentation flowed almost conversationally now, each sentence picked up naturally by the other before the silence had time to settle.

"Our literature review found no empirical evidence proving predetermined soulmates."

"However," Wonwoo said, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

You looked at him, surprised. He noticed.

"I read your notes."

"You quoted me."

"It supported the argument."

You smiled before turning back towards the audience.

"Our conclusion is therefore not that soulmates definitively exist..."

"...nor that they definitively do not."

Another slide appeared.

Final Conclusion

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to emerge through repeated mutual investment, trust, and deliberate choice rather than a single predetermined moment.

Silence followed. Not awkward. Thoughtful. The professor nodded slowly.

"Questions?"

A hand rose almost immediately.

"So..."

The student grinned.

"Did either of you change your minds?"

You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo.

He looked back.

Neither answered immediately.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I still think people can become irreplaceable."

Wonwoo nodded almost imperceptibly.

"And I still don't think fate explains why."

The room waited.

"But..."

He adjusted his glasses.

"...I don't think that's the important part anymore."

The professor smiled.

"Why not?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because after interviewing dozens of people, we realised none of them stayed together because destiny did the work."

He glanced sideways.

"They stayed because they kept choosing each other."

No one spoke. The professor thanked you both before dismissing the class for a short break while she finalised grades.

Just like that, the assignment was over.

—

You found yourselves standing outside the building with nowhere particular to go. For the first time in months, there was no interview to schedule. No journal article to discuss. No observation log waiting to be completed.

The routine that had quietly built itself around the two of you had simply ended.

"We're done."

"We are."

"We don't have another meeting."

"No."

"...That's strange."

"It is."

Students drifted around you in small groups, already talking about upcoming exams and weekend plans. Someone from another tutorial waved goodbye.

Life continued. Again. Exactly as it always had.

"I suppose..." you began carefully, "...this is where we stop accidentally seeing each other four times a week."

Wonwoo frowned slightly.

"Why would we?"

You looked at him.

"The assignment's finished."

"I know."

"So..."

"So?"

"You don't have to keep buying me coffee."

"I wasn't buying it because of the assignment."

"...You weren't?"

"No."

You laughed quietly.

"I genuinely can't tell when you're joking."

"I'm not."

The words settled gently between you.

You realised then that they weren't really about coffee.

"Were you serious," you asked softly, "when you said the assignment didn't change us?"

"Yes."

"What did it do, then?"

He thought about it.

"I think..."

He looked out across the courtyard before answering.

"...it forced us to pay attention."

"To sociology?"

He smiled faintly.

"To each other."

Your heart stumbled. Just enough that you noticed it.

"I've spent months trying to prove or disprove soulmates," you admitted.

"And?"

"I don't know if I've reached an answer."

"You don't have to."

"No."

You looked down at the empty coffee cup still warming your hands.

"I suppose I haven't."

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

"Would you like dinner?"

You looked up.

"What?"

Wonwoo looked almost embarrassed by his own question.

"We usually work after class."

"We do."

"We're not working anymore."

"No."

"So..."

Another pause.

"I'd still like to spend time with you."

You couldn't help smiling.

"You know, that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

"I was."

"...Oh."

"I thought I was being reasonably clear."

"You were."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."

"How else was I supposed to say it?"

"I don't know."

"You've spent three months telling me communication matters."

"I have."

"So."

He met your eyes.

"I'm communicating."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you nodded.

"I'd like that."

Relief softened something in his expression so subtle that someone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

Together, you turned towards the path leading away from the sociology building.

There was no assignment waiting at the end of it.

No hypothesis left to test.

Only another choice.

This time, neither of you needed research to make it.

—

[CASE FILE 014 — CLOSED]

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Official Conclusion: Inconclusive.

Supplementary Findings: Participants consistently demonstrated that enduring relationships are sustained through repeated acts of trust, attention, and mutual choice. Extended observation unexpectedly altered the perspectives of both researchers.

Professor's Final Comment: You never proved soulmates. You did, however, provide compelling evidence that people can become indispensable to one another.

Status: CASE CLOSED.

—

@junplusone @spookykryptonitegardener @passionfruitenthusiast @imhereonlytoreadxoxo (i lowk forgor to tag u guys in the last 1/2 fics in the series, so theres that...)

[wqnwoos]

Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. You’ve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.

⇢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader ⇢ genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers ⇢ wc: approx. 10k ⇢ warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean 😭 ⇢ a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. it’s been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world 💗 ⇢ as part of the carat’s ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern

YOU’VE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.

“You're doing the thing again,” Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.

“What thing?”

“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”

“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door. 

“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”

“They look like abstract art.”

She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”

Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.

“I had it first.”

“I had it first first.”

“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”

Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.

The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.

You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.

“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.

“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”

You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.

By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place. 

This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.

Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.

“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.

You roll your eyes. “Correct.”

“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”

“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”

“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”

Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct. 

“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”

You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”

“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”

“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”

“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.

“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”

“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.

Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.

Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing. 

You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.

There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.

“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,”  and driven off slowly. 

You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.

You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.

You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent. 

Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever. 

So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.

The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”

“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”

“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”

“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”

“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”

“I have a long memory.”

“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”

“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.

“Don't,” you say.

“Didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”

“Every day's a battle, but yes.”

“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”

“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.

It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.

You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.

“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.

“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”

You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful. 

“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”

He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.

You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”

That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.

You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.

Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.

“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“

“He's like that with—”

“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”

You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”

“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”

“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”

She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”

“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”

“Well, he’s never actually said that!”

“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”

You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.

“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”

“It's not that simple.”

“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”

You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.

“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”

“She's added a supervillain.”

“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.

It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.

“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”

“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”

“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.

“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine. 

You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.

The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.

You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.

Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.

He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)

The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.

You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.

“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.

“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”

“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.

“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.

“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“

“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”

“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”

“I'm always nice to you.”

“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”

“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”

“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”

“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”

“That's generally how field trips work, yes.” 

“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.

And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.

By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.

You don't hear the end of it for a while.

For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.

The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.

You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.

Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light,  jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.

Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight. 

You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.

“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider. 

You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process. 

It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.

He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.

Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.

“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.

“I'm listening.”

“What'd I just say?”

“Something about a ring.“

“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“

“What look?”

“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”

You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“

“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”

“Please.”

“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”

Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”

“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”

It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.

He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.

The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.

Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.

Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.

“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next. 

“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”

“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“

“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”

“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.

“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.

It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.

“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”

Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”

“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.

You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.

You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.

Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.

Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.

The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.

“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”

You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.

The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.

When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.

Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard. 

There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.

It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.

Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.

“Hey,” you say, inadequately.

He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”

“They loved it. You're good with them.” 

“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.

“Seungcheol—”

“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”

It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it. 

“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.

You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it. 

You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.

“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”

So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”

“I know what I have to do.”

“So why haven't you done it yet.”

“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“

“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”

You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use. 

You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.

And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.

By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.

It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has. 

It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.

It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception. 

You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.

“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”

“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”

“You basically said that.”

“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.” 

You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going.  A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”

“That's not a compliment.”

“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”

Your nose scrunches. “I might.”

“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.” 

You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”

“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”

“I'm not going to tell you everything.“

“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.

You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind. 

Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.

He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.

“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”

“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.

“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“

That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.

“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”

He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.

“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”

He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it. 

“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.

“Don't gloat.”

“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”

“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.

an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.

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[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Soulmates — Wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader synopsis: He doesn’t believe in fate. You do. So when you get paired together in a sociology class to prove or disprove soulmates, you’re determined to change his mind—or die academically trying. wc: 9.6k (im shook) genre: Slow burn, University AU, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Light Angst, Comedy, Slice of Life warnings: SOOOOO MUCH DIALOG IM SORRY, I had to compress the text a lil bc there were too many blocks so it might sound weird in some places, Brief Misunderstandings, Social Anxiety (in 1 part), Mild existential discussions about relationships and compatibility a/n: Happy (late) birthday to wonwoo!! Sorry this took so long, i miscalculated how long this would get. This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!

There was something strangely comforting about the first week of a new semester.

Maybe it was because everything still felt temporary enough to reinvent yourself if you wanted to. Lecture theatres filled with unfamiliar faces who smiled politely without expecting names, tutors who still believed everyone had completed the readings, and fresh notebooks whose untouched pages hadn't yet become victims of rushed handwriting and coffee stains. Every semester began with the same promise that this one would somehow be different, that assignments would be started early, lectures would be attended diligently, and perhaps this time your sleep schedule would survive beyond Week Three.

You believed it every single semester.

Whether that made you optimistic or hopelessly naïve was still up for debate.

The Sociology of Human Relationships was one of the electives you'd chosen almost impulsively, although you preferred calling it intuition whenever your friends questioned your decisions. The course outline had sounded interesting enough—attachment theory, interpersonal communication, social expectations—but what had caught your attention was a single sentence tucked away beneath the assessment schedule.

Major Research Project (40%) — Investigating the Concept of Soulmates.

You had smiled at the screen for far longer than necessary.

It wasn't because you expected university to confirm the existence of some invisible red string connecting strangers across cities or oceans, nor because you thought there was one singular person waiting somewhere with your name written into the universe. Your belief had never been that simplistic. Soulmates, at least to you, were never about destiny removing the need for choice.

If anything, they were about choice itself.

People met thousands throughout their lives. Friends came and went, lovers arrived and left, families grew complicated, and yet somehow, every now and then, two people chose one another so completely that the rest of the world became background noise. Whether that was destiny or simply extraordinary luck hardly mattered.

The feeling was real either way.

"Y/N!"

Your attention lifted from the printed course guide as someone dropped into the seat beside you with enough force to make the fold-out desk wobble. Mina grinned without a hint of apology, balancing an iced coffee in one hand while already scrolling through her timetable on her phone with the other.

"I swear," she whispered dramatically, "if this professor starts with an icebreaker, I'm transferring."

"You say that every semester."

"And one day I'll mean it."

The lecture theatre continued filling around you in waves of conversation, backpacks thumping onto the floor, chairs scraping against concrete, students greeting friends they hadn't seen over the break with exaggerated enthusiasm. Somewhere near the front, someone was already arguing about textbook prices, while further back a group was debating whether attendance was actually compulsory.

The room buzzed with that peculiar kind of organised chaos unique to universities, where everyone seemed simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.

At precisely nine o'clock, the chatter softened. The professor walked in carrying nothing except a tablet and a stack of manila folders.

No introductory slideshow. No welcoming speech. Just a quiet smile.

"I'll save everyone's time," she began. "Yes, attendance is recorded."

A collective groan echoed through the theatre. She nodded knowingly.

"I appreciate the honesty."

Even Mina laughed. The first twenty minutes passed exactly as expected. Assessment breakdowns, consultation hours, textbook recommendations no one intended to purchase until absolutely necessary. Pens moved lazily across notebooks while laptops clicked open around the room.

Then the professor reached for the folders.

"This," she said, holding one up between her fingers, "is the assignment students remember long after they've forgotten everything else from this course."

The room immediately became quieter.

"For the remainder of the semester, each of you will work with one randomly assigned partner."

Another groan, she ignored it.

"Your task is deceptively simple."

The projector behind her flickered to life.

DO SOULMATES EXIST?

Silence. Then scattered laughter.

"No," someone near the back called.

"I haven't even had breakfast," another complained.

The professor continued as though neither interruption had happened.

"You'll investigate the claim from a sociological perspective. You are expected to collect qualitative and quantitative evidence, conduct interviews, examine existing literature, perform behavioural observations, and construct an argument either supporting or rejecting the concept."

Your hand was already writing before she'd finished speaking. Interview couples. Different age groups. Longitudinal relationships? Cultural perspectives. You underlined the last one twice.

"This assignment is not about proving your own beliefs," the professor continued. "It's about learning whether your beliefs withstand scrutiny."

You liked that. Beside you, Mina looked significantly less enthusiastic.

"I wanted multiple choice."

"You chose sociology."

"I made mistakes."

The professor began distributing the folders down each row.

"Each folder contains your assigned partner."

Someone sighed dramatically enough to earn a laugh from the surrounding students.

"You don't get to choose," the professor added before anyone could ask. "Yes, they're random. No, I won't swap anyone. Half the purpose of this assignment is learning to work with perspectives different from your own."

The folders travelled slowly across the lecture theatre. One by one. Closer. Closer. Eventually one landed in front of you with a soft papery thud. Your name had already been printed neatly across the cover.

Below it—Research Pair: Group 14

You opened it. Your assigned partner's name sat beneath yours.

JEON WONWOO

You frowned thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar. Not personally, academically. Someone who answered questions during lectures with suspicious confidence. Someone tutors seemed to recognise. Someone you'd seen around campus more than once without ever speaking to. Mina leaned across immediately.

"Who'd you get?"

You turned the page towards her.

"Oh."

"What?"

She gave you a look that somehow managed to communicate both sympathy and amusement.

"Good luck."

"...That helpful?"

"I've got a friend in psychology who had a class with him last semester."

"And?"

"He argued with the lecturer."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"He won."

Before you could ask another question, the lecture theatre door opened. Five minutes late. A tall figure stepped quietly inside, carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder as though arriving after the lecture had begun didn't concern him in the slightest. There was no frantic apology, no awkward attempt to avoid drawing attention. He simply offered the professor a brief nod, received one in return, and scanned the room for an empty seat. You recognised him immediately from the photograph attached to the research folder.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He settled into one of the remaining seats a few rows ahead without speaking to anyone, pushing his glasses back into place before opening the folder that had been left on the desk for him.  You watched his eyes skim the first page. Pause. Then continue. Nothing about his expression changed. Not surprise. Not annoyance. Nothing. He simply closed the folder again.

The professor clapped her hands together gently.

"Now that everyone knows their partner, I'd like each pair to spend the remaining class introducing yourselves and discussing your preliminary position."

Chairs scraped backwards across the room almost instantly. Students stood, searching for unfamiliar names and uncertain faces.

"Group Four?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Who's Olivia?"

Mina squeezed your arm.

"Good luck."

"You've said that twice."

"Because I think you'll need it."

She disappeared into the growing crowd before you could respond. You stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, scanning the room until your eyes found him again. He had already found you. Not because he waved, not because he smiled, simply because he was looking directly at you with the quiet recognition of someone matching names to faces. He approached first. Up close, he seemed somehow taller than expected, though perhaps it was only because he carried himself with an unhurried confidence that made everyone else seem louder by comparison.

"Y/N?"

His voice was calm. Lower than you'd imagined.

"That's me."

He nodded once.

"Wonwoo."

"I figured."

A brief silence settled between you, not necessarily uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar. You offered a small smile anyway.

"I guess we're partners."

"It seems that way."

There was something almost amusing about how matter-of-fact he sounded, as though being assigned to work together ranked somewhere between receiving a library receipt and checking tomorrow's weather forecast. You gestured towards two empty seats near the side of the lecture theatre.

"We should probably start?"

He followed without objection. The assignment brief sat open between you, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten annotations that already looked wildly different. Your notes wandered into margins with arrows connecting ideas that hadn't yet fully formed. His remained perfectly organised, concise, almost clinical. You noticed he had already circled one sentence.

Construct an evidence-based conclusion.

"You've started already?"

"I was reading."

"You've highlighted one sentence."

"It seemed important." You couldn't help smiling.

"You seem like the type to colour-code your lecture notes."

"I do."

"I knew it." He looked almost confused by your satisfaction.

"You say that like it's unusual."

"It isn't. I just enjoy being right." Something very close to amusement crossed his face before disappearing again.

"So," you began, tapping the title page, "what's your opinion?" He didn't need time to think.

"Soulmates don't exist." The sentence landed with complete certainty. Not dismissively, not mockingly, simply factually. You blinked.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"No hesitation?"

"No." You leaned back in your chair.

"Interesting." He tilted his head slightly.

"You disagree."

"I do."

"I guessed."

"Was it the fact I highlighted interview ideas before the assignment had even been explained?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"You smiled when the professor introduced the topic." Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

"You noticed that?"

"You were sitting in front of me."

"So?"

"So I noticed." The simplicity of the answer somehow made it more convincing. You folded your arms loosely across the desk.

"I think soulmates exist."

"In what sense?"

"That depends." He waited. Not impatiently, just quietly.

"I don't think there's one perfect person pre-selected by the universe," you explained. "I think there are connections that feel statistically impossible. People who arrive in your life and alter its direction so completely that calling it coincidence almost feels inadequate." He considered your words for a moment before responding.

"People are good at assigning meaning to random events."

"And people are equally good at dismissing meaningful ones because they can't quantify them."

"Our brains search for patterns."

"Sometimes because patterns are there." He looked at you for another second.Then, unexpectedly, a small smile. Barely noticeable.

"Professor was right."

"About what?"

"This is going to take the entire semester." You laughed before you could help yourself. It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a particularly graceful one, but it escaped all the same, drawing a brief glance from the pair sitting nearby. Wonwoo looked almost surprised that he'd been the cause of it. Perhaps you were equally surprised.

Maybe this assignment wouldn't be quite as straightforward as you'd imagined. Or perhaps that was exactly what made it worth doing.

—

[CASE FILE 001 — Department of Sociology, Research Pair Registration]

Pair Number: 14

Student A: Jeon Wonwoo Preliminary Position: The concept of soulmates is a cultural construct that cannot be empirically supported.

Student B: Y/N Preliminary Position: Soulmates exist as meaningful interpersonal connections, regardless of whether they can be objectively measured.

Professor's Observation: Significant ideological contrast.Encourage both students to challenge assumptions rather than defend them.Productive disagreement often produces the strongest research.

—

"You've highlighted the entire article."

"I highlighted the important parts." Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop just long enough to give you a look somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation before returning to his own notes.

"You've highlighted eighty percent of the paper."

"The remaining twenty percent wasn't relevant."

"Then you didn't need the highlighter."

"It helped me read."

"I don't think that's what highlighting is for."

"It is for me." He paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as though debating whether correcting your study habits was worth the effort. Eventually, he decided it wasn't, and the faint shake of his head was so subtle that you almost missed it.

It had been just over a week since the first lecture. Long enough to settle into a routine. Every Tuesday after class, the two of you met in the same corner of the university library, occupying a table tucked beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus courtyard. The location had never been discussed. After the first meeting, you'd simply wandered towards the empty table, and Wonwoo had followed without comment. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the space had somehow become yours. The first ten minutes were always quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You unpacked your bag in exactly the same order every time—laptop first, notebook second, pencil case last—while Wonwoo plugged in his charger, aligned three different coloured sticky tabs along the edge of his notebook, and opened whichever academic journal he had downloaded that morning.

Somewhere nearby, the library printer whirred to life. Pages shuffled. Chairs scraped softly against carpet, and the occasional muffled laugh drifted from the collaborative study rooms before being silenced by a passing librarian.

It was strangely peaceful.

"So," you said eventually, breaking the silence. "How many papers have you read?"

"Twenty-three." You blinked.

"...Twenty-three?"

"They were relatively short."

"You read twenty-three sociology papers in a week?"

"I skimmed seven."

"Oh, well that makes it normal." He ignored the sarcasm.

"There isn't substantial empirical evidence supporting the soulmate hypothesis."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm stating a finding."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You wanted one to prove wrong." He looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

"I wanted evidence."

"You wanted a challenge."

"I have one." He gestured vaguely towards you. You tried very hard not to smile. Instead, you opened your own notebook, where the page labelled Possible Interview Subjects had become increasingly crowded over the past few days.

"We're supposed to start collecting qualitative data this week."

"I know."

"The professor wants a minimum of ten interviews."

"I know."

"You keep saying you know."

"Because I do." You leaned your chin into your palm.

"You're no fun."

"I've been told."

"Really?"

"No."

"...That was almost a joke."

"I don't joke."

"Liar."

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"I didn't intend to."

"Still counts." He sighed so quietly it almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

—

The sociology department had prepared interview consent forms, questionnaires, and recording equipment for every research pair, though the professor had insisted that the interviews themselves be arranged independently.

That was how the two of you found yourselves standing outside the weekend farmers' market early Saturday morning, clipboards tucked beneath your arms while people wandered past carrying reusable shopping bags and bouquets of flowers.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"This seems inefficient."

"It's perfect."

"There are too many variables."

"There are too many people."

"Exactly."

"That's the point." He looked unconvinced.

"You picked this location because..."

"There are families." He waited.

"Couples." Still waiting.

"Grandparents."

"...Continue."

"And everyone walks slower because they're buying vegetables." He stared at you.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting the vegetables."

"They're essential."

"To sociology?"

"To catching interview participants."

"...Right." You smiled innocently.

"Trust me." He didn't. That much was obvious. Still, he followed you towards the first elderly couple browsing homemade honey.

"Excuse me," you asked politely, "would you mind answering a few questions for a university sociology project?"

The couple exchanged a look before smiling warmly.

"We've got nowhere to be." You glanced sideways at Wonwoo.

"See?" He simply uncapped his pen.

—

The first interview lasted nearly twenty minutes. The couple had been married for forty-eight years. When you asked whether they believed they were soulmates, the husband laughed before his wife answered first.

"Oh, goodness, no." You blinked.

"No?" She smiled.

"I couldn't stand him when we first met."

"I still don't know why she married me," her husband admitted.

"You proposed six times."

"You counted?"

"I rejected five." Wonwoo wrote something down. You tried not to laugh.

"So..." you asked carefully, "when did you know?" The woman looked at her husband for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think there was a single moment." Her fingers reached absentmindedly for his hand.

"I think one day we realised we'd spent years choosing each other." Her husband nodded.

"Love isn't fate."

A pause.

"Staying is."

Silence settled over the table. The market continued bustling around you. Someone called out prices for strawberries. A child laughed somewhere behind you. Nearby wind chimes clinked softly against one another. You scribbled the quote into your notebook almost immediately. Beside you, Wonwoo didn't speak. You waited. Normally, he would've already pointed out retrospective bias or emotional reconstruction. Instead, he quietly underlined something in his notes. Only after thanking the couple and watching them disappear into the crowd did either of you speak again.

"...Well?" He closed the notebook.

"It was interesting."

"That's all?"

"It was."

"You don't have an argument?"

"Not immediately." You looked at him in surprise.

"I'll need to think about it." For some reason, that felt like a victory. Not because he'd agreed with you.  Because he hadn't dismissed the interview outright.

—

The afternoon passed in much the same way. An engaged couple who had met online through a video game. A divorced woman who insisted soulmates existed but timing mattered more. A university student who believed compatibility could be calculated using personality tests.  Each interview challenged one assumption only to reinforce another.

By the time the market began packing away stalls, your voice had become slightly hoarse. You dropped onto a nearby bench with a sigh.

"My social battery is gone." Wonwoo handed you a bottle of water.

"You forgot this." You frowned.

"When?"

"You've carried it since this morning."

"...I completely forgot."

"I noticed."

"You notice everything." He considered that.

"I notice patterns."

"You noticed I hadn't had water."

"You'd spoken continuously for nearly three hours."

"And?"

"You usually drink after about forty minutes." You stared.

"...You know that's a little creepy."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

A breeze stirred the trees lining the footpath. People continued filtering towards the train station, conversations fading into the distance. Without thinking, you reached into your backpack and pulled out two convenience store sandwiches you'd bought earlier that morning.

"I completely forgot these too."

"You forget a lot."

"I remember important things."

"You forgot lunch."

"I remembered eventually." You held one sandwich towards him.

"Here." He hesitated.

"You only bought two."

"I know."

"You'll be hungry."

"I'll survive." Another pause. Eventually, he accepted it.

"...Thank you."

"You said that like you weren't expecting me to share."

"I wasn't."

"Why not?"

"You've known me for eight days."

"So?"

"So..." He looked faintly puzzled by the question. "People don't usually do that." You shrugged.

"I had two." The explanation seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Wonwoo looked down at the unopened sandwich in his hands before quietly peeling back the wrapper.

"You know," you said after a while, "I thought you'd be colder." He glanced sideways.

"I've barely spoken."

"Exactly."

"And yet?"

"And yet you keep noticing little things." He frowned slightly.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"It has nothing to do with being nice."

"I didn't say nice."

"You implied it."

"I implied observant." Silence.

"...You think I'm observant?"

"I think you pretend not to care." He looked away first.

"You've reached that conclusion after eight days?"

"Maybe."

"...Your sample size is too small."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"Turning everything into research."

"It is research."

"I know." You smiled despite yourself.

"But you're still doing it." He didn't deny it.

—

Later that evening, after the interviews had been transcribed and uploaded to the shared folder, your phone buzzed with a new notification. Wonwoo uploaded a file. Curious, you opened it. 

Instead of another journal article, it was the transcript from the elderly couple. One sentence had been highlighted.

Love isn't fate. Staying is.

Beneath it, in the comments section, was a single line.

Potential distinction between destiny and commitment. Worth exploring further.

You smiled at the screen. Without thinking too much about it, you replied beneath his comment.

Maybe soulmates aren't found. Maybe they're built.

Three minutes later, a new notification appeared. Wonwoo replied. 

Interesting hypothesis.

It was only two words. But somehow, for the first time since meeting him, it felt less like the beginning of an argument and more like the beginning of a conversation.

—

[Interview Transcript — Couple #01]

Question: Do you believe you were soulmates?

Response (Wife): No. Not when we met.

Response (Husband): We became them.

Handwritten annotation (Y/N): Maybe soulmates aren't discovered. Maybe they're something people create together over time.

Comment added later (J. Wonwoo): Interesting hypothesis. Investigate whether this idea appears in attachment theory literature.

—

By the third week of the semester, the library had become less of a meeting place and more of a habit.

Neither of you remembered making the decision to continue studying there after every lecture. It simply happened. Tuesdays were reserved for sorting interview transcripts, Thursdays for reading journal articles, and Saturdays, more often than not, ended with another round of field interviews somewhere around the city. Somewhere between colour-coded folders, shared Google Drive documents, and arguments over citation formatting, the line separating obligation from routine had quietly disappeared. You were beginning to suspect Wonwoo noticed it too.

He was already sitting at your usual table when you arrived that Thursday afternoon, though he hadn't messaged to say he'd gotten there early. His laptop was open, half a dozen journal articles tiled neatly across the screen, while an untouched cup of coffee rested beside his elbow. Judging by the faint curl of steam that still rose from the lid, he'd only been there a few minutes.

"You ordered coffee before I got here?" you asked, setting your backpack down with a muffled thud.

"I ordered mine." You looked around the table.

"There are two." Without looking up from the paragraph he was annotating, he reached across and nudged the second cup towards your side.

"You usually buy one before we start." You blinked.

"I... do."

"You were running late."

"So you just..."

"I was already there."

"...Bought mine too?" He finally looked up, expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses.

"It saves time." You stared at the cup for a second longer than necessary. It was the same order you'd been buying since the first week. Medium vanilla latte. One sugar. No whipped cream.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered it six times."

"You counted?"

"I noticed." There it was again.

That quiet way he answered every observation as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He never seemed aware that most people didn't remember how someone took their coffee after a handful of meetings, or which hand they wrote with, or that they always tucked loose strands of hair behind the same ear whenever they were concentrating. He simply noticed.

"You know," you said, peeling back the lid carefully, "if sociology doesn't work out, you'd make a terrifying detective."

"I've considered it." You laughed.

"I'm not joking."

"I know."

"...Wait." He returned his attention to the article without another word. You narrowed your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"I considered forensic psychology once."

"You can't just casually mention that and keep reading."

"I didn't think it was particularly interesting."

"It is to me."

"Hm."

"You really don't understand what people find interesting about you, do you?" His fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a brief moment, silence settled between you.

"I've never thought about it." The answer came so honestly that you didn't know how to respond.

—

The professor arrived ten minutes late to the afternoon tutorial carrying a stack of printed worksheets that looked considerably thicker than anyone appreciated. An audible sigh rippled through the classroom.

"Good afternoon." No one returned the enthusiasm. She smiled anyway.

"I've read through your interview transcripts." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"They're promising." There were a few relieved exhalations around the room.

"However..." Collective dread.

"...interviews only tell us what people believe happened." She placed the worksheets on the front desk.

"Human memory is remarkably unreliable." Wonwoo’s pen immediately clicked. You recognised that look. He agreed.

"So," the professor continued, "we're moving on to behavioural observation." Several students frowned.

"You'll spend the next two weeks observing your assigned partner." Someone near the back groaned dramatically. The professor ignored them.

"You are not trying to prove they're your soulmate." A few laughs broke out.

"You are observing unconscious patterns." She began writing on the whiteboard.

Walking pace. Eye contact. Speech rhythm. Personal space. Gesture mirroring. Listening behaviour.

"You may record anything you find relevant," she explained. "The important rule is this."

She underlined the next sentence.

Do not tell your partner what you're recording.

The room erupted into confused chatter.

"What?"

"That's so weird."

"They're going to overthink everything."

"Exactly," the professor replied. "Which is why I don't want you discussing your observations until the fortnight is over." She looked around the classroom.

"People reveal the most about themselves when they believe nothing important is being noticed."

—

The walk back to the library felt strangely different. Not because anything had changed. Because now you couldn't stop wondering whether it had.

Were you walking normally? Did you always swing your backpack from your right shoulder? Did you speak with your hands this much?

You caught yourself fixing your posture halfway across campus before realising exactly what you were doing. Beside you, Wonwoo seemed completely unaffected. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding it.

"This assignment is cruel," you muttered.

"It'll produce better data."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It probably will."

"You aren't even a little curious about what I'm writing down?"

"I'll find out eventually."

"...That's it?" He shrugged lightly.

"If I change my behaviour because I'm thinking about it, the observations become less useful."

"You've accepted this frighteningly quickly."

"It's interesting."

"You called interviewing strangers inefficient."

"It was."

"And spying on each other is interesting?"

"We're not spying."

"It feels like spying."

"It's structured observation."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm defining the methodology." You laughed under your breath.

"See?"

"What?"

"You've already started."

"I haven't."

"You've become more formal."

"I always speak like this."

"When you're trying to win an argument. I noticed."

He looked at you for a long second before the corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly.

"So did I." You frowned.

"So did you what?"

"I noticed."

"...You smiled before disagreeing."

You hadn't even realised.

—

That evening, your shared project folder gained two new files.

Behaviour Observation Log — Y/N

Behaviour Observation Log — Wonwoo

Password protected. You opened your own template first. At the top of the page sat a single instruction.

Record observations objectively. Avoid interpretation until analysis is complete.

You snorted softly.

"That's going to be impossible."

You had barely spent ten days working with Wonwoo, yet already every observation seemed to carry two versions. The objective one. And the one you couldn't quite explain.

Objective: He waits for elderly people to exit the lift before entering.

Subjective: He never seems aware he's doing it.

You sighed, deleting the second sentence before replacing it with something more academic. At least... you tried.

—

[CASE FILE 003 — Behavioural Observation Study]

Subjects: Pair 14

Observation Period: Weeks 3–5

Research Objective: To identify unconscious behavioural patterns that influence perceived interpersonal compatibility.

Reminder: Observation is not interpretation. Record what occurs. Explain why only after sufficient evidence has been collected.

—

The observation period began on a Monday. You hated it almost immediately. Not because it was difficult to write observations—if anything, there were too many things to write—but because the assignment had transformed every ordinary interaction into something strangely self-conscious. Every time you caught Wonwoo glancing in your direction, your immediate thought was no longer Is something wrong? but Did he just write that down? By Wednesday, you were convinced you had forgotten how to exist naturally.

"You've looked at me three times in the last minute."

"I wasn't counting."

"You definitely were."

"I wasn't."

"You paused before answering."

"I was thinking."

"Exactly." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"...From who?"

"You."

"I don't think I've actually said it."

"You implied it."

"You keep doing that."

"What?"

"Turning everything I say into evidence."

"It is evidence."

"It isn't."

"It could be." You let out an exaggerated sigh before dramatically opening your notebook.

"Observation number twenty-seven." He looked up.

"'Subject is deeply irritating.'"

"...That's not objective."

"I'm making an exception."

"It'll affect the validity of your findings."

"It'll improve my emotional wellbeing." Something that looked suspiciously like amusement crossed his face.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I disagree."

"You can't disagree with your own facial expression."

"I'm questioning your interpretation."

"You absolutely smiled."

"I don't have sufficient evidence." You stared at him for a long moment before laughing.

"You know, for someone who doesn't believe in soulmates, you're weirdly committed to making sure I never win an argument."

"I've accepted that I won't."

"...What?"

"I've accepted that you won't stop arguing."

"...That's not what you said."

"I know."

—

The campus café became another unspoken routine. Originally, it had simply been somewhere convenient between lectures. Now the barista greeted both of you before either of you reached the counter.

"The usual?" You nodded automatically, Wonwoo answered at almost exactly the same time.

"Yes." The barista smiled.

"I'll have them ready in a minute." You didn't notice anything unusual until you sat down.

"You ordered for me."

"You were looking for your student card."

"...I was."

"You usually spend about thirty seconds searching your bag." You blinked.

"You've timed that too?"

"No."

"You know that's somehow worse."

"I've noticed it happens."

"You make it sound completely normal."

"It is."

"No, normal people don't know how long someone spends looking for their wallet."

"They might."

"They absolutely don't." He took a slow sip of coffee before answering.

"I think people notice more than they realise."

"You definitely notice more than average."

"You've said that."

"And I keep being proven right." He didn't argue this time. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below, where students hurried between buildings carrying umbrellas against the light drizzle that had started sometime during your lecture. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think most people notice."

You looked at him.

"They just don't remember." There was something unexpectedly thoughtful about the way he said it. Not detached. Not analytical. Almost personal.

"What makes you remember?" His fingers paused around the paper cup.

"I don't know." He considered the question carefully before continuing.

"I think... once I've noticed something, it feels wrong to forget it." The sentence lingered in your mind long after the conversation had moved elsewhere.

—

Thursday's tutorial required each research pair to spend forty-five minutes silently observing one another while completing a collaborative puzzle. No discussion. No planning. No speaking. Only observation.

"This feels unethical," someone complained.

"It's educational," the professor replied.

"It's creepy."

"It's sociology."

"I'm changing majors." The professor laughed.

"No, you're not."

Sheets of coloured wooden blocks were distributed around the room, each pair receiving an identical puzzle that required recreating a geometric pattern using only non-verbal communication. You and Wonwoo exchanged a look.

"No talking?" you mouthed.

He nodded once. The timer began. Almost immediately, you reached for the wrong piece. Before your hand even touched it, Wonwoo gently slid the correct block towards you without looking up from the diagram.

You frowned. How had he—

You placed it into position. He rotated another piece exactly ninety degrees before setting it beside your hand. Again, correct. By the ten-minute mark, neither of you had spoken a single word. You barely needed to.

He seemed to understand what piece you were reaching for before you reached for it, quietly moving obstacles out of the way without interrupting your train of thought. When you hesitated over where a triangular block belonged, he tapped the corner of the diagram once before continuing with his own section. It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. It simply worked.

Across the room, other pairs whispered apologies after instinctively speaking, argued silently through exaggerated gestures, or accidentally reached for the same pieces at the same time. Your table remained almost entirely still. When the professor called time, she'd barely finished the sentence before stopping beside your desk.

"You finished?" You both nodded. She examined the completed puzzle. Perfect.

"Hm." She made a note on her clipboard.

"Interesting." As she walked away, you finally looked at Wonwoo.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"We didn't even talk."

"The puzzle didn't require talking."

"It definitely did."

"I don't think so."

"Everyone else talked."

"We didn't."

"You handed me the exact pieces every single time."

"You usually solve left to right."

"...I what?"

"You start from the outside corners."

"I've never noticed that."

"I have." You stared.

"When?"

"You've organised every interview transcript the same way."

"..."

"You also unpack your stationery in the same order."

"..."

"You always finish reading the introduction before looking at the headings."

"..." He stopped.

"...Was I not supposed to notice those?" For a second, all you could do was blink.

"No."

"I thought they were obvious."

"They are to you." Another pause settled between you before you laughed quietly, shaking your head.

"I don't think you realise how different your brain works."

"I've never had another one to compare it to." The answer was so genuine that it caught you completely off guard.

—

That evening, after returning home, you opened your observation log again. The cursor blinked expectantly. You read back through the objective notes you'd managed to record over the past four days.

Day Four Subject remembers every source cited during discussion without checking notes.

Day Five Subject notices environmental changes before verbal acknowledgement by others.

Day Five Subject consistently positions themselves on the outer side of the footpath when walking together.

You frowned. You hadn't noticed writing that last one.  When had that happened? You thought back. 

Leaving the library. Crossing the road after interviews. Walking between lecture buildings. Every single time, without ever mentioning it, Wonwoo had quietly shifted to whichever side was closest to passing bicycles, traffic or crowds, leaving you on the inside of the path. It wasn't dramatic enough to draw attention. If anything, it was the kind of habit you only recognised once you'd seen it repeated enough times.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed another line.

Day Six Subject performs considerate actions automatically, often without appearing aware of them.

You hesitated. Then deleted the word considerate. Too subjective. After another moment's thought, you rewrote it.

Subject changes behaviour in response to environmental conditions affecting others before changing his own.

Technically objective. Technically. You weren't entirely convinced.

— 

[Behaviour Observation Log — Extract]

Observer: Wonwoo

Day 4 Subject unconsciously smiles before disagreeing with someone.

Day 5 Subject says "interesting" when they are actually confused.

Day 5 Subject thanks bus drivers regardless of whether anyone else does.

Day 6 Subject slows walking pace when speaking about something important without appearing aware of it.

A line beneath the final observation has been crossed out, the original sentence is no longer legible. Only three rewritten words remain.

Worth remembering.

— 

The midpoint presentations arrived far sooner than either of you expected. It wasn't that the semester itself had moved particularly quickly. If anything, the weeks had been packed so densely with interviews, observation logs, literature reviews and tutorial discussions that every day felt longer than the last. Somewhere between the seventh transcript and the fifteenth journal article, however, the project had stopped feeling like a university assessment and quietly become part of your routine. You no longer wondered whether Wonwoo would be in the library after class. He always was.

Likewise, he had stopped asking whether you wanted coffee before starting work. At some point, the question had disappeared entirely, replaced by a second paper cup already sitting opposite him whenever you arrived a few minutes late. You weren't entirely sure when that had started. More strangely, neither of you had acknowledged it.

"You know," you said one afternoon, dropping your bag beside the chair opposite him, "normal people would probably think this is weird."

Wonwoo didn't look up from the spreadsheet he was editing.

"What part?"

"You buying my coffee."

"You always pay me back."

"That's not my point." He finished typing the sentence he'd been working on before finally closing the laptop halfway.

"What is your point?"

"My point is..." You paused, realising you hadn't actually thought this through. "Well..."

"You don't have one."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I think..." You tapped absentmindedly against the side of the coffee cup. "I think we've become suspiciously efficient." He considered that.

"We've spent approximately forty-seven hours working together."

"You counted?"

"I estimated."

"...That somehow isn't better."

"No." A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. You caught it anyway. There had been more of those lately. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice. Enough that you did.

—

The tutorial room buzzed louder than usual as each research pair prepared their midpoint presentations. Laptops opened, extension cords snaked across the floor, and conversations overlapped as students made frantic last-minute edits.

Your professor moved quietly between the rows, occasionally stopping to answer questions before reminding everyone, for what felt like the tenth time that morning, to keep their presentations under ten minutes.

"You look nervous." You glanced sideways. Wonwoo was organising printed handouts into perfectly aligned stacks.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've rearranged your slides three times."

"I was fixing formatting."

"You changed the font."

"It was inconsistent."

"It was one title."

"It was bothering me." You smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The perfectionism."

"I prefer consistency."

"I know." He looked at you for a second before speaking again.

"You've rewritten your opening sentence eleven times. I counted." You folded your arms.

"I hate that you're right."

"I usually am."

"You sounded far too pleased saying that."

"I wasn't."

"Liar." He looked down to hide another almost-smile.

—

The presentations themselves varied wildly. Some groups had already reached confident conclusions. One pair argued that soulmate beliefs were largely reinforced by media representation. Another claimed attachment styles explained every interview they'd conducted. Someone else presented an elaborate statistical model that attempted to predict relationship longevity based on personality inventories.

When your turn came, neither you nor Wonwoo rushed to the front. You walked up together, setting your notes on the lectern without speaking.

"Our research question," you began, "asks whether soulmates exist."

"At this stage," Wonwoo continued, "our findings remain inconclusive."

A few classmates exchanged amused looks. You noticed.

"We've interviewed twelve participants across varying demographics," you said, changing slides. "Our qualitative findings reveal strong personal belief in soulmate concepts, although definitions vary considerably."

"Existing literature," Wonwoo added, "does not currently provide empirical evidence supporting soulmates as an objectively measurable phenomenon." You nodded.

"However..." He glanced towards you.

"...the interviews suggest something different." You continued seamlessly.

"Participants consistently described long-term relationships using language centred around choice rather than inevitability." The presentation flowed more naturally than either of you expected. Neither of you needed prompting. You instinctively knew when the other had finished speaking, quietly continuing each explanation without interrupting or repeating information. By the final slide, you almost forgot everyone else was watching. Until question time. A student near the back raised their hand.

"If you've spent over a month researching together..."

They looked between you and Wonwoo.

"...have either of you actually changed your minds?" Silence. You opened your mouth first.

"I..." Nothing came out. Because the truthful answer wasn't simple anymore. Had you changed your mind? Not really. You still believed soulmates existed. But your understanding of them had shifted. You looked towards Wonwoo. He spoke first.

"Our arguments have become more complicated." The classroom waited.

"We disagree about the conclusion." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.

"But we've stopped disagreeing about the evidence." A thoughtful silence settled across the room. The professor smiled.

"That's one of the best answers I've heard all day."

—

After class, while packing away your laptop, you overheard two students speaking just loudly enough that they clearly weren't trying very hard to keep the conversation private.

"I honestly thought they were dating." You froze.

"Nah."

"They've got that weird old married couple thing."

"They literally finish each other's presentations."

"Maybe the soulmate project worked." Someone laughed.

"Imagine." You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo. He had stopped placing papers into his bag. Only for a second. Then, without saying anything, he finished packing his things and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"We should go." His voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

—

The walk to the library was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Simply lacking. Normally, one of you would comment on the presentation, complain about another journal article, or argue over interview methodology before reaching the main courtyard. Today, neither of you started a conversation. You tried twice.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

He nodded once. The silence returned. It stayed with you through the rest of the afternoon. Through organising references. Through editing transcripts. Through packing your bags. When you finally left the library, he offered the same polite goodbye he always did.

"See you Tuesday."

"Yeah." He hesitated almost imperceptibly.

"See you." And then he walked away.

—

It wasn't until later that evening that you realised something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Nothing had happened. No argument. No disagreement. No misunderstanding that you could clearly identify. And yet you found yourself opening the shared document twice before remembering he wasn't editing tonight.

You almost messaged him a journal article before remembering he'd probably already found it himself. You even caught yourself glancing towards the empty chair beside yours during dinner. You frowned. That was unusual.

Across town, Wonwoo was staring at the unfinished observation log on his laptop. The cursor blinked beneath today's date. He typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Eventually, he closed the document without saving. For the first time since the assignment had begun, he wasn't entirely certain how to describe what he'd observed.

—

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM]

Research Pair 14

Midpoint Progress Review

Completed

✓ Literature Review

✓ Behavioural Observation (Phase I)

✓ Participant Interviews

✓ Preliminary Presentation

Outstanding

□ Emotional Bias Assessment

□ Final Analysis

Professor's Margin Note:

Excellent collaboration. Be mindful that prolonged observation can influence participant objectivity. Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

Someone—neither you nor Wonwoo—has circled the final sentence twice.

The next chapter is where the misunderstanding quietly deepens, forcing both of you to question whether your growing closeness is helping the research—or making it impossible to stay objective. It's also where the assignment begins to stop feeling like an investigation into soulmates and starts becoming an investigation into each other.

—

There was a peculiar kind of silence that only existed between people who had grown accustomed to one another.

It wasn't uncomfortable. Nor was it empty. It was the sort of silence built over weeks of shared routines, where conversation became optional because neither person felt responsible for filling every quiet moment. You had never thought much about it before meeting Wonwoo. Silence, to you, had always been something to fix—a pause that invited another question, another story, another attempt to keep the conversation moving.

Now, sitting across from him in your usual corner of the library, you realised nearly twenty minutes had passed without either of you speaking.

The only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the turning of pages somewhere nearby, and the distant hum of rain against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Strangely, you hadn't noticed the time. Wonwoo was reviewing the coding categories for your interview transcripts, occasionally making neat annotations in the margins of the printed pages spread around him. You were rereading the behavioural observation logs, trying to identify recurring themes before beginning the final report.

Every so often, one of you would slide a document across the table. No explanation. The other would read it, nod once, and continue working. It had become almost effortless. The realisation should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled you. Because the professor's feedback from the midpoint presentation refused to leave your mind.

Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

You had laughed when you first read it. Now it seemed less like feedback and more like a warning.

"Can I ask you something?" Wonwoo looked up immediately.

"You already are." You rolled your eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He closed the notebook in front of him, giving you his full attention.

"What is it?" You hesitated longer than expected.

"Do you think..." The words felt strangely difficult.

"...we've become biased?" He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the question with the same care he gave every research problem.

"In what sense?"

"The assignment."

"Our conclusions?"

"No."

You shook your head.

"I mean..." You searched for the right wording.

"...do you think we've spent so much time observing each other that we've stopped being objective?" His expression remained thoughtful.

"I think..." Another pause.

"...that was probably inevitable." You stared.

"You're admitting that?"

"It would be difficult not to."

"You always argue objectivity."

"I still do."

"But?"

"But objectivity doesn't mean pretending bias doesn't exist." He folded his hands together on the table.

"It means recognising where it exists." You looked down at your own notes.

"So we're biased."

"Yes."

"...That's a problem."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether we're willing to acknowledge it." The answer lingered between you. It wasn't the answer you expected. Nor was it the one you wanted. Because admitting bias meant admitting something else.

That neither of you had remained detached observers. Somewhere along the way, the research had stopped being about strangers.

It had become about the two of you.

—

Your final task before writing the report was deceptively simple. Each research pair had to submit an individual reflective statement answering one question:

How has this project influenced your understanding of human relationships?

No word limit. No references required. Only honesty. You stared at the blank document for almost fifteen minutes.

Eventually, you began typing.

I entered this project believing soulmates were something people found.

You stopped. Deleted the sentence. Started again.

I don't think I believe in coincidence any less than I did twelve weeks ago.

Delete. Again. Nothing sounded right.

Across the table, Wonwoo had already begun writing.

His expression gave nothing away. You resisted every temptation to lean across and read his screen.

"You've already started."

"I have."

"How?"

"I know what I think."

"You always know what you think." He looked at you for a moment before answering quietly.

"Not always." The admission surprised you enough that you forgot your own frustration.

"You don't?" He shook his head.

"I just usually don't say anything until I do."

—

The deadline for the reflective statements was Friday evening. You submitted yours at 11:43 p.m. Wonwoo submitted his at 11:46.

Neither of you mentioned what you'd written. Neither asked. It felt oddly personal. Some thoughts belonged to the report.

Others, perhaps not.

—

Monday arrived with your final consultation before presentation week.

The professor skimmed through your draft silently, making only occasional notes in the margins.

When she finally looked up, she smiled.

"You've both done excellent work."

Relief settled quietly across your shoulders.

"Your analysis is thoughtful."

She tapped one particular paragraph.

"Especially this section."

You glanced down.

It was the conclusion the two of you had rewritten four separate times.

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to develop through repeated acts of mutual investment rather than a single defining event.

The professor nodded.

"I agree." Then she closed the report.

"There is only one thing I'd like you to think about." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"What is it?" She smiled knowingly.

"You've spent three months studying why people choose one another." A pause.

"I wonder..." She gathered the papers neatly into a pile.

"...whether either of you has considered that question outside the assignment."

Neither you nor Wonwoo answered. The professor didn't seem to expect one.

She simply handed back the report.

"I'll see you both next week."

—

The walk back across campus was unusually slow.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The afternoon sun had finally broken through after nearly a week of rain, leaving the pathways crowded with students reclaiming patches of grass between classes. Someone was playing music beneath the science building, while clubs recruited new members with handmade signs and bowls of wrapped lollies.

Life continued around you exactly as it always had.

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about the professor's question.

Eventually, Wonwoo broke the silence.

"I think she's wrong."

You looked at him.

"About what?"

"She's assuming the assignment changed us."

You frowned slightly.

"You don't think it did?"

He shook his head.

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...it only gave us enough time to notice."

For the first time since the semester began, you found yourself without an argument. Not because you disagreed. Because you thought he might be right.

—

[CASE FILE 014]

Research Status: Final Analysis Pending

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Current Findings

No empirical evidence conclusively demonstrates the existence of predetermined soulmates.

Participants consistently describe enduring relationships as products of repeated choice, trust, and shared experiences.

Extended observation significantly increases interpersonal understanding between research partners.

Researcher's Note: Variables initially considered external may have become internal. Further separation between observer and subject is no longer possible.

—

The final presentation was scheduled for nine o'clock on a Thursday morning.

Campus looked no different from any other day. Students hurried across the courtyard balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments, cyclists weaved between lecture buildings, and somewhere outside the student union someone was advertising a bake sale with far more enthusiasm than the audience deserved.

It felt strangely unfair.

For the past three months, this assignment had quietly reshaped your entire semester, and yet the rest of the university continued exactly as it always had, blissfully unaware that a forty-percent assessment somehow carried the weight of something much larger.

You arrived outside the sociology building fifteen minutes early. Wonwoo was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood beneath the awning reading over the printed copy of your presentation one final time, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other absentmindedly turned pages already memorised. He looked up almost immediately when he heard your footsteps.

"You beat me."

"I usually do."

"I was early."

"You were."

"So you've been here a while."

"Seven minutes."

"You timed it?"

"I looked at my watch."

You laughed softly.

"I don't know why I still ask."

"I don't either."

The conversation settled into a familiar quiet. Not because either of you had run out of things to say. Because neither of you felt pressured to fill every second.

Eventually, Wonwoo held out a paper cup.

"I got your coffee."

"You keep doing that."

"You keep forgetting breakfast."

"...I had toast."

"You had half."

You blinked.

"I finished the other half while walking."

"No."

"...How do you know that?"

"You always carry your keys in your left hand when you're eating."

"..."

"You've got jam on your sleeve."

You looked down. Sure enough—

A tiny smear of strawberry jam sat near your wrist.

You sighed dramatically.

"You really would've made a terrifying detective."

"I know."

"You admitted it."

"I've had time to think about it."

The corners of your mouth lifted.

"So have I."

—

The presentations passed one by one. Some groups argued that soulmate beliefs were entirely cultural.

Others concluded that compatibility could be explained through attachment theory, personality traits, or shared values.

One group confidently declared that love was nothing more than neurochemistry and evolutionary advantage.

Another insisted destiny existed because statistical improbability could not adequately explain meaningful coincidence.

You listened carefully. Three months ago, you would have known exactly which side you agreed with.

Now you weren't so certain. Or perhaps you were certain for entirely different reasons.

"Pair Fourteen."

The professor smiled.

"Whenever you're ready."

You and Wonwoo walked to the front together.

No discussion. No deciding who would speak first. By now, neither of you needed to.

The first slide appeared behind you.

Do Soulmates Exist?

You looked out across the room before beginning.

"When we started this project, we approached the question from opposing viewpoints."

Wonwoo continued naturally.

"One of us believed soulmate relationships could not be empirically demonstrated."

"And one of us believed they existed regardless of whether they could be measured."

He changed slides.

"Our original objective was to determine which perspective was better supported by evidence."

"It didn't happen."

A ripple of quiet laughter travelled through the room. You smiled.

"Instead..."

The next slide appeared.

Findings

"We discovered something neither of us expected."

You looked briefly towards Wonwoo before continuing.

"None of the couples we interviewed described love as something that simply happened."

"Regardless of whether they believed in fate," he added, "their relationships depended upon repeated choices."

"They described commitment."

"Consistency."

"Trust."

"Attention."

"Shared routines."

"Mutual understanding."

Neither of you had rehearsed the alternating rhythm.

It simply happened.

The presentation flowed almost conversationally now, each sentence picked up naturally by the other before the silence had time to settle.

"Our literature review found no empirical evidence proving predetermined soulmates."

"However," Wonwoo said, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

You looked at him, surprised. He noticed.

"I read your notes."

"You quoted me."

"It supported the argument."

You smiled before turning back towards the audience.

"Our conclusion is therefore not that soulmates definitively exist..."

"...nor that they definitively do not."

Another slide appeared.

Final Conclusion

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to emerge through repeated mutual investment, trust, and deliberate choice rather than a single predetermined moment.

Silence followed. Not awkward. Thoughtful. The professor nodded slowly.

"Questions?"

A hand rose almost immediately.

"So..."

The student grinned.

"Did either of you change your minds?"

You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo.

He looked back.

Neither answered immediately.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I still think people can become irreplaceable."

Wonwoo nodded almost imperceptibly.

"And I still don't think fate explains why."

The room waited.

"But..."

He adjusted his glasses.

"...I don't think that's the important part anymore."

The professor smiled.

"Why not?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because after interviewing dozens of people, we realised none of them stayed together because destiny did the work."

He glanced sideways.

"They stayed because they kept choosing each other."

No one spoke. The professor thanked you both before dismissing the class for a short break while she finalised grades.

Just like that, the assignment was over.

—

You found yourselves standing outside the building with nowhere particular to go. For the first time in months, there was no interview to schedule. No journal article to discuss. No observation log waiting to be completed.

The routine that had quietly built itself around the two of you had simply ended.

"We're done."

"We are."

"We don't have another meeting."

"No."

"...That's strange."

"It is."

Students drifted around you in small groups, already talking about upcoming exams and weekend plans. Someone from another tutorial waved goodbye.

Life continued. Again. Exactly as it always had.

"I suppose..." you began carefully, "...this is where we stop accidentally seeing each other four times a week."

Wonwoo frowned slightly.

"Why would we?"

You looked at him.

"The assignment's finished."

"I know."

"So..."

"So?"

"You don't have to keep buying me coffee."

"I wasn't buying it because of the assignment."

"...You weren't?"

"No."

You laughed quietly.

"I genuinely can't tell when you're joking."

"I'm not."

The words settled gently between you.

You realised then that they weren't really about coffee.

"Were you serious," you asked softly, "when you said the assignment didn't change us?"

"Yes."

"What did it do, then?"

He thought about it.

"I think..."

He looked out across the courtyard before answering.

"...it forced us to pay attention."

"To sociology?"

He smiled faintly.

"To each other."

Your heart stumbled. Just enough that you noticed it.

"I've spent months trying to prove or disprove soulmates," you admitted.

"And?"

"I don't know if I've reached an answer."

"You don't have to."

"No."

You looked down at the empty coffee cup still warming your hands.

"I suppose I haven't."

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

"Would you like dinner?"

You looked up.

"What?"

Wonwoo looked almost embarrassed by his own question.

"We usually work after class."

"We do."

"We're not working anymore."

"No."

"So..."

Another pause.

"I'd still like to spend time with you."

You couldn't help smiling.

"You know, that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

"I was."

"...Oh."

"I thought I was being reasonably clear."

"You were."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."

"How else was I supposed to say it?"

"I don't know."

"You've spent three months telling me communication matters."

"I have."

"So."

He met your eyes.

"I'm communicating."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you nodded.

"I'd like that."

Relief softened something in his expression so subtle that someone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

Together, you turned towards the path leading away from the sociology building.

There was no assignment waiting at the end of it.

No hypothesis left to test.

Only another choice.

This time, neither of you needed research to make it.

—

[CASE FILE 014 — CLOSED]

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Official Conclusion: Inconclusive.

Supplementary Findings: Participants consistently demonstrated that enduring relationships are sustained through repeated acts of trust, attention, and mutual choice. Extended observation unexpectedly altered the perspectives of both researchers.

Professor's Final Comment: You never proved soulmates. You did, however, provide compelling evidence that people can become indispensable to one another.

Status: CASE CLOSED.

—

@junplusone @spookykryptonitegardener @passionfruitenthusiast @imhereonlytoreadxoxo (i lowk forgor to tag u guys in the last 1/2 fics in the series, so theres that...)

[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Soulmates — Wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader synopsis: He doesn’t believe in fate. You do. So when you get paired together in a sociology class to prove or disprove soulmates, you’re determined to change his mind—or die academically trying. wc: 9.6k (im shook) genre: Slow burn, University AU, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Light Angst, Comedy, Slice of Life warnings: SOOOOO MUCH DIALOG IM SORRY, I had to compress the text a lil bc there were too many blocks so it might sound weird in some places, Brief Misunderstandings, Social Anxiety (in 1 part), Mild existential discussions about relationships and compatibility a/n: Happy (late) birthday to wonwoo!! Sorry this took so long, i miscalculated how long this would get. This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!

There was something strangely comforting about the first week of a new semester.

Maybe it was because everything still felt temporary enough to reinvent yourself if you wanted to. Lecture theatres filled with unfamiliar faces who smiled politely without expecting names, tutors who still believed everyone had completed the readings, and fresh notebooks whose untouched pages hadn't yet become victims of rushed handwriting and coffee stains. Every semester began with the same promise that this one would somehow be different, that assignments would be started early, lectures would be attended diligently, and perhaps this time your sleep schedule would survive beyond Week Three.

You believed it every single semester.

Whether that made you optimistic or hopelessly naïve was still up for debate.

The Sociology of Human Relationships was one of the electives you'd chosen almost impulsively, although you preferred calling it intuition whenever your friends questioned your decisions. The course outline had sounded interesting enough—attachment theory, interpersonal communication, social expectations—but what had caught your attention was a single sentence tucked away beneath the assessment schedule.

Major Research Project (40%) — Investigating the Concept of Soulmates.

You had smiled at the screen for far longer than necessary.

It wasn't because you expected university to confirm the existence of some invisible red string connecting strangers across cities or oceans, nor because you thought there was one singular person waiting somewhere with your name written into the universe. Your belief had never been that simplistic. Soulmates, at least to you, were never about destiny removing the need for choice.

If anything, they were about choice itself.

People met thousands throughout their lives. Friends came and went, lovers arrived and left, families grew complicated, and yet somehow, every now and then, two people chose one another so completely that the rest of the world became background noise. Whether that was destiny or simply extraordinary luck hardly mattered.

The feeling was real either way.

"Y/N!"

Your attention lifted from the printed course guide as someone dropped into the seat beside you with enough force to make the fold-out desk wobble. Mina grinned without a hint of apology, balancing an iced coffee in one hand while already scrolling through her timetable on her phone with the other.

"I swear," she whispered dramatically, "if this professor starts with an icebreaker, I'm transferring."

"You say that every semester."

"And one day I'll mean it."

The lecture theatre continued filling around you in waves of conversation, backpacks thumping onto the floor, chairs scraping against concrete, students greeting friends they hadn't seen over the break with exaggerated enthusiasm. Somewhere near the front, someone was already arguing about textbook prices, while further back a group was debating whether attendance was actually compulsory.

The room buzzed with that peculiar kind of organised chaos unique to universities, where everyone seemed simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.

At precisely nine o'clock, the chatter softened. The professor walked in carrying nothing except a tablet and a stack of manila folders.

No introductory slideshow. No welcoming speech. Just a quiet smile.

"I'll save everyone's time," she began. "Yes, attendance is recorded."

A collective groan echoed through the theatre. She nodded knowingly.

"I appreciate the honesty."

Even Mina laughed. The first twenty minutes passed exactly as expected. Assessment breakdowns, consultation hours, textbook recommendations no one intended to purchase until absolutely necessary. Pens moved lazily across notebooks while laptops clicked open around the room.

Then the professor reached for the folders.

"This," she said, holding one up between her fingers, "is the assignment students remember long after they've forgotten everything else from this course."

The room immediately became quieter.

"For the remainder of the semester, each of you will work with one randomly assigned partner."

Another groan, she ignored it.

"Your task is deceptively simple."

The projector behind her flickered to life.

DO SOULMATES EXIST?

Silence. Then scattered laughter.

"No," someone near the back called.

"I haven't even had breakfast," another complained.

The professor continued as though neither interruption had happened.

"You'll investigate the claim from a sociological perspective. You are expected to collect qualitative and quantitative evidence, conduct interviews, examine existing literature, perform behavioural observations, and construct an argument either supporting or rejecting the concept."

Your hand was already writing before she'd finished speaking. Interview couples. Different age groups. Longitudinal relationships? Cultural perspectives. You underlined the last one twice.

"This assignment is not about proving your own beliefs," the professor continued. "It's about learning whether your beliefs withstand scrutiny."

You liked that. Beside you, Mina looked significantly less enthusiastic.

"I wanted multiple choice."

"You chose sociology."

"I made mistakes."

The professor began distributing the folders down each row.

"Each folder contains your assigned partner."

Someone sighed dramatically enough to earn a laugh from the surrounding students.

"You don't get to choose," the professor added before anyone could ask. "Yes, they're random. No, I won't swap anyone. Half the purpose of this assignment is learning to work with perspectives different from your own."

The folders travelled slowly across the lecture theatre. One by one. Closer. Closer. Eventually one landed in front of you with a soft papery thud. Your name had already been printed neatly across the cover.

Below it—Research Pair: Group 14

You opened it. Your assigned partner's name sat beneath yours.

JEON WONWOO

You frowned thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar. Not personally, academically. Someone who answered questions during lectures with suspicious confidence. Someone tutors seemed to recognise. Someone you'd seen around campus more than once without ever speaking to. Mina leaned across immediately.

"Who'd you get?"

You turned the page towards her.

"Oh."

"What?"

She gave you a look that somehow managed to communicate both sympathy and amusement.

"Good luck."

"...That helpful?"

"I've got a friend in psychology who had a class with him last semester."

"And?"

"He argued with the lecturer."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"He won."

Before you could ask another question, the lecture theatre door opened. Five minutes late. A tall figure stepped quietly inside, carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder as though arriving after the lecture had begun didn't concern him in the slightest. There was no frantic apology, no awkward attempt to avoid drawing attention. He simply offered the professor a brief nod, received one in return, and scanned the room for an empty seat. You recognised him immediately from the photograph attached to the research folder.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He settled into one of the remaining seats a few rows ahead without speaking to anyone, pushing his glasses back into place before opening the folder that had been left on the desk for him.  You watched his eyes skim the first page. Pause. Then continue. Nothing about his expression changed. Not surprise. Not annoyance. Nothing. He simply closed the folder again.

The professor clapped her hands together gently.

"Now that everyone knows their partner, I'd like each pair to spend the remaining class introducing yourselves and discussing your preliminary position."

Chairs scraped backwards across the room almost instantly. Students stood, searching for unfamiliar names and uncertain faces.

"Group Four?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Who's Olivia?"

Mina squeezed your arm.

"Good luck."

"You've said that twice."

"Because I think you'll need it."

She disappeared into the growing crowd before you could respond. You stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, scanning the room until your eyes found him again. He had already found you. Not because he waved, not because he smiled, simply because he was looking directly at you with the quiet recognition of someone matching names to faces. He approached first. Up close, he seemed somehow taller than expected, though perhaps it was only because he carried himself with an unhurried confidence that made everyone else seem louder by comparison.

"Y/N?"

His voice was calm. Lower than you'd imagined.

"That's me."

He nodded once.

"Wonwoo."

"I figured."

A brief silence settled between you, not necessarily uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar. You offered a small smile anyway.

"I guess we're partners."

"It seems that way."

There was something almost amusing about how matter-of-fact he sounded, as though being assigned to work together ranked somewhere between receiving a library receipt and checking tomorrow's weather forecast. You gestured towards two empty seats near the side of the lecture theatre.

"We should probably start?"

He followed without objection. The assignment brief sat open between you, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten annotations that already looked wildly different. Your notes wandered into margins with arrows connecting ideas that hadn't yet fully formed. His remained perfectly organised, concise, almost clinical. You noticed he had already circled one sentence.

Construct an evidence-based conclusion.

"You've started already?"

"I was reading."

"You've highlighted one sentence."

"It seemed important." You couldn't help smiling.

"You seem like the type to colour-code your lecture notes."

"I do."

"I knew it." He looked almost confused by your satisfaction.

"You say that like it's unusual."

"It isn't. I just enjoy being right." Something very close to amusement crossed his face before disappearing again.

"So," you began, tapping the title page, "what's your opinion?" He didn't need time to think.

"Soulmates don't exist." The sentence landed with complete certainty. Not dismissively, not mockingly, simply factually. You blinked.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"No hesitation?"

"No." You leaned back in your chair.

"Interesting." He tilted his head slightly.

"You disagree."

"I do."

"I guessed."

"Was it the fact I highlighted interview ideas before the assignment had even been explained?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"You smiled when the professor introduced the topic." Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

"You noticed that?"

"You were sitting in front of me."

"So?"

"So I noticed." The simplicity of the answer somehow made it more convincing. You folded your arms loosely across the desk.

"I think soulmates exist."

"In what sense?"

"That depends." He waited. Not impatiently, just quietly.

"I don't think there's one perfect person pre-selected by the universe," you explained. "I think there are connections that feel statistically impossible. People who arrive in your life and alter its direction so completely that calling it coincidence almost feels inadequate." He considered your words for a moment before responding.

"People are good at assigning meaning to random events."

"And people are equally good at dismissing meaningful ones because they can't quantify them."

"Our brains search for patterns."

"Sometimes because patterns are there." He looked at you for another second.Then, unexpectedly, a small smile. Barely noticeable.

"Professor was right."

"About what?"

"This is going to take the entire semester." You laughed before you could help yourself. It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a particularly graceful one, but it escaped all the same, drawing a brief glance from the pair sitting nearby. Wonwoo looked almost surprised that he'd been the cause of it. Perhaps you were equally surprised.

Maybe this assignment wouldn't be quite as straightforward as you'd imagined. Or perhaps that was exactly what made it worth doing.

—

[CASE FILE 001 — Department of Sociology, Research Pair Registration]

Pair Number: 14

Student A: Jeon Wonwoo Preliminary Position: The concept of soulmates is a cultural construct that cannot be empirically supported.

Student B: Y/N Preliminary Position: Soulmates exist as meaningful interpersonal connections, regardless of whether they can be objectively measured.

Professor's Observation: Significant ideological contrast.Encourage both students to challenge assumptions rather than defend them.Productive disagreement often produces the strongest research.

—

"You've highlighted the entire article."

"I highlighted the important parts." Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop just long enough to give you a look somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation before returning to his own notes.

"You've highlighted eighty percent of the paper."

"The remaining twenty percent wasn't relevant."

"Then you didn't need the highlighter."

"It helped me read."

"I don't think that's what highlighting is for."

"It is for me." He paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as though debating whether correcting your study habits was worth the effort. Eventually, he decided it wasn't, and the faint shake of his head was so subtle that you almost missed it.

It had been just over a week since the first lecture. Long enough to settle into a routine. Every Tuesday after class, the two of you met in the same corner of the university library, occupying a table tucked beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus courtyard. The location had never been discussed. After the first meeting, you'd simply wandered towards the empty table, and Wonwoo had followed without comment. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the space had somehow become yours. The first ten minutes were always quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You unpacked your bag in exactly the same order every time—laptop first, notebook second, pencil case last—while Wonwoo plugged in his charger, aligned three different coloured sticky tabs along the edge of his notebook, and opened whichever academic journal he had downloaded that morning.

Somewhere nearby, the library printer whirred to life. Pages shuffled. Chairs scraped softly against carpet, and the occasional muffled laugh drifted from the collaborative study rooms before being silenced by a passing librarian.

It was strangely peaceful.

"So," you said eventually, breaking the silence. "How many papers have you read?"

"Twenty-three." You blinked.

"...Twenty-three?"

"They were relatively short."

"You read twenty-three sociology papers in a week?"

"I skimmed seven."

"Oh, well that makes it normal." He ignored the sarcasm.

"There isn't substantial empirical evidence supporting the soulmate hypothesis."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm stating a finding."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You wanted one to prove wrong." He looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

"I wanted evidence."

"You wanted a challenge."

"I have one." He gestured vaguely towards you. You tried very hard not to smile. Instead, you opened your own notebook, where the page labelled Possible Interview Subjects had become increasingly crowded over the past few days.

"We're supposed to start collecting qualitative data this week."

"I know."

"The professor wants a minimum of ten interviews."

"I know."

"You keep saying you know."

"Because I do." You leaned your chin into your palm.

"You're no fun."

"I've been told."

"Really?"

"No."

"...That was almost a joke."

"I don't joke."

"Liar."

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"I didn't intend to."

"Still counts." He sighed so quietly it almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

—

The sociology department had prepared interview consent forms, questionnaires, and recording equipment for every research pair, though the professor had insisted that the interviews themselves be arranged independently.

That was how the two of you found yourselves standing outside the weekend farmers' market early Saturday morning, clipboards tucked beneath your arms while people wandered past carrying reusable shopping bags and bouquets of flowers.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"This seems inefficient."

"It's perfect."

"There are too many variables."

"There are too many people."

"Exactly."

"That's the point." He looked unconvinced.

"You picked this location because..."

"There are families." He waited.

"Couples." Still waiting.

"Grandparents."

"...Continue."

"And everyone walks slower because they're buying vegetables." He stared at you.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting the vegetables."

"They're essential."

"To sociology?"

"To catching interview participants."

"...Right." You smiled innocently.

"Trust me." He didn't. That much was obvious. Still, he followed you towards the first elderly couple browsing homemade honey.

"Excuse me," you asked politely, "would you mind answering a few questions for a university sociology project?"

The couple exchanged a look before smiling warmly.

"We've got nowhere to be." You glanced sideways at Wonwoo.

"See?" He simply uncapped his pen.

—

The first interview lasted nearly twenty minutes. The couple had been married for forty-eight years. When you asked whether they believed they were soulmates, the husband laughed before his wife answered first.

"Oh, goodness, no." You blinked.

"No?" She smiled.

"I couldn't stand him when we first met."

"I still don't know why she married me," her husband admitted.

"You proposed six times."

"You counted?"

"I rejected five." Wonwoo wrote something down. You tried not to laugh.

"So..." you asked carefully, "when did you know?" The woman looked at her husband for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think there was a single moment." Her fingers reached absentmindedly for his hand.

"I think one day we realised we'd spent years choosing each other." Her husband nodded.

"Love isn't fate."

A pause.

"Staying is."

Silence settled over the table. The market continued bustling around you. Someone called out prices for strawberries. A child laughed somewhere behind you. Nearby wind chimes clinked softly against one another. You scribbled the quote into your notebook almost immediately. Beside you, Wonwoo didn't speak. You waited. Normally, he would've already pointed out retrospective bias or emotional reconstruction. Instead, he quietly underlined something in his notes. Only after thanking the couple and watching them disappear into the crowd did either of you speak again.

"...Well?" He closed the notebook.

"It was interesting."

"That's all?"

"It was."

"You don't have an argument?"

"Not immediately." You looked at him in surprise.

"I'll need to think about it." For some reason, that felt like a victory. Not because he'd agreed with you.  Because he hadn't dismissed the interview outright.

—

The afternoon passed in much the same way. An engaged couple who had met online through a video game. A divorced woman who insisted soulmates existed but timing mattered more. A university student who believed compatibility could be calculated using personality tests.  Each interview challenged one assumption only to reinforce another.

By the time the market began packing away stalls, your voice had become slightly hoarse. You dropped onto a nearby bench with a sigh.

"My social battery is gone." Wonwoo handed you a bottle of water.

"You forgot this." You frowned.

"When?"

"You've carried it since this morning."

"...I completely forgot."

"I noticed."

"You notice everything." He considered that.

"I notice patterns."

"You noticed I hadn't had water."

"You'd spoken continuously for nearly three hours."

"And?"

"You usually drink after about forty minutes." You stared.

"...You know that's a little creepy."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

A breeze stirred the trees lining the footpath. People continued filtering towards the train station, conversations fading into the distance. Without thinking, you reached into your backpack and pulled out two convenience store sandwiches you'd bought earlier that morning.

"I completely forgot these too."

"You forget a lot."

"I remember important things."

"You forgot lunch."

"I remembered eventually." You held one sandwich towards him.

"Here." He hesitated.

"You only bought two."

"I know."

"You'll be hungry."

"I'll survive." Another pause. Eventually, he accepted it.

"...Thank you."

"You said that like you weren't expecting me to share."

"I wasn't."

"Why not?"

"You've known me for eight days."

"So?"

"So..." He looked faintly puzzled by the question. "People don't usually do that." You shrugged.

"I had two." The explanation seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Wonwoo looked down at the unopened sandwich in his hands before quietly peeling back the wrapper.

"You know," you said after a while, "I thought you'd be colder." He glanced sideways.

"I've barely spoken."

"Exactly."

"And yet?"

"And yet you keep noticing little things." He frowned slightly.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"It has nothing to do with being nice."

"I didn't say nice."

"You implied it."

"I implied observant." Silence.

"...You think I'm observant?"

"I think you pretend not to care." He looked away first.

"You've reached that conclusion after eight days?"

"Maybe."

"...Your sample size is too small."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"Turning everything into research."

"It is research."

"I know." You smiled despite yourself.

"But you're still doing it." He didn't deny it.

—

Later that evening, after the interviews had been transcribed and uploaded to the shared folder, your phone buzzed with a new notification. Wonwoo uploaded a file. Curious, you opened it. 

Instead of another journal article, it was the transcript from the elderly couple. One sentence had been highlighted.

Love isn't fate. Staying is.

Beneath it, in the comments section, was a single line.

Potential distinction between destiny and commitment. Worth exploring further.

You smiled at the screen. Without thinking too much about it, you replied beneath his comment.

Maybe soulmates aren't found. Maybe they're built.

Three minutes later, a new notification appeared. Wonwoo replied. 

Interesting hypothesis.

It was only two words. But somehow, for the first time since meeting him, it felt less like the beginning of an argument and more like the beginning of a conversation.

—

[Interview Transcript — Couple #01]

Question: Do you believe you were soulmates?

Response (Wife): No. Not when we met.

Response (Husband): We became them.

Handwritten annotation (Y/N): Maybe soulmates aren't discovered. Maybe they're something people create together over time.

Comment added later (J. Wonwoo): Interesting hypothesis. Investigate whether this idea appears in attachment theory literature.

—

By the third week of the semester, the library had become less of a meeting place and more of a habit.

Neither of you remembered making the decision to continue studying there after every lecture. It simply happened. Tuesdays were reserved for sorting interview transcripts, Thursdays for reading journal articles, and Saturdays, more often than not, ended with another round of field interviews somewhere around the city. Somewhere between colour-coded folders, shared Google Drive documents, and arguments over citation formatting, the line separating obligation from routine had quietly disappeared. You were beginning to suspect Wonwoo noticed it too.

He was already sitting at your usual table when you arrived that Thursday afternoon, though he hadn't messaged to say he'd gotten there early. His laptop was open, half a dozen journal articles tiled neatly across the screen, while an untouched cup of coffee rested beside his elbow. Judging by the faint curl of steam that still rose from the lid, he'd only been there a few minutes.

"You ordered coffee before I got here?" you asked, setting your backpack down with a muffled thud.

"I ordered mine." You looked around the table.

"There are two." Without looking up from the paragraph he was annotating, he reached across and nudged the second cup towards your side.

"You usually buy one before we start." You blinked.

"I... do."

"You were running late."

"So you just..."

"I was already there."

"...Bought mine too?" He finally looked up, expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses.

"It saves time." You stared at the cup for a second longer than necessary. It was the same order you'd been buying since the first week. Medium vanilla latte. One sugar. No whipped cream.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered it six times."

"You counted?"

"I noticed." There it was again.

That quiet way he answered every observation as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He never seemed aware that most people didn't remember how someone took their coffee after a handful of meetings, or which hand they wrote with, or that they always tucked loose strands of hair behind the same ear whenever they were concentrating. He simply noticed.

"You know," you said, peeling back the lid carefully, "if sociology doesn't work out, you'd make a terrifying detective."

"I've considered it." You laughed.

"I'm not joking."

"I know."

"...Wait." He returned his attention to the article without another word. You narrowed your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"I considered forensic psychology once."

"You can't just casually mention that and keep reading."

"I didn't think it was particularly interesting."

"It is to me."

"Hm."

"You really don't understand what people find interesting about you, do you?" His fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a brief moment, silence settled between you.

"I've never thought about it." The answer came so honestly that you didn't know how to respond.

—

The professor arrived ten minutes late to the afternoon tutorial carrying a stack of printed worksheets that looked considerably thicker than anyone appreciated. An audible sigh rippled through the classroom.

"Good afternoon." No one returned the enthusiasm. She smiled anyway.

"I've read through your interview transcripts." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"They're promising." There were a few relieved exhalations around the room.

"However..." Collective dread.

"...interviews only tell us what people believe happened." She placed the worksheets on the front desk.

"Human memory is remarkably unreliable." Wonwoo’s pen immediately clicked. You recognised that look. He agreed.

"So," the professor continued, "we're moving on to behavioural observation." Several students frowned.

"You'll spend the next two weeks observing your assigned partner." Someone near the back groaned dramatically. The professor ignored them.

"You are not trying to prove they're your soulmate." A few laughs broke out.

"You are observing unconscious patterns." She began writing on the whiteboard.

Walking pace. Eye contact. Speech rhythm. Personal space. Gesture mirroring. Listening behaviour.

"You may record anything you find relevant," she explained. "The important rule is this."

She underlined the next sentence.

Do not tell your partner what you're recording.

The room erupted into confused chatter.

"What?"

"That's so weird."

"They're going to overthink everything."

"Exactly," the professor replied. "Which is why I don't want you discussing your observations until the fortnight is over." She looked around the classroom.

"People reveal the most about themselves when they believe nothing important is being noticed."

—

The walk back to the library felt strangely different. Not because anything had changed. Because now you couldn't stop wondering whether it had.

Were you walking normally? Did you always swing your backpack from your right shoulder? Did you speak with your hands this much?

You caught yourself fixing your posture halfway across campus before realising exactly what you were doing. Beside you, Wonwoo seemed completely unaffected. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding it.

"This assignment is cruel," you muttered.

"It'll produce better data."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It probably will."

"You aren't even a little curious about what I'm writing down?"

"I'll find out eventually."

"...That's it?" He shrugged lightly.

"If I change my behaviour because I'm thinking about it, the observations become less useful."

"You've accepted this frighteningly quickly."

"It's interesting."

"You called interviewing strangers inefficient."

"It was."

"And spying on each other is interesting?"

"We're not spying."

"It feels like spying."

"It's structured observation."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm defining the methodology." You laughed under your breath.

"See?"

"What?"

"You've already started."

"I haven't."

"You've become more formal."

"I always speak like this."

"When you're trying to win an argument. I noticed."

He looked at you for a long second before the corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly.

"So did I." You frowned.

"So did you what?"

"I noticed."

"...You smiled before disagreeing."

You hadn't even realised.

—

That evening, your shared project folder gained two new files.

Behaviour Observation Log — Y/N

Behaviour Observation Log — Wonwoo

Password protected. You opened your own template first. At the top of the page sat a single instruction.

Record observations objectively. Avoid interpretation until analysis is complete.

You snorted softly.

"That's going to be impossible."

You had barely spent ten days working with Wonwoo, yet already every observation seemed to carry two versions. The objective one. And the one you couldn't quite explain.

Objective: He waits for elderly people to exit the lift before entering.

Subjective: He never seems aware he's doing it.

You sighed, deleting the second sentence before replacing it with something more academic. At least... you tried.

—

[CASE FILE 003 — Behavioural Observation Study]

Subjects: Pair 14

Observation Period: Weeks 3–5

Research Objective: To identify unconscious behavioural patterns that influence perceived interpersonal compatibility.

Reminder: Observation is not interpretation. Record what occurs. Explain why only after sufficient evidence has been collected.

—

The observation period began on a Monday. You hated it almost immediately. Not because it was difficult to write observations—if anything, there were too many things to write—but because the assignment had transformed every ordinary interaction into something strangely self-conscious. Every time you caught Wonwoo glancing in your direction, your immediate thought was no longer Is something wrong? but Did he just write that down? By Wednesday, you were convinced you had forgotten how to exist naturally.

"You've looked at me three times in the last minute."

"I wasn't counting."

"You definitely were."

"I wasn't."

"You paused before answering."

"I was thinking."

"Exactly." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"...From who?"

"You."

"I don't think I've actually said it."

"You implied it."

"You keep doing that."

"What?"

"Turning everything I say into evidence."

"It is evidence."

"It isn't."

"It could be." You let out an exaggerated sigh before dramatically opening your notebook.

"Observation number twenty-seven." He looked up.

"'Subject is deeply irritating.'"

"...That's not objective."

"I'm making an exception."

"It'll affect the validity of your findings."

"It'll improve my emotional wellbeing." Something that looked suspiciously like amusement crossed his face.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I disagree."

"You can't disagree with your own facial expression."

"I'm questioning your interpretation."

"You absolutely smiled."

"I don't have sufficient evidence." You stared at him for a long moment before laughing.

"You know, for someone who doesn't believe in soulmates, you're weirdly committed to making sure I never win an argument."

"I've accepted that I won't."

"...What?"

"I've accepted that you won't stop arguing."

"...That's not what you said."

"I know."

—

The campus café became another unspoken routine. Originally, it had simply been somewhere convenient between lectures. Now the barista greeted both of you before either of you reached the counter.

"The usual?" You nodded automatically, Wonwoo answered at almost exactly the same time.

"Yes." The barista smiled.

"I'll have them ready in a minute." You didn't notice anything unusual until you sat down.

"You ordered for me."

"You were looking for your student card."

"...I was."

"You usually spend about thirty seconds searching your bag." You blinked.

"You've timed that too?"

"No."

"You know that's somehow worse."

"I've noticed it happens."

"You make it sound completely normal."

"It is."

"No, normal people don't know how long someone spends looking for their wallet."

"They might."

"They absolutely don't." He took a slow sip of coffee before answering.

"I think people notice more than they realise."

"You definitely notice more than average."

"You've said that."

"And I keep being proven right." He didn't argue this time. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below, where students hurried between buildings carrying umbrellas against the light drizzle that had started sometime during your lecture. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think most people notice."

You looked at him.

"They just don't remember." There was something unexpectedly thoughtful about the way he said it. Not detached. Not analytical. Almost personal.

"What makes you remember?" His fingers paused around the paper cup.

"I don't know." He considered the question carefully before continuing.

"I think... once I've noticed something, it feels wrong to forget it." The sentence lingered in your mind long after the conversation had moved elsewhere.

—

Thursday's tutorial required each research pair to spend forty-five minutes silently observing one another while completing a collaborative puzzle. No discussion. No planning. No speaking. Only observation.

"This feels unethical," someone complained.

"It's educational," the professor replied.

"It's creepy."

"It's sociology."

"I'm changing majors." The professor laughed.

"No, you're not."

Sheets of coloured wooden blocks were distributed around the room, each pair receiving an identical puzzle that required recreating a geometric pattern using only non-verbal communication. You and Wonwoo exchanged a look.

"No talking?" you mouthed.

He nodded once. The timer began. Almost immediately, you reached for the wrong piece. Before your hand even touched it, Wonwoo gently slid the correct block towards you without looking up from the diagram.

You frowned. How had he—

You placed it into position. He rotated another piece exactly ninety degrees before setting it beside your hand. Again, correct. By the ten-minute mark, neither of you had spoken a single word. You barely needed to.

He seemed to understand what piece you were reaching for before you reached for it, quietly moving obstacles out of the way without interrupting your train of thought. When you hesitated over where a triangular block belonged, he tapped the corner of the diagram once before continuing with his own section. It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. It simply worked.

Across the room, other pairs whispered apologies after instinctively speaking, argued silently through exaggerated gestures, or accidentally reached for the same pieces at the same time. Your table remained almost entirely still. When the professor called time, she'd barely finished the sentence before stopping beside your desk.

"You finished?" You both nodded. She examined the completed puzzle. Perfect.

"Hm." She made a note on her clipboard.

"Interesting." As she walked away, you finally looked at Wonwoo.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"We didn't even talk."

"The puzzle didn't require talking."

"It definitely did."

"I don't think so."

"Everyone else talked."

"We didn't."

"You handed me the exact pieces every single time."

"You usually solve left to right."

"...I what?"

"You start from the outside corners."

"I've never noticed that."

"I have." You stared.

"When?"

"You've organised every interview transcript the same way."

"..."

"You also unpack your stationery in the same order."

"..."

"You always finish reading the introduction before looking at the headings."

"..." He stopped.

"...Was I not supposed to notice those?" For a second, all you could do was blink.

"No."

"I thought they were obvious."

"They are to you." Another pause settled between you before you laughed quietly, shaking your head.

"I don't think you realise how different your brain works."

"I've never had another one to compare it to." The answer was so genuine that it caught you completely off guard.

—

That evening, after returning home, you opened your observation log again. The cursor blinked expectantly. You read back through the objective notes you'd managed to record over the past four days.

Day Four Subject remembers every source cited during discussion without checking notes.

Day Five Subject notices environmental changes before verbal acknowledgement by others.

Day Five Subject consistently positions themselves on the outer side of the footpath when walking together.

You frowned. You hadn't noticed writing that last one.  When had that happened? You thought back. 

Leaving the library. Crossing the road after interviews. Walking between lecture buildings. Every single time, without ever mentioning it, Wonwoo had quietly shifted to whichever side was closest to passing bicycles, traffic or crowds, leaving you on the inside of the path. It wasn't dramatic enough to draw attention. If anything, it was the kind of habit you only recognised once you'd seen it repeated enough times.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed another line.

Day Six Subject performs considerate actions automatically, often without appearing aware of them.

You hesitated. Then deleted the word considerate. Too subjective. After another moment's thought, you rewrote it.

Subject changes behaviour in response to environmental conditions affecting others before changing his own.

Technically objective. Technically. You weren't entirely convinced.

— 

[Behaviour Observation Log — Extract]

Observer: Wonwoo

Day 4 Subject unconsciously smiles before disagreeing with someone.

Day 5 Subject says "interesting" when they are actually confused.

Day 5 Subject thanks bus drivers regardless of whether anyone else does.

Day 6 Subject slows walking pace when speaking about something important without appearing aware of it.

A line beneath the final observation has been crossed out, the original sentence is no longer legible. Only three rewritten words remain.

Worth remembering.

— 

The midpoint presentations arrived far sooner than either of you expected. It wasn't that the semester itself had moved particularly quickly. If anything, the weeks had been packed so densely with interviews, observation logs, literature reviews and tutorial discussions that every day felt longer than the last. Somewhere between the seventh transcript and the fifteenth journal article, however, the project had stopped feeling like a university assessment and quietly become part of your routine. You no longer wondered whether Wonwoo would be in the library after class. He always was.

Likewise, he had stopped asking whether you wanted coffee before starting work. At some point, the question had disappeared entirely, replaced by a second paper cup already sitting opposite him whenever you arrived a few minutes late. You weren't entirely sure when that had started. More strangely, neither of you had acknowledged it.

"You know," you said one afternoon, dropping your bag beside the chair opposite him, "normal people would probably think this is weird."

Wonwoo didn't look up from the spreadsheet he was editing.

"What part?"

"You buying my coffee."

"You always pay me back."

"That's not my point." He finished typing the sentence he'd been working on before finally closing the laptop halfway.

"What is your point?"

"My point is..." You paused, realising you hadn't actually thought this through. "Well..."

"You don't have one."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I think..." You tapped absentmindedly against the side of the coffee cup. "I think we've become suspiciously efficient." He considered that.

"We've spent approximately forty-seven hours working together."

"You counted?"

"I estimated."

"...That somehow isn't better."

"No." A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. You caught it anyway. There had been more of those lately. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice. Enough that you did.

—

The tutorial room buzzed louder than usual as each research pair prepared their midpoint presentations. Laptops opened, extension cords snaked across the floor, and conversations overlapped as students made frantic last-minute edits.

Your professor moved quietly between the rows, occasionally stopping to answer questions before reminding everyone, for what felt like the tenth time that morning, to keep their presentations under ten minutes.

"You look nervous." You glanced sideways. Wonwoo was organising printed handouts into perfectly aligned stacks.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've rearranged your slides three times."

"I was fixing formatting."

"You changed the font."

"It was inconsistent."

"It was one title."

"It was bothering me." You smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The perfectionism."

"I prefer consistency."

"I know." He looked at you for a second before speaking again.

"You've rewritten your opening sentence eleven times. I counted." You folded your arms.

"I hate that you're right."

"I usually am."

"You sounded far too pleased saying that."

"I wasn't."

"Liar." He looked down to hide another almost-smile.

—

The presentations themselves varied wildly. Some groups had already reached confident conclusions. One pair argued that soulmate beliefs were largely reinforced by media representation. Another claimed attachment styles explained every interview they'd conducted. Someone else presented an elaborate statistical model that attempted to predict relationship longevity based on personality inventories.

When your turn came, neither you nor Wonwoo rushed to the front. You walked up together, setting your notes on the lectern without speaking.

"Our research question," you began, "asks whether soulmates exist."

"At this stage," Wonwoo continued, "our findings remain inconclusive."

A few classmates exchanged amused looks. You noticed.

"We've interviewed twelve participants across varying demographics," you said, changing slides. "Our qualitative findings reveal strong personal belief in soulmate concepts, although definitions vary considerably."

"Existing literature," Wonwoo added, "does not currently provide empirical evidence supporting soulmates as an objectively measurable phenomenon." You nodded.

"However..." He glanced towards you.

"...the interviews suggest something different." You continued seamlessly.

"Participants consistently described long-term relationships using language centred around choice rather than inevitability." The presentation flowed more naturally than either of you expected. Neither of you needed prompting. You instinctively knew when the other had finished speaking, quietly continuing each explanation without interrupting or repeating information. By the final slide, you almost forgot everyone else was watching. Until question time. A student near the back raised their hand.

"If you've spent over a month researching together..."

They looked between you and Wonwoo.

"...have either of you actually changed your minds?" Silence. You opened your mouth first.

"I..." Nothing came out. Because the truthful answer wasn't simple anymore. Had you changed your mind? Not really. You still believed soulmates existed. But your understanding of them had shifted. You looked towards Wonwoo. He spoke first.

"Our arguments have become more complicated." The classroom waited.

"We disagree about the conclusion." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.

"But we've stopped disagreeing about the evidence." A thoughtful silence settled across the room. The professor smiled.

"That's one of the best answers I've heard all day."

—

After class, while packing away your laptop, you overheard two students speaking just loudly enough that they clearly weren't trying very hard to keep the conversation private.

"I honestly thought they were dating." You froze.

"Nah."

"They've got that weird old married couple thing."

"They literally finish each other's presentations."

"Maybe the soulmate project worked." Someone laughed.

"Imagine." You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo. He had stopped placing papers into his bag. Only for a second. Then, without saying anything, he finished packing his things and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"We should go." His voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

—

The walk to the library was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Simply lacking. Normally, one of you would comment on the presentation, complain about another journal article, or argue over interview methodology before reaching the main courtyard. Today, neither of you started a conversation. You tried twice.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

He nodded once. The silence returned. It stayed with you through the rest of the afternoon. Through organising references. Through editing transcripts. Through packing your bags. When you finally left the library, he offered the same polite goodbye he always did.

"See you Tuesday."

"Yeah." He hesitated almost imperceptibly.

"See you." And then he walked away.

—

It wasn't until later that evening that you realised something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Nothing had happened. No argument. No disagreement. No misunderstanding that you could clearly identify. And yet you found yourself opening the shared document twice before remembering he wasn't editing tonight.

You almost messaged him a journal article before remembering he'd probably already found it himself. You even caught yourself glancing towards the empty chair beside yours during dinner. You frowned. That was unusual.

Across town, Wonwoo was staring at the unfinished observation log on his laptop. The cursor blinked beneath today's date. He typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Eventually, he closed the document without saving. For the first time since the assignment had begun, he wasn't entirely certain how to describe what he'd observed.

—

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM]

Research Pair 14

Midpoint Progress Review

Completed

✓ Literature Review

✓ Behavioural Observation (Phase I)

✓ Participant Interviews

✓ Preliminary Presentation

Outstanding

□ Emotional Bias Assessment

□ Final Analysis

Professor's Margin Note:

Excellent collaboration. Be mindful that prolonged observation can influence participant objectivity. Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

Someone—neither you nor Wonwoo—has circled the final sentence twice.

The next chapter is where the misunderstanding quietly deepens, forcing both of you to question whether your growing closeness is helping the research—or making it impossible to stay objective. It's also where the assignment begins to stop feeling like an investigation into soulmates and starts becoming an investigation into each other.

—

There was a peculiar kind of silence that only existed between people who had grown accustomed to one another.

It wasn't uncomfortable. Nor was it empty. It was the sort of silence built over weeks of shared routines, where conversation became optional because neither person felt responsible for filling every quiet moment. You had never thought much about it before meeting Wonwoo. Silence, to you, had always been something to fix—a pause that invited another question, another story, another attempt to keep the conversation moving.

Now, sitting across from him in your usual corner of the library, you realised nearly twenty minutes had passed without either of you speaking.

The only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the turning of pages somewhere nearby, and the distant hum of rain against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Strangely, you hadn't noticed the time. Wonwoo was reviewing the coding categories for your interview transcripts, occasionally making neat annotations in the margins of the printed pages spread around him. You were rereading the behavioural observation logs, trying to identify recurring themes before beginning the final report.

Every so often, one of you would slide a document across the table. No explanation. The other would read it, nod once, and continue working. It had become almost effortless. The realisation should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled you. Because the professor's feedback from the midpoint presentation refused to leave your mind.

Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

You had laughed when you first read it. Now it seemed less like feedback and more like a warning.

"Can I ask you something?" Wonwoo looked up immediately.

"You already are." You rolled your eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He closed the notebook in front of him, giving you his full attention.

"What is it?" You hesitated longer than expected.

"Do you think..." The words felt strangely difficult.

"...we've become biased?" He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the question with the same care he gave every research problem.

"In what sense?"

"The assignment."

"Our conclusions?"

"No."

You shook your head.

"I mean..." You searched for the right wording.

"...do you think we've spent so much time observing each other that we've stopped being objective?" His expression remained thoughtful.

"I think..." Another pause.

"...that was probably inevitable." You stared.

"You're admitting that?"

"It would be difficult not to."

"You always argue objectivity."

"I still do."

"But?"

"But objectivity doesn't mean pretending bias doesn't exist." He folded his hands together on the table.

"It means recognising where it exists." You looked down at your own notes.

"So we're biased."

"Yes."

"...That's a problem."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether we're willing to acknowledge it." The answer lingered between you. It wasn't the answer you expected. Nor was it the one you wanted. Because admitting bias meant admitting something else.

That neither of you had remained detached observers. Somewhere along the way, the research had stopped being about strangers.

It had become about the two of you.

—

Your final task before writing the report was deceptively simple. Each research pair had to submit an individual reflective statement answering one question:

How has this project influenced your understanding of human relationships?

No word limit. No references required. Only honesty. You stared at the blank document for almost fifteen minutes.

Eventually, you began typing.

I entered this project believing soulmates were something people found.

You stopped. Deleted the sentence. Started again.

I don't think I believe in coincidence any less than I did twelve weeks ago.

Delete. Again. Nothing sounded right.

Across the table, Wonwoo had already begun writing.

His expression gave nothing away. You resisted every temptation to lean across and read his screen.

"You've already started."

"I have."

"How?"

"I know what I think."

"You always know what you think." He looked at you for a moment before answering quietly.

"Not always." The admission surprised you enough that you forgot your own frustration.

"You don't?" He shook his head.

"I just usually don't say anything until I do."

—

The deadline for the reflective statements was Friday evening. You submitted yours at 11:43 p.m. Wonwoo submitted his at 11:46.

Neither of you mentioned what you'd written. Neither asked. It felt oddly personal. Some thoughts belonged to the report.

Others, perhaps not.

—

Monday arrived with your final consultation before presentation week.

The professor skimmed through your draft silently, making only occasional notes in the margins.

When she finally looked up, she smiled.

"You've both done excellent work."

Relief settled quietly across your shoulders.

"Your analysis is thoughtful."

She tapped one particular paragraph.

"Especially this section."

You glanced down.

It was the conclusion the two of you had rewritten four separate times.

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to develop through repeated acts of mutual investment rather than a single defining event.

The professor nodded.

"I agree." Then she closed the report.

"There is only one thing I'd like you to think about." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"What is it?" She smiled knowingly.

"You've spent three months studying why people choose one another." A pause.

"I wonder..." She gathered the papers neatly into a pile.

"...whether either of you has considered that question outside the assignment."

Neither you nor Wonwoo answered. The professor didn't seem to expect one.

She simply handed back the report.

"I'll see you both next week."

—

The walk back across campus was unusually slow.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The afternoon sun had finally broken through after nearly a week of rain, leaving the pathways crowded with students reclaiming patches of grass between classes. Someone was playing music beneath the science building, while clubs recruited new members with handmade signs and bowls of wrapped lollies.

Life continued around you exactly as it always had.

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about the professor's question.

Eventually, Wonwoo broke the silence.

"I think she's wrong."

You looked at him.

"About what?"

"She's assuming the assignment changed us."

You frowned slightly.

"You don't think it did?"

He shook his head.

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...it only gave us enough time to notice."

For the first time since the semester began, you found yourself without an argument. Not because you disagreed. Because you thought he might be right.

—

[CASE FILE 014]

Research Status: Final Analysis Pending

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Current Findings

No empirical evidence conclusively demonstrates the existence of predetermined soulmates.

Participants consistently describe enduring relationships as products of repeated choice, trust, and shared experiences.

Extended observation significantly increases interpersonal understanding between research partners.

Researcher's Note: Variables initially considered external may have become internal. Further separation between observer and subject is no longer possible.

—

The final presentation was scheduled for nine o'clock on a Thursday morning.

Campus looked no different from any other day. Students hurried across the courtyard balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments, cyclists weaved between lecture buildings, and somewhere outside the student union someone was advertising a bake sale with far more enthusiasm than the audience deserved.

It felt strangely unfair.

For the past three months, this assignment had quietly reshaped your entire semester, and yet the rest of the university continued exactly as it always had, blissfully unaware that a forty-percent assessment somehow carried the weight of something much larger.

You arrived outside the sociology building fifteen minutes early. Wonwoo was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood beneath the awning reading over the printed copy of your presentation one final time, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other absentmindedly turned pages already memorised. He looked up almost immediately when he heard your footsteps.

"You beat me."

"I usually do."

"I was early."

"You were."

"So you've been here a while."

"Seven minutes."

"You timed it?"

"I looked at my watch."

You laughed softly.

"I don't know why I still ask."

"I don't either."

The conversation settled into a familiar quiet. Not because either of you had run out of things to say. Because neither of you felt pressured to fill every second.

Eventually, Wonwoo held out a paper cup.

"I got your coffee."

"You keep doing that."

"You keep forgetting breakfast."

"...I had toast."

"You had half."

You blinked.

"I finished the other half while walking."

"No."

"...How do you know that?"

"You always carry your keys in your left hand when you're eating."

"..."

"You've got jam on your sleeve."

You looked down. Sure enough—

A tiny smear of strawberry jam sat near your wrist.

You sighed dramatically.

"You really would've made a terrifying detective."

"I know."

"You admitted it."

"I've had time to think about it."

The corners of your mouth lifted.

"So have I."

—

The presentations passed one by one. Some groups argued that soulmate beliefs were entirely cultural.

Others concluded that compatibility could be explained through attachment theory, personality traits, or shared values.

One group confidently declared that love was nothing more than neurochemistry and evolutionary advantage.

Another insisted destiny existed because statistical improbability could not adequately explain meaningful coincidence.

You listened carefully. Three months ago, you would have known exactly which side you agreed with.

Now you weren't so certain. Or perhaps you were certain for entirely different reasons.

"Pair Fourteen."

The professor smiled.

"Whenever you're ready."

You and Wonwoo walked to the front together.

No discussion. No deciding who would speak first. By now, neither of you needed to.

The first slide appeared behind you.

Do Soulmates Exist?

You looked out across the room before beginning.

"When we started this project, we approached the question from opposing viewpoints."

Wonwoo continued naturally.

"One of us believed soulmate relationships could not be empirically demonstrated."

"And one of us believed they existed regardless of whether they could be measured."

He changed slides.

"Our original objective was to determine which perspective was better supported by evidence."

"It didn't happen."

A ripple of quiet laughter travelled through the room. You smiled.

"Instead..."

The next slide appeared.

Findings

"We discovered something neither of us expected."

You looked briefly towards Wonwoo before continuing.

"None of the couples we interviewed described love as something that simply happened."

"Regardless of whether they believed in fate," he added, "their relationships depended upon repeated choices."

"They described commitment."

"Consistency."

"Trust."

"Attention."

"Shared routines."

"Mutual understanding."

Neither of you had rehearsed the alternating rhythm.

It simply happened.

The presentation flowed almost conversationally now, each sentence picked up naturally by the other before the silence had time to settle.

"Our literature review found no empirical evidence proving predetermined soulmates."

"However," Wonwoo said, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

You looked at him, surprised. He noticed.

"I read your notes."

"You quoted me."

"It supported the argument."

You smiled before turning back towards the audience.

"Our conclusion is therefore not that soulmates definitively exist..."

"...nor that they definitively do not."

Another slide appeared.

Final Conclusion

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to emerge through repeated mutual investment, trust, and deliberate choice rather than a single predetermined moment.

Silence followed. Not awkward. Thoughtful. The professor nodded slowly.

"Questions?"

A hand rose almost immediately.

"So..."

The student grinned.

"Did either of you change your minds?"

You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo.

He looked back.

Neither answered immediately.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I still think people can become irreplaceable."

Wonwoo nodded almost imperceptibly.

"And I still don't think fate explains why."

The room waited.

"But..."

He adjusted his glasses.

"...I don't think that's the important part anymore."

The professor smiled.

"Why not?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because after interviewing dozens of people, we realised none of them stayed together because destiny did the work."

He glanced sideways.

"They stayed because they kept choosing each other."

No one spoke. The professor thanked you both before dismissing the class for a short break while she finalised grades.

Just like that, the assignment was over.

—

You found yourselves standing outside the building with nowhere particular to go. For the first time in months, there was no interview to schedule. No journal article to discuss. No observation log waiting to be completed.

The routine that had quietly built itself around the two of you had simply ended.

"We're done."

"We are."

"We don't have another meeting."

"No."

"...That's strange."

"It is."

Students drifted around you in small groups, already talking about upcoming exams and weekend plans. Someone from another tutorial waved goodbye.

Life continued. Again. Exactly as it always had.

"I suppose..." you began carefully, "...this is where we stop accidentally seeing each other four times a week."

Wonwoo frowned slightly.

"Why would we?"

You looked at him.

"The assignment's finished."

"I know."

"So..."

"So?"

"You don't have to keep buying me coffee."

"I wasn't buying it because of the assignment."

"...You weren't?"

"No."

You laughed quietly.

"I genuinely can't tell when you're joking."

"I'm not."

The words settled gently between you.

You realised then that they weren't really about coffee.

"Were you serious," you asked softly, "when you said the assignment didn't change us?"

"Yes."

"What did it do, then?"

He thought about it.

"I think..."

He looked out across the courtyard before answering.

"...it forced us to pay attention."

"To sociology?"

He smiled faintly.

"To each other."

Your heart stumbled. Just enough that you noticed it.

"I've spent months trying to prove or disprove soulmates," you admitted.

"And?"

"I don't know if I've reached an answer."

"You don't have to."

"No."

You looked down at the empty coffee cup still warming your hands.

"I suppose I haven't."

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

"Would you like dinner?"

You looked up.

"What?"

Wonwoo looked almost embarrassed by his own question.

"We usually work after class."

"We do."

"We're not working anymore."

"No."

"So..."

Another pause.

"I'd still like to spend time with you."

You couldn't help smiling.

"You know, that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

"I was."

"...Oh."

"I thought I was being reasonably clear."

"You were."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."

"How else was I supposed to say it?"

"I don't know."

"You've spent three months telling me communication matters."

"I have."

"So."

He met your eyes.

"I'm communicating."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you nodded.

"I'd like that."

Relief softened something in his expression so subtle that someone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

Together, you turned towards the path leading away from the sociology building.

There was no assignment waiting at the end of it.

No hypothesis left to test.

Only another choice.

This time, neither of you needed research to make it.

—

[CASE FILE 014 — CLOSED]

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Official Conclusion: Inconclusive.

Supplementary Findings: Participants consistently demonstrated that enduring relationships are sustained through repeated acts of trust, attention, and mutual choice. Extended observation unexpectedly altered the perspectives of both researchers.

Professor's Final Comment: You never proved soulmates. You did, however, provide compelling evidence that people can become indispensable to one another.

Status: CASE CLOSED.

—

@junplusone @spookykryptonitegardener @passionfruitenthusiast @imhereonlytoreadxoxo (i lowk forgor to tag u guys in the last 1/2 fics in the series, so theres that...)

[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Soulmates — Wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader synopsis: He doesn’t believe in fate. You do. So when you get paired together in a sociology class to prove or disprove soulmates, you’re determined to change his mind—or die academically trying. wc: 9.6k (im shook) genre: Slow burn, University AU, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Light Angst, Comedy, Slice of Life warnings: SOOOOO MUCH DIALOG IM SORRY, I had to compress the text a lil bc there were too many blocks so it might sound weird in some places, Brief Misunderstandings, Social Anxiety (in 1 part), Mild existential discussions about relationships and compatibility a/n: Happy (late) birthday to wonwoo!! Sorry this took so long, i miscalculated how long this would get. This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!

There was something strangely comforting about the first week of a new semester.

Maybe it was because everything still felt temporary enough to reinvent yourself if you wanted to. Lecture theatres filled with unfamiliar faces who smiled politely without expecting names, tutors who still believed everyone had completed the readings, and fresh notebooks whose untouched pages hadn't yet become victims of rushed handwriting and coffee stains. Every semester began with the same promise that this one would somehow be different, that assignments would be started early, lectures would be attended diligently, and perhaps this time your sleep schedule would survive beyond Week Three.

You believed it every single semester.

Whether that made you optimistic or hopelessly naïve was still up for debate.

The Sociology of Human Relationships was one of the electives you'd chosen almost impulsively, although you preferred calling it intuition whenever your friends questioned your decisions. The course outline had sounded interesting enough—attachment theory, interpersonal communication, social expectations—but what had caught your attention was a single sentence tucked away beneath the assessment schedule.

Major Research Project (40%) — Investigating the Concept of Soulmates.

You had smiled at the screen for far longer than necessary.

It wasn't because you expected university to confirm the existence of some invisible red string connecting strangers across cities or oceans, nor because you thought there was one singular person waiting somewhere with your name written into the universe. Your belief had never been that simplistic. Soulmates, at least to you, were never about destiny removing the need for choice.

If anything, they were about choice itself.

People met thousands throughout their lives. Friends came and went, lovers arrived and left, families grew complicated, and yet somehow, every now and then, two people chose one another so completely that the rest of the world became background noise. Whether that was destiny or simply extraordinary luck hardly mattered.

The feeling was real either way.

"Y/N!"

Your attention lifted from the printed course guide as someone dropped into the seat beside you with enough force to make the fold-out desk wobble. Mina grinned without a hint of apology, balancing an iced coffee in one hand while already scrolling through her timetable on her phone with the other.

"I swear," she whispered dramatically, "if this professor starts with an icebreaker, I'm transferring."

"You say that every semester."

"And one day I'll mean it."

The lecture theatre continued filling around you in waves of conversation, backpacks thumping onto the floor, chairs scraping against concrete, students greeting friends they hadn't seen over the break with exaggerated enthusiasm. Somewhere near the front, someone was already arguing about textbook prices, while further back a group was debating whether attendance was actually compulsory.

The room buzzed with that peculiar kind of organised chaos unique to universities, where everyone seemed simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.

At precisely nine o'clock, the chatter softened. The professor walked in carrying nothing except a tablet and a stack of manila folders.

No introductory slideshow. No welcoming speech. Just a quiet smile.

"I'll save everyone's time," she began. "Yes, attendance is recorded."

A collective groan echoed through the theatre. She nodded knowingly.

"I appreciate the honesty."

Even Mina laughed. The first twenty minutes passed exactly as expected. Assessment breakdowns, consultation hours, textbook recommendations no one intended to purchase until absolutely necessary. Pens moved lazily across notebooks while laptops clicked open around the room.

Then the professor reached for the folders.

"This," she said, holding one up between her fingers, "is the assignment students remember long after they've forgotten everything else from this course."

The room immediately became quieter.

"For the remainder of the semester, each of you will work with one randomly assigned partner."

Another groan, she ignored it.

"Your task is deceptively simple."

The projector behind her flickered to life.

DO SOULMATES EXIST?

Silence. Then scattered laughter.

"No," someone near the back called.

"I haven't even had breakfast," another complained.

The professor continued as though neither interruption had happened.

"You'll investigate the claim from a sociological perspective. You are expected to collect qualitative and quantitative evidence, conduct interviews, examine existing literature, perform behavioural observations, and construct an argument either supporting or rejecting the concept."

Your hand was already writing before she'd finished speaking. Interview couples. Different age groups. Longitudinal relationships? Cultural perspectives. You underlined the last one twice.

"This assignment is not about proving your own beliefs," the professor continued. "It's about learning whether your beliefs withstand scrutiny."

You liked that. Beside you, Mina looked significantly less enthusiastic.

"I wanted multiple choice."

"You chose sociology."

"I made mistakes."

The professor began distributing the folders down each row.

"Each folder contains your assigned partner."

Someone sighed dramatically enough to earn a laugh from the surrounding students.

"You don't get to choose," the professor added before anyone could ask. "Yes, they're random. No, I won't swap anyone. Half the purpose of this assignment is learning to work with perspectives different from your own."

The folders travelled slowly across the lecture theatre. One by one. Closer. Closer. Eventually one landed in front of you with a soft papery thud. Your name had already been printed neatly across the cover.

Below it—Research Pair: Group 14

You opened it. Your assigned partner's name sat beneath yours.

JEON WONWOO

You frowned thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar. Not personally, academically. Someone who answered questions during lectures with suspicious confidence. Someone tutors seemed to recognise. Someone you'd seen around campus more than once without ever speaking to. Mina leaned across immediately.

"Who'd you get?"

You turned the page towards her.

"Oh."

"What?"

She gave you a look that somehow managed to communicate both sympathy and amusement.

"Good luck."

"...That helpful?"

"I've got a friend in psychology who had a class with him last semester."

"And?"

"He argued with the lecturer."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"He won."

Before you could ask another question, the lecture theatre door opened. Five minutes late. A tall figure stepped quietly inside, carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder as though arriving after the lecture had begun didn't concern him in the slightest. There was no frantic apology, no awkward attempt to avoid drawing attention. He simply offered the professor a brief nod, received one in return, and scanned the room for an empty seat. You recognised him immediately from the photograph attached to the research folder.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He settled into one of the remaining seats a few rows ahead without speaking to anyone, pushing his glasses back into place before opening the folder that had been left on the desk for him.  You watched his eyes skim the first page. Pause. Then continue. Nothing about his expression changed. Not surprise. Not annoyance. Nothing. He simply closed the folder again.

The professor clapped her hands together gently.

"Now that everyone knows their partner, I'd like each pair to spend the remaining class introducing yourselves and discussing your preliminary position."

Chairs scraped backwards across the room almost instantly. Students stood, searching for unfamiliar names and uncertain faces.

"Group Four?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Who's Olivia?"

Mina squeezed your arm.

"Good luck."

"You've said that twice."

"Because I think you'll need it."

She disappeared into the growing crowd before you could respond. You stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, scanning the room until your eyes found him again. He had already found you. Not because he waved, not because he smiled, simply because he was looking directly at you with the quiet recognition of someone matching names to faces. He approached first. Up close, he seemed somehow taller than expected, though perhaps it was only because he carried himself with an unhurried confidence that made everyone else seem louder by comparison.

"Y/N?"

His voice was calm. Lower than you'd imagined.

"That's me."

He nodded once.

"Wonwoo."

"I figured."

A brief silence settled between you, not necessarily uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar. You offered a small smile anyway.

"I guess we're partners."

"It seems that way."

There was something almost amusing about how matter-of-fact he sounded, as though being assigned to work together ranked somewhere between receiving a library receipt and checking tomorrow's weather forecast. You gestured towards two empty seats near the side of the lecture theatre.

"We should probably start?"

He followed without objection. The assignment brief sat open between you, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten annotations that already looked wildly different. Your notes wandered into margins with arrows connecting ideas that hadn't yet fully formed. His remained perfectly organised, concise, almost clinical. You noticed he had already circled one sentence.

Construct an evidence-based conclusion.

"You've started already?"

"I was reading."

"You've highlighted one sentence."

"It seemed important." You couldn't help smiling.

"You seem like the type to colour-code your lecture notes."

"I do."

"I knew it." He looked almost confused by your satisfaction.

"You say that like it's unusual."

"It isn't. I just enjoy being right." Something very close to amusement crossed his face before disappearing again.

"So," you began, tapping the title page, "what's your opinion?" He didn't need time to think.

"Soulmates don't exist." The sentence landed with complete certainty. Not dismissively, not mockingly, simply factually. You blinked.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"No hesitation?"

"No." You leaned back in your chair.

"Interesting." He tilted his head slightly.

"You disagree."

"I do."

"I guessed."

"Was it the fact I highlighted interview ideas before the assignment had even been explained?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"You smiled when the professor introduced the topic." Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

"You noticed that?"

"You were sitting in front of me."

"So?"

"So I noticed." The simplicity of the answer somehow made it more convincing. You folded your arms loosely across the desk.

"I think soulmates exist."

"In what sense?"

"That depends." He waited. Not impatiently, just quietly.

"I don't think there's one perfect person pre-selected by the universe," you explained. "I think there are connections that feel statistically impossible. People who arrive in your life and alter its direction so completely that calling it coincidence almost feels inadequate." He considered your words for a moment before responding.

"People are good at assigning meaning to random events."

"And people are equally good at dismissing meaningful ones because they can't quantify them."

"Our brains search for patterns."

"Sometimes because patterns are there." He looked at you for another second.Then, unexpectedly, a small smile. Barely noticeable.

"Professor was right."

"About what?"

"This is going to take the entire semester." You laughed before you could help yourself. It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a particularly graceful one, but it escaped all the same, drawing a brief glance from the pair sitting nearby. Wonwoo looked almost surprised that he'd been the cause of it. Perhaps you were equally surprised.

Maybe this assignment wouldn't be quite as straightforward as you'd imagined. Or perhaps that was exactly what made it worth doing.

—

[CASE FILE 001 — Department of Sociology, Research Pair Registration]

Pair Number: 14

Student A: Jeon Wonwoo Preliminary Position: The concept of soulmates is a cultural construct that cannot be empirically supported.

Student B: Y/N Preliminary Position: Soulmates exist as meaningful interpersonal connections, regardless of whether they can be objectively measured.

Professor's Observation: Significant ideological contrast.Encourage both students to challenge assumptions rather than defend them.Productive disagreement often produces the strongest research.

—

"You've highlighted the entire article."

"I highlighted the important parts." Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop just long enough to give you a look somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation before returning to his own notes.

"You've highlighted eighty percent of the paper."

"The remaining twenty percent wasn't relevant."

"Then you didn't need the highlighter."

"It helped me read."

"I don't think that's what highlighting is for."

"It is for me." He paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as though debating whether correcting your study habits was worth the effort. Eventually, he decided it wasn't, and the faint shake of his head was so subtle that you almost missed it.

It had been just over a week since the first lecture. Long enough to settle into a routine. Every Tuesday after class, the two of you met in the same corner of the university library, occupying a table tucked beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus courtyard. The location had never been discussed. After the first meeting, you'd simply wandered towards the empty table, and Wonwoo had followed without comment. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the space had somehow become yours. The first ten minutes were always quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You unpacked your bag in exactly the same order every time—laptop first, notebook second, pencil case last—while Wonwoo plugged in his charger, aligned three different coloured sticky tabs along the edge of his notebook, and opened whichever academic journal he had downloaded that morning.

Somewhere nearby, the library printer whirred to life. Pages shuffled. Chairs scraped softly against carpet, and the occasional muffled laugh drifted from the collaborative study rooms before being silenced by a passing librarian.

It was strangely peaceful.

"So," you said eventually, breaking the silence. "How many papers have you read?"

"Twenty-three." You blinked.

"...Twenty-three?"

"They were relatively short."

"You read twenty-three sociology papers in a week?"

"I skimmed seven."

"Oh, well that makes it normal." He ignored the sarcasm.

"There isn't substantial empirical evidence supporting the soulmate hypothesis."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm stating a finding."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You wanted one to prove wrong." He looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

"I wanted evidence."

"You wanted a challenge."

"I have one." He gestured vaguely towards you. You tried very hard not to smile. Instead, you opened your own notebook, where the page labelled Possible Interview Subjects had become increasingly crowded over the past few days.

"We're supposed to start collecting qualitative data this week."

"I know."

"The professor wants a minimum of ten interviews."

"I know."

"You keep saying you know."

"Because I do." You leaned your chin into your palm.

"You're no fun."

"I've been told."

"Really?"

"No."

"...That was almost a joke."

"I don't joke."

"Liar."

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"I didn't intend to."

"Still counts." He sighed so quietly it almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

—

The sociology department had prepared interview consent forms, questionnaires, and recording equipment for every research pair, though the professor had insisted that the interviews themselves be arranged independently.

That was how the two of you found yourselves standing outside the weekend farmers' market early Saturday morning, clipboards tucked beneath your arms while people wandered past carrying reusable shopping bags and bouquets of flowers.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"This seems inefficient."

"It's perfect."

"There are too many variables."

"There are too many people."

"Exactly."

"That's the point." He looked unconvinced.

"You picked this location because..."

"There are families." He waited.

"Couples." Still waiting.

"Grandparents."

"...Continue."

"And everyone walks slower because they're buying vegetables." He stared at you.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting the vegetables."

"They're essential."

"To sociology?"

"To catching interview participants."

"...Right." You smiled innocently.

"Trust me." He didn't. That much was obvious. Still, he followed you towards the first elderly couple browsing homemade honey.

"Excuse me," you asked politely, "would you mind answering a few questions for a university sociology project?"

The couple exchanged a look before smiling warmly.

"We've got nowhere to be." You glanced sideways at Wonwoo.

"See?" He simply uncapped his pen.

—

The first interview lasted nearly twenty minutes. The couple had been married for forty-eight years. When you asked whether they believed they were soulmates, the husband laughed before his wife answered first.

"Oh, goodness, no." You blinked.

"No?" She smiled.

"I couldn't stand him when we first met."

"I still don't know why she married me," her husband admitted.

"You proposed six times."

"You counted?"

"I rejected five." Wonwoo wrote something down. You tried not to laugh.

"So..." you asked carefully, "when did you know?" The woman looked at her husband for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think there was a single moment." Her fingers reached absentmindedly for his hand.

"I think one day we realised we'd spent years choosing each other." Her husband nodded.

"Love isn't fate."

A pause.

"Staying is."

Silence settled over the table. The market continued bustling around you. Someone called out prices for strawberries. A child laughed somewhere behind you. Nearby wind chimes clinked softly against one another. You scribbled the quote into your notebook almost immediately. Beside you, Wonwoo didn't speak. You waited. Normally, he would've already pointed out retrospective bias or emotional reconstruction. Instead, he quietly underlined something in his notes. Only after thanking the couple and watching them disappear into the crowd did either of you speak again.

"...Well?" He closed the notebook.

"It was interesting."

"That's all?"

"It was."

"You don't have an argument?"

"Not immediately." You looked at him in surprise.

"I'll need to think about it." For some reason, that felt like a victory. Not because he'd agreed with you.  Because he hadn't dismissed the interview outright.

—

The afternoon passed in much the same way. An engaged couple who had met online through a video game. A divorced woman who insisted soulmates existed but timing mattered more. A university student who believed compatibility could be calculated using personality tests.  Each interview challenged one assumption only to reinforce another.

By the time the market began packing away stalls, your voice had become slightly hoarse. You dropped onto a nearby bench with a sigh.

"My social battery is gone." Wonwoo handed you a bottle of water.

"You forgot this." You frowned.

"When?"

"You've carried it since this morning."

"...I completely forgot."

"I noticed."

"You notice everything." He considered that.

"I notice patterns."

"You noticed I hadn't had water."

"You'd spoken continuously for nearly three hours."

"And?"

"You usually drink after about forty minutes." You stared.

"...You know that's a little creepy."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

A breeze stirred the trees lining the footpath. People continued filtering towards the train station, conversations fading into the distance. Without thinking, you reached into your backpack and pulled out two convenience store sandwiches you'd bought earlier that morning.

"I completely forgot these too."

"You forget a lot."

"I remember important things."

"You forgot lunch."

"I remembered eventually." You held one sandwich towards him.

"Here." He hesitated.

"You only bought two."

"I know."

"You'll be hungry."

"I'll survive." Another pause. Eventually, he accepted it.

"...Thank you."

"You said that like you weren't expecting me to share."

"I wasn't."

"Why not?"

"You've known me for eight days."

"So?"

"So..." He looked faintly puzzled by the question. "People don't usually do that." You shrugged.

"I had two." The explanation seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Wonwoo looked down at the unopened sandwich in his hands before quietly peeling back the wrapper.

"You know," you said after a while, "I thought you'd be colder." He glanced sideways.

"I've barely spoken."

"Exactly."

"And yet?"

"And yet you keep noticing little things." He frowned slightly.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"It has nothing to do with being nice."

"I didn't say nice."

"You implied it."

"I implied observant." Silence.

"...You think I'm observant?"

"I think you pretend not to care." He looked away first.

"You've reached that conclusion after eight days?"

"Maybe."

"...Your sample size is too small."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"Turning everything into research."

"It is research."

"I know." You smiled despite yourself.

"But you're still doing it." He didn't deny it.

—

Later that evening, after the interviews had been transcribed and uploaded to the shared folder, your phone buzzed with a new notification. Wonwoo uploaded a file. Curious, you opened it. 

Instead of another journal article, it was the transcript from the elderly couple. One sentence had been highlighted.

Love isn't fate. Staying is.

Beneath it, in the comments section, was a single line.

Potential distinction between destiny and commitment. Worth exploring further.

You smiled at the screen. Without thinking too much about it, you replied beneath his comment.

Maybe soulmates aren't found. Maybe they're built.

Three minutes later, a new notification appeared. Wonwoo replied. 

Interesting hypothesis.

It was only two words. But somehow, for the first time since meeting him, it felt less like the beginning of an argument and more like the beginning of a conversation.

—

[Interview Transcript — Couple #01]

Question: Do you believe you were soulmates?

Response (Wife): No. Not when we met.

Response (Husband): We became them.

Handwritten annotation (Y/N): Maybe soulmates aren't discovered. Maybe they're something people create together over time.

Comment added later (J. Wonwoo): Interesting hypothesis. Investigate whether this idea appears in attachment theory literature.

—

By the third week of the semester, the library had become less of a meeting place and more of a habit.

Neither of you remembered making the decision to continue studying there after every lecture. It simply happened. Tuesdays were reserved for sorting interview transcripts, Thursdays for reading journal articles, and Saturdays, more often than not, ended with another round of field interviews somewhere around the city. Somewhere between colour-coded folders, shared Google Drive documents, and arguments over citation formatting, the line separating obligation from routine had quietly disappeared. You were beginning to suspect Wonwoo noticed it too.

He was already sitting at your usual table when you arrived that Thursday afternoon, though he hadn't messaged to say he'd gotten there early. His laptop was open, half a dozen journal articles tiled neatly across the screen, while an untouched cup of coffee rested beside his elbow. Judging by the faint curl of steam that still rose from the lid, he'd only been there a few minutes.

"You ordered coffee before I got here?" you asked, setting your backpack down with a muffled thud.

"I ordered mine." You looked around the table.

"There are two." Without looking up from the paragraph he was annotating, he reached across and nudged the second cup towards your side.

"You usually buy one before we start." You blinked.

"I... do."

"You were running late."

"So you just..."

"I was already there."

"...Bought mine too?" He finally looked up, expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses.

"It saves time." You stared at the cup for a second longer than necessary. It was the same order you'd been buying since the first week. Medium vanilla latte. One sugar. No whipped cream.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered it six times."

"You counted?"

"I noticed." There it was again.

That quiet way he answered every observation as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He never seemed aware that most people didn't remember how someone took their coffee after a handful of meetings, or which hand they wrote with, or that they always tucked loose strands of hair behind the same ear whenever they were concentrating. He simply noticed.

"You know," you said, peeling back the lid carefully, "if sociology doesn't work out, you'd make a terrifying detective."

"I've considered it." You laughed.

"I'm not joking."

"I know."

"...Wait." He returned his attention to the article without another word. You narrowed your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"I considered forensic psychology once."

"You can't just casually mention that and keep reading."

"I didn't think it was particularly interesting."

"It is to me."

"Hm."

"You really don't understand what people find interesting about you, do you?" His fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a brief moment, silence settled between you.

"I've never thought about it." The answer came so honestly that you didn't know how to respond.

—

The professor arrived ten minutes late to the afternoon tutorial carrying a stack of printed worksheets that looked considerably thicker than anyone appreciated. An audible sigh rippled through the classroom.

"Good afternoon." No one returned the enthusiasm. She smiled anyway.

"I've read through your interview transcripts." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"They're promising." There were a few relieved exhalations around the room.

"However..." Collective dread.

"...interviews only tell us what people believe happened." She placed the worksheets on the front desk.

"Human memory is remarkably unreliable." Wonwoo’s pen immediately clicked. You recognised that look. He agreed.

"So," the professor continued, "we're moving on to behavioural observation." Several students frowned.

"You'll spend the next two weeks observing your assigned partner." Someone near the back groaned dramatically. The professor ignored them.

"You are not trying to prove they're your soulmate." A few laughs broke out.

"You are observing unconscious patterns." She began writing on the whiteboard.

Walking pace. Eye contact. Speech rhythm. Personal space. Gesture mirroring. Listening behaviour.

"You may record anything you find relevant," she explained. "The important rule is this."

She underlined the next sentence.

Do not tell your partner what you're recording.

The room erupted into confused chatter.

"What?"

"That's so weird."

"They're going to overthink everything."

"Exactly," the professor replied. "Which is why I don't want you discussing your observations until the fortnight is over." She looked around the classroom.

"People reveal the most about themselves when they believe nothing important is being noticed."

—

The walk back to the library felt strangely different. Not because anything had changed. Because now you couldn't stop wondering whether it had.

Were you walking normally? Did you always swing your backpack from your right shoulder? Did you speak with your hands this much?

You caught yourself fixing your posture halfway across campus before realising exactly what you were doing. Beside you, Wonwoo seemed completely unaffected. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding it.

"This assignment is cruel," you muttered.

"It'll produce better data."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It probably will."

"You aren't even a little curious about what I'm writing down?"

"I'll find out eventually."

"...That's it?" He shrugged lightly.

"If I change my behaviour because I'm thinking about it, the observations become less useful."

"You've accepted this frighteningly quickly."

"It's interesting."

"You called interviewing strangers inefficient."

"It was."

"And spying on each other is interesting?"

"We're not spying."

"It feels like spying."

"It's structured observation."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm defining the methodology." You laughed under your breath.

"See?"

"What?"

"You've already started."

"I haven't."

"You've become more formal."

"I always speak like this."

"When you're trying to win an argument. I noticed."

He looked at you for a long second before the corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly.

"So did I." You frowned.

"So did you what?"

"I noticed."

"...You smiled before disagreeing."

You hadn't even realised.

—

That evening, your shared project folder gained two new files.

Behaviour Observation Log — Y/N

Behaviour Observation Log — Wonwoo

Password protected. You opened your own template first. At the top of the page sat a single instruction.

Record observations objectively. Avoid interpretation until analysis is complete.

You snorted softly.

"That's going to be impossible."

You had barely spent ten days working with Wonwoo, yet already every observation seemed to carry two versions. The objective one. And the one you couldn't quite explain.

Objective: He waits for elderly people to exit the lift before entering.

Subjective: He never seems aware he's doing it.

You sighed, deleting the second sentence before replacing it with something more academic. At least... you tried.

—

[CASE FILE 003 — Behavioural Observation Study]

Subjects: Pair 14

Observation Period: Weeks 3–5

Research Objective: To identify unconscious behavioural patterns that influence perceived interpersonal compatibility.

Reminder: Observation is not interpretation. Record what occurs. Explain why only after sufficient evidence has been collected.

—

The observation period began on a Monday. You hated it almost immediately. Not because it was difficult to write observations—if anything, there were too many things to write—but because the assignment had transformed every ordinary interaction into something strangely self-conscious. Every time you caught Wonwoo glancing in your direction, your immediate thought was no longer Is something wrong? but Did he just write that down? By Wednesday, you were convinced you had forgotten how to exist naturally.

"You've looked at me three times in the last minute."

"I wasn't counting."

"You definitely were."

"I wasn't."

"You paused before answering."

"I was thinking."

"Exactly." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"...From who?"

"You."

"I don't think I've actually said it."

"You implied it."

"You keep doing that."

"What?"

"Turning everything I say into evidence."

"It is evidence."

"It isn't."

"It could be." You let out an exaggerated sigh before dramatically opening your notebook.

"Observation number twenty-seven." He looked up.

"'Subject is deeply irritating.'"

"...That's not objective."

"I'm making an exception."

"It'll affect the validity of your findings."

"It'll improve my emotional wellbeing." Something that looked suspiciously like amusement crossed his face.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I disagree."

"You can't disagree with your own facial expression."

"I'm questioning your interpretation."

"You absolutely smiled."

"I don't have sufficient evidence." You stared at him for a long moment before laughing.

"You know, for someone who doesn't believe in soulmates, you're weirdly committed to making sure I never win an argument."

"I've accepted that I won't."

"...What?"

"I've accepted that you won't stop arguing."

"...That's not what you said."

"I know."

—

The campus café became another unspoken routine. Originally, it had simply been somewhere convenient between lectures. Now the barista greeted both of you before either of you reached the counter.

"The usual?" You nodded automatically, Wonwoo answered at almost exactly the same time.

"Yes." The barista smiled.

"I'll have them ready in a minute." You didn't notice anything unusual until you sat down.

"You ordered for me."

"You were looking for your student card."

"...I was."

"You usually spend about thirty seconds searching your bag." You blinked.

"You've timed that too?"

"No."

"You know that's somehow worse."

"I've noticed it happens."

"You make it sound completely normal."

"It is."

"No, normal people don't know how long someone spends looking for their wallet."

"They might."

"They absolutely don't." He took a slow sip of coffee before answering.

"I think people notice more than they realise."

"You definitely notice more than average."

"You've said that."

"And I keep being proven right." He didn't argue this time. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below, where students hurried between buildings carrying umbrellas against the light drizzle that had started sometime during your lecture. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think most people notice."

You looked at him.

"They just don't remember." There was something unexpectedly thoughtful about the way he said it. Not detached. Not analytical. Almost personal.

"What makes you remember?" His fingers paused around the paper cup.

"I don't know." He considered the question carefully before continuing.

"I think... once I've noticed something, it feels wrong to forget it." The sentence lingered in your mind long after the conversation had moved elsewhere.

—

Thursday's tutorial required each research pair to spend forty-five minutes silently observing one another while completing a collaborative puzzle. No discussion. No planning. No speaking. Only observation.

"This feels unethical," someone complained.

"It's educational," the professor replied.

"It's creepy."

"It's sociology."

"I'm changing majors." The professor laughed.

"No, you're not."

Sheets of coloured wooden blocks were distributed around the room, each pair receiving an identical puzzle that required recreating a geometric pattern using only non-verbal communication. You and Wonwoo exchanged a look.

"No talking?" you mouthed.

He nodded once. The timer began. Almost immediately, you reached for the wrong piece. Before your hand even touched it, Wonwoo gently slid the correct block towards you without looking up from the diagram.

You frowned. How had he—

You placed it into position. He rotated another piece exactly ninety degrees before setting it beside your hand. Again, correct. By the ten-minute mark, neither of you had spoken a single word. You barely needed to.

He seemed to understand what piece you were reaching for before you reached for it, quietly moving obstacles out of the way without interrupting your train of thought. When you hesitated over where a triangular block belonged, he tapped the corner of the diagram once before continuing with his own section. It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. It simply worked.

Across the room, other pairs whispered apologies after instinctively speaking, argued silently through exaggerated gestures, or accidentally reached for the same pieces at the same time. Your table remained almost entirely still. When the professor called time, she'd barely finished the sentence before stopping beside your desk.

"You finished?" You both nodded. She examined the completed puzzle. Perfect.

"Hm." She made a note on her clipboard.

"Interesting." As she walked away, you finally looked at Wonwoo.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"We didn't even talk."

"The puzzle didn't require talking."

"It definitely did."

"I don't think so."

"Everyone else talked."

"We didn't."

"You handed me the exact pieces every single time."

"You usually solve left to right."

"...I what?"

"You start from the outside corners."

"I've never noticed that."

"I have." You stared.

"When?"

"You've organised every interview transcript the same way."

"..."

"You also unpack your stationery in the same order."

"..."

"You always finish reading the introduction before looking at the headings."

"..." He stopped.

"...Was I not supposed to notice those?" For a second, all you could do was blink.

"No."

"I thought they were obvious."

"They are to you." Another pause settled between you before you laughed quietly, shaking your head.

"I don't think you realise how different your brain works."

"I've never had another one to compare it to." The answer was so genuine that it caught you completely off guard.

—

That evening, after returning home, you opened your observation log again. The cursor blinked expectantly. You read back through the objective notes you'd managed to record over the past four days.

Day Four Subject remembers every source cited during discussion without checking notes.

Day Five Subject notices environmental changes before verbal acknowledgement by others.

Day Five Subject consistently positions themselves on the outer side of the footpath when walking together.

You frowned. You hadn't noticed writing that last one.  When had that happened? You thought back. 

Leaving the library. Crossing the road after interviews. Walking between lecture buildings. Every single time, without ever mentioning it, Wonwoo had quietly shifted to whichever side was closest to passing bicycles, traffic or crowds, leaving you on the inside of the path. It wasn't dramatic enough to draw attention. If anything, it was the kind of habit you only recognised once you'd seen it repeated enough times.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed another line.

Day Six Subject performs considerate actions automatically, often without appearing aware of them.

You hesitated. Then deleted the word considerate. Too subjective. After another moment's thought, you rewrote it.

Subject changes behaviour in response to environmental conditions affecting others before changing his own.

Technically objective. Technically. You weren't entirely convinced.

— 

[Behaviour Observation Log — Extract]

Observer: Wonwoo

Day 4 Subject unconsciously smiles before disagreeing with someone.

Day 5 Subject says "interesting" when they are actually confused.

Day 5 Subject thanks bus drivers regardless of whether anyone else does.

Day 6 Subject slows walking pace when speaking about something important without appearing aware of it.

A line beneath the final observation has been crossed out, the original sentence is no longer legible. Only three rewritten words remain.

Worth remembering.

— 

The midpoint presentations arrived far sooner than either of you expected. It wasn't that the semester itself had moved particularly quickly. If anything, the weeks had been packed so densely with interviews, observation logs, literature reviews and tutorial discussions that every day felt longer than the last. Somewhere between the seventh transcript and the fifteenth journal article, however, the project had stopped feeling like a university assessment and quietly become part of your routine. You no longer wondered whether Wonwoo would be in the library after class. He always was.

Likewise, he had stopped asking whether you wanted coffee before starting work. At some point, the question had disappeared entirely, replaced by a second paper cup already sitting opposite him whenever you arrived a few minutes late. You weren't entirely sure when that had started. More strangely, neither of you had acknowledged it.

"You know," you said one afternoon, dropping your bag beside the chair opposite him, "normal people would probably think this is weird."

Wonwoo didn't look up from the spreadsheet he was editing.

"What part?"

"You buying my coffee."

"You always pay me back."

"That's not my point." He finished typing the sentence he'd been working on before finally closing the laptop halfway.

"What is your point?"

"My point is..." You paused, realising you hadn't actually thought this through. "Well..."

"You don't have one."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I think..." You tapped absentmindedly against the side of the coffee cup. "I think we've become suspiciously efficient." He considered that.

"We've spent approximately forty-seven hours working together."

"You counted?"

"I estimated."

"...That somehow isn't better."

"No." A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. You caught it anyway. There had been more of those lately. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice. Enough that you did.

—

The tutorial room buzzed louder than usual as each research pair prepared their midpoint presentations. Laptops opened, extension cords snaked across the floor, and conversations overlapped as students made frantic last-minute edits.

Your professor moved quietly between the rows, occasionally stopping to answer questions before reminding everyone, for what felt like the tenth time that morning, to keep their presentations under ten minutes.

"You look nervous." You glanced sideways. Wonwoo was organising printed handouts into perfectly aligned stacks.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've rearranged your slides three times."

"I was fixing formatting."

"You changed the font."

"It was inconsistent."

"It was one title."

"It was bothering me." You smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The perfectionism."

"I prefer consistency."

"I know." He looked at you for a second before speaking again.

"You've rewritten your opening sentence eleven times. I counted." You folded your arms.

"I hate that you're right."

"I usually am."

"You sounded far too pleased saying that."

"I wasn't."

"Liar." He looked down to hide another almost-smile.

—

The presentations themselves varied wildly. Some groups had already reached confident conclusions. One pair argued that soulmate beliefs were largely reinforced by media representation. Another claimed attachment styles explained every interview they'd conducted. Someone else presented an elaborate statistical model that attempted to predict relationship longevity based on personality inventories.

When your turn came, neither you nor Wonwoo rushed to the front. You walked up together, setting your notes on the lectern without speaking.

"Our research question," you began, "asks whether soulmates exist."

"At this stage," Wonwoo continued, "our findings remain inconclusive."

A few classmates exchanged amused looks. You noticed.

"We've interviewed twelve participants across varying demographics," you said, changing slides. "Our qualitative findings reveal strong personal belief in soulmate concepts, although definitions vary considerably."

"Existing literature," Wonwoo added, "does not currently provide empirical evidence supporting soulmates as an objectively measurable phenomenon." You nodded.

"However..." He glanced towards you.

"...the interviews suggest something different." You continued seamlessly.

"Participants consistently described long-term relationships using language centred around choice rather than inevitability." The presentation flowed more naturally than either of you expected. Neither of you needed prompting. You instinctively knew when the other had finished speaking, quietly continuing each explanation without interrupting or repeating information. By the final slide, you almost forgot everyone else was watching. Until question time. A student near the back raised their hand.

"If you've spent over a month researching together..."

They looked between you and Wonwoo.

"...have either of you actually changed your minds?" Silence. You opened your mouth first.

"I..." Nothing came out. Because the truthful answer wasn't simple anymore. Had you changed your mind? Not really. You still believed soulmates existed. But your understanding of them had shifted. You looked towards Wonwoo. He spoke first.

"Our arguments have become more complicated." The classroom waited.

"We disagree about the conclusion." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.

"But we've stopped disagreeing about the evidence." A thoughtful silence settled across the room. The professor smiled.

"That's one of the best answers I've heard all day."

—

After class, while packing away your laptop, you overheard two students speaking just loudly enough that they clearly weren't trying very hard to keep the conversation private.

"I honestly thought they were dating." You froze.

"Nah."

"They've got that weird old married couple thing."

"They literally finish each other's presentations."

"Maybe the soulmate project worked." Someone laughed.

"Imagine." You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo. He had stopped placing papers into his bag. Only for a second. Then, without saying anything, he finished packing his things and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"We should go." His voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

—

The walk to the library was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Simply lacking. Normally, one of you would comment on the presentation, complain about another journal article, or argue over interview methodology before reaching the main courtyard. Today, neither of you started a conversation. You tried twice.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

He nodded once. The silence returned. It stayed with you through the rest of the afternoon. Through organising references. Through editing transcripts. Through packing your bags. When you finally left the library, he offered the same polite goodbye he always did.

"See you Tuesday."

"Yeah." He hesitated almost imperceptibly.

"See you." And then he walked away.

—

It wasn't until later that evening that you realised something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Nothing had happened. No argument. No disagreement. No misunderstanding that you could clearly identify. And yet you found yourself opening the shared document twice before remembering he wasn't editing tonight.

You almost messaged him a journal article before remembering he'd probably already found it himself. You even caught yourself glancing towards the empty chair beside yours during dinner. You frowned. That was unusual.

Across town, Wonwoo was staring at the unfinished observation log on his laptop. The cursor blinked beneath today's date. He typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Eventually, he closed the document without saving. For the first time since the assignment had begun, he wasn't entirely certain how to describe what he'd observed.

—

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM]

Research Pair 14

Midpoint Progress Review

Completed

✓ Literature Review

✓ Behavioural Observation (Phase I)

✓ Participant Interviews

✓ Preliminary Presentation

Outstanding

□ Emotional Bias Assessment

□ Final Analysis

Professor's Margin Note:

Excellent collaboration. Be mindful that prolonged observation can influence participant objectivity. Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

Someone—neither you nor Wonwoo—has circled the final sentence twice.

The next chapter is where the misunderstanding quietly deepens, forcing both of you to question whether your growing closeness is helping the research—or making it impossible to stay objective. It's also where the assignment begins to stop feeling like an investigation into soulmates and starts becoming an investigation into each other.

—

There was a peculiar kind of silence that only existed between people who had grown accustomed to one another.

It wasn't uncomfortable. Nor was it empty. It was the sort of silence built over weeks of shared routines, where conversation became optional because neither person felt responsible for filling every quiet moment. You had never thought much about it before meeting Wonwoo. Silence, to you, had always been something to fix—a pause that invited another question, another story, another attempt to keep the conversation moving.

Now, sitting across from him in your usual corner of the library, you realised nearly twenty minutes had passed without either of you speaking.

The only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the turning of pages somewhere nearby, and the distant hum of rain against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Strangely, you hadn't noticed the time. Wonwoo was reviewing the coding categories for your interview transcripts, occasionally making neat annotations in the margins of the printed pages spread around him. You were rereading the behavioural observation logs, trying to identify recurring themes before beginning the final report.

Every so often, one of you would slide a document across the table. No explanation. The other would read it, nod once, and continue working. It had become almost effortless. The realisation should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled you. Because the professor's feedback from the midpoint presentation refused to leave your mind.

Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

You had laughed when you first read it. Now it seemed less like feedback and more like a warning.

"Can I ask you something?" Wonwoo looked up immediately.

"You already are." You rolled your eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He closed the notebook in front of him, giving you his full attention.

"What is it?" You hesitated longer than expected.

"Do you think..." The words felt strangely difficult.

"...we've become biased?" He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the question with the same care he gave every research problem.

"In what sense?"

"The assignment."

"Our conclusions?"

"No."

You shook your head.

"I mean..." You searched for the right wording.

"...do you think we've spent so much time observing each other that we've stopped being objective?" His expression remained thoughtful.

"I think..." Another pause.

"...that was probably inevitable." You stared.

"You're admitting that?"

"It would be difficult not to."

"You always argue objectivity."

"I still do."

"But?"

"But objectivity doesn't mean pretending bias doesn't exist." He folded his hands together on the table.

"It means recognising where it exists." You looked down at your own notes.

"So we're biased."

"Yes."

"...That's a problem."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether we're willing to acknowledge it." The answer lingered between you. It wasn't the answer you expected. Nor was it the one you wanted. Because admitting bias meant admitting something else.

That neither of you had remained detached observers. Somewhere along the way, the research had stopped being about strangers.

It had become about the two of you.

—

Your final task before writing the report was deceptively simple. Each research pair had to submit an individual reflective statement answering one question:

How has this project influenced your understanding of human relationships?

No word limit. No references required. Only honesty. You stared at the blank document for almost fifteen minutes.

Eventually, you began typing.

I entered this project believing soulmates were something people found.

You stopped. Deleted the sentence. Started again.

I don't think I believe in coincidence any less than I did twelve weeks ago.

Delete. Again. Nothing sounded right.

Across the table, Wonwoo had already begun writing.

His expression gave nothing away. You resisted every temptation to lean across and read his screen.

"You've already started."

"I have."

"How?"

"I know what I think."

"You always know what you think." He looked at you for a moment before answering quietly.

"Not always." The admission surprised you enough that you forgot your own frustration.

"You don't?" He shook his head.

"I just usually don't say anything until I do."

—

The deadline for the reflective statements was Friday evening. You submitted yours at 11:43 p.m. Wonwoo submitted his at 11:46.

Neither of you mentioned what you'd written. Neither asked. It felt oddly personal. Some thoughts belonged to the report.

Others, perhaps not.

—

Monday arrived with your final consultation before presentation week.

The professor skimmed through your draft silently, making only occasional notes in the margins.

When she finally looked up, she smiled.

"You've both done excellent work."

Relief settled quietly across your shoulders.

"Your analysis is thoughtful."

She tapped one particular paragraph.

"Especially this section."

You glanced down.

It was the conclusion the two of you had rewritten four separate times.

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to develop through repeated acts of mutual investment rather than a single defining event.

The professor nodded.

"I agree." Then she closed the report.

"There is only one thing I'd like you to think about." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"What is it?" She smiled knowingly.

"You've spent three months studying why people choose one another." A pause.

"I wonder..." She gathered the papers neatly into a pile.

"...whether either of you has considered that question outside the assignment."

Neither you nor Wonwoo answered. The professor didn't seem to expect one.

She simply handed back the report.

"I'll see you both next week."

—

The walk back across campus was unusually slow.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The afternoon sun had finally broken through after nearly a week of rain, leaving the pathways crowded with students reclaiming patches of grass between classes. Someone was playing music beneath the science building, while clubs recruited new members with handmade signs and bowls of wrapped lollies.

Life continued around you exactly as it always had.

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about the professor's question.

Eventually, Wonwoo broke the silence.

"I think she's wrong."

You looked at him.

"About what?"

"She's assuming the assignment changed us."

You frowned slightly.

"You don't think it did?"

He shook his head.

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...it only gave us enough time to notice."

For the first time since the semester began, you found yourself without an argument. Not because you disagreed. Because you thought he might be right.

—

[CASE FILE 014]

Research Status: Final Analysis Pending

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Current Findings

No empirical evidence conclusively demonstrates the existence of predetermined soulmates.

Participants consistently describe enduring relationships as products of repeated choice, trust, and shared experiences.

Extended observation significantly increases interpersonal understanding between research partners.

Researcher's Note: Variables initially considered external may have become internal. Further separation between observer and subject is no longer possible.

—

The final presentation was scheduled for nine o'clock on a Thursday morning.

Campus looked no different from any other day. Students hurried across the courtyard balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments, cyclists weaved between lecture buildings, and somewhere outside the student union someone was advertising a bake sale with far more enthusiasm than the audience deserved.

It felt strangely unfair.

For the past three months, this assignment had quietly reshaped your entire semester, and yet the rest of the university continued exactly as it always had, blissfully unaware that a forty-percent assessment somehow carried the weight of something much larger.

You arrived outside the sociology building fifteen minutes early. Wonwoo was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood beneath the awning reading over the printed copy of your presentation one final time, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other absentmindedly turned pages already memorised. He looked up almost immediately when he heard your footsteps.

"You beat me."

"I usually do."

"I was early."

"You were."

"So you've been here a while."

"Seven minutes."

"You timed it?"

"I looked at my watch."

You laughed softly.

"I don't know why I still ask."

"I don't either."

The conversation settled into a familiar quiet. Not because either of you had run out of things to say. Because neither of you felt pressured to fill every second.

Eventually, Wonwoo held out a paper cup.

"I got your coffee."

"You keep doing that."

"You keep forgetting breakfast."

"...I had toast."

"You had half."

You blinked.

"I finished the other half while walking."

"No."

"...How do you know that?"

"You always carry your keys in your left hand when you're eating."

"..."

"You've got jam on your sleeve."

You looked down. Sure enough—

A tiny smear of strawberry jam sat near your wrist.

You sighed dramatically.

"You really would've made a terrifying detective."

"I know."

"You admitted it."

"I've had time to think about it."

The corners of your mouth lifted.

"So have I."

—

The presentations passed one by one. Some groups argued that soulmate beliefs were entirely cultural.

Others concluded that compatibility could be explained through attachment theory, personality traits, or shared values.

One group confidently declared that love was nothing more than neurochemistry and evolutionary advantage.

Another insisted destiny existed because statistical improbability could not adequately explain meaningful coincidence.

You listened carefully. Three months ago, you would have known exactly which side you agreed with.

Now you weren't so certain. Or perhaps you were certain for entirely different reasons.

"Pair Fourteen."

The professor smiled.

"Whenever you're ready."

You and Wonwoo walked to the front together.

No discussion. No deciding who would speak first. By now, neither of you needed to.

The first slide appeared behind you.

Do Soulmates Exist?

You looked out across the room before beginning.

"When we started this project, we approached the question from opposing viewpoints."

Wonwoo continued naturally.

"One of us believed soulmate relationships could not be empirically demonstrated."

"And one of us believed they existed regardless of whether they could be measured."

He changed slides.

"Our original objective was to determine which perspective was better supported by evidence."

"It didn't happen."

A ripple of quiet laughter travelled through the room. You smiled.

"Instead..."

The next slide appeared.

Findings

"We discovered something neither of us expected."

You looked briefly towards Wonwoo before continuing.

"None of the couples we interviewed described love as something that simply happened."

"Regardless of whether they believed in fate," he added, "their relationships depended upon repeated choices."

"They described commitment."

"Consistency."

"Trust."

"Attention."

"Shared routines."

"Mutual understanding."

Neither of you had rehearsed the alternating rhythm.

It simply happened.

The presentation flowed almost conversationally now, each sentence picked up naturally by the other before the silence had time to settle.

"Our literature review found no empirical evidence proving predetermined soulmates."

"However," Wonwoo said, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

You looked at him, surprised. He noticed.

"I read your notes."

"You quoted me."

"It supported the argument."

You smiled before turning back towards the audience.

"Our conclusion is therefore not that soulmates definitively exist..."

"...nor that they definitively do not."

Another slide appeared.

Final Conclusion

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to emerge through repeated mutual investment, trust, and deliberate choice rather than a single predetermined moment.

Silence followed. Not awkward. Thoughtful. The professor nodded slowly.

"Questions?"

A hand rose almost immediately.

"So..."

The student grinned.

"Did either of you change your minds?"

You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo.

He looked back.

Neither answered immediately.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I still think people can become irreplaceable."

Wonwoo nodded almost imperceptibly.

"And I still don't think fate explains why."

The room waited.

"But..."

He adjusted his glasses.

"...I don't think that's the important part anymore."

The professor smiled.

"Why not?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because after interviewing dozens of people, we realised none of them stayed together because destiny did the work."

He glanced sideways.

"They stayed because they kept choosing each other."

No one spoke. The professor thanked you both before dismissing the class for a short break while she finalised grades.

Just like that, the assignment was over.

—

You found yourselves standing outside the building with nowhere particular to go. For the first time in months, there was no interview to schedule. No journal article to discuss. No observation log waiting to be completed.

The routine that had quietly built itself around the two of you had simply ended.

"We're done."

"We are."

"We don't have another meeting."

"No."

"...That's strange."

"It is."

Students drifted around you in small groups, already talking about upcoming exams and weekend plans. Someone from another tutorial waved goodbye.

Life continued. Again. Exactly as it always had.

"I suppose..." you began carefully, "...this is where we stop accidentally seeing each other four times a week."

Wonwoo frowned slightly.

"Why would we?"

You looked at him.

"The assignment's finished."

"I know."

"So..."

"So?"

"You don't have to keep buying me coffee."

"I wasn't buying it because of the assignment."

"...You weren't?"

"No."

You laughed quietly.

"I genuinely can't tell when you're joking."

"I'm not."

The words settled gently between you.

You realised then that they weren't really about coffee.

"Were you serious," you asked softly, "when you said the assignment didn't change us?"

"Yes."

"What did it do, then?"

He thought about it.

"I think..."

He looked out across the courtyard before answering.

"...it forced us to pay attention."

"To sociology?"

He smiled faintly.

"To each other."

Your heart stumbled. Just enough that you noticed it.

"I've spent months trying to prove or disprove soulmates," you admitted.

"And?"

"I don't know if I've reached an answer."

"You don't have to."

"No."

You looked down at the empty coffee cup still warming your hands.

"I suppose I haven't."

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

"Would you like dinner?"

You looked up.

"What?"

Wonwoo looked almost embarrassed by his own question.

"We usually work after class."

"We do."

"We're not working anymore."

"No."

"So..."

Another pause.

"I'd still like to spend time with you."

You couldn't help smiling.

"You know, that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

"I was."

"...Oh."

"I thought I was being reasonably clear."

"You were."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."

"How else was I supposed to say it?"

"I don't know."

"You've spent three months telling me communication matters."

"I have."

"So."

He met your eyes.

"I'm communicating."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you nodded.

"I'd like that."

Relief softened something in his expression so subtle that someone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

Together, you turned towards the path leading away from the sociology building.

There was no assignment waiting at the end of it.

No hypothesis left to test.

Only another choice.

This time, neither of you needed research to make it.

—

[CASE FILE 014 — CLOSED]

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Official Conclusion: Inconclusive.

Supplementary Findings: Participants consistently demonstrated that enduring relationships are sustained through repeated acts of trust, attention, and mutual choice. Extended observation unexpectedly altered the perspectives of both researchers.

Professor's Final Comment: You never proved soulmates. You did, however, provide compelling evidence that people can become indispensable to one another.

Status: CASE CLOSED.

—

@junplusone @spookykryptonitegardener @passionfruitenthusiast @imhereonlytoreadxoxo (i lowk forgor to tag u guys in the last 1/2 fics in the series, so theres that...)

[supi-wupi]

Kiss Me, It’s for Soulmates — Wonwoo

pairing: wonwoo x reader synopsis: He doesn’t believe in fate. You do. So when you get paired together in a sociology class to prove or disprove soulmates, you’re determined to change his mind—or die academically trying. wc: 9.6k (im shook) genre: Slow burn, University AU, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Friends-to-Lovers, Light Angst, Comedy, Slice of Life warnings: SOOOOO MUCH DIALOG IM SORRY, I had to compress the text a lil bc there were too many blocks so it might sound weird in some places, Brief Misunderstandings, Social Anxiety (in 1 part), Mild existential discussions about relationships and compatibility a/n: Happy (late) birthday to wonwoo!! Sorry this took so long, i miscalculated how long this would get. This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!

There was something strangely comforting about the first week of a new semester.

Maybe it was because everything still felt temporary enough to reinvent yourself if you wanted to. Lecture theatres filled with unfamiliar faces who smiled politely without expecting names, tutors who still believed everyone had completed the readings, and fresh notebooks whose untouched pages hadn't yet become victims of rushed handwriting and coffee stains. Every semester began with the same promise that this one would somehow be different, that assignments would be started early, lectures would be attended diligently, and perhaps this time your sleep schedule would survive beyond Week Three.

You believed it every single semester.

Whether that made you optimistic or hopelessly naïve was still up for debate.

The Sociology of Human Relationships was one of the electives you'd chosen almost impulsively, although you preferred calling it intuition whenever your friends questioned your decisions. The course outline had sounded interesting enough—attachment theory, interpersonal communication, social expectations—but what had caught your attention was a single sentence tucked away beneath the assessment schedule.

Major Research Project (40%) — Investigating the Concept of Soulmates.

You had smiled at the screen for far longer than necessary.

It wasn't because you expected university to confirm the existence of some invisible red string connecting strangers across cities or oceans, nor because you thought there was one singular person waiting somewhere with your name written into the universe. Your belief had never been that simplistic. Soulmates, at least to you, were never about destiny removing the need for choice.

If anything, they were about choice itself.

People met thousands throughout their lives. Friends came and went, lovers arrived and left, families grew complicated, and yet somehow, every now and then, two people chose one another so completely that the rest of the world became background noise. Whether that was destiny or simply extraordinary luck hardly mattered.

The feeling was real either way.

"Y/N!"

Your attention lifted from the printed course guide as someone dropped into the seat beside you with enough force to make the fold-out desk wobble. Mina grinned without a hint of apology, balancing an iced coffee in one hand while already scrolling through her timetable on her phone with the other.

"I swear," she whispered dramatically, "if this professor starts with an icebreaker, I'm transferring."

"You say that every semester."

"And one day I'll mean it."

The lecture theatre continued filling around you in waves of conversation, backpacks thumping onto the floor, chairs scraping against concrete, students greeting friends they hadn't seen over the break with exaggerated enthusiasm. Somewhere near the front, someone was already arguing about textbook prices, while further back a group was debating whether attendance was actually compulsory.

The room buzzed with that peculiar kind of organised chaos unique to universities, where everyone seemed simultaneously exhausted and hopeful.

At precisely nine o'clock, the chatter softened. The professor walked in carrying nothing except a tablet and a stack of manila folders.

No introductory slideshow. No welcoming speech. Just a quiet smile.

"I'll save everyone's time," she began. "Yes, attendance is recorded."

A collective groan echoed through the theatre. She nodded knowingly.

"I appreciate the honesty."

Even Mina laughed. The first twenty minutes passed exactly as expected. Assessment breakdowns, consultation hours, textbook recommendations no one intended to purchase until absolutely necessary. Pens moved lazily across notebooks while laptops clicked open around the room.

Then the professor reached for the folders.

"This," she said, holding one up between her fingers, "is the assignment students remember long after they've forgotten everything else from this course."

The room immediately became quieter.

"For the remainder of the semester, each of you will work with one randomly assigned partner."

Another groan, she ignored it.

"Your task is deceptively simple."

The projector behind her flickered to life.

DO SOULMATES EXIST?

Silence. Then scattered laughter.

"No," someone near the back called.

"I haven't even had breakfast," another complained.

The professor continued as though neither interruption had happened.

"You'll investigate the claim from a sociological perspective. You are expected to collect qualitative and quantitative evidence, conduct interviews, examine existing literature, perform behavioural observations, and construct an argument either supporting or rejecting the concept."

Your hand was already writing before she'd finished speaking. Interview couples. Different age groups. Longitudinal relationships? Cultural perspectives. You underlined the last one twice.

"This assignment is not about proving your own beliefs," the professor continued. "It's about learning whether your beliefs withstand scrutiny."

You liked that. Beside you, Mina looked significantly less enthusiastic.

"I wanted multiple choice."

"You chose sociology."

"I made mistakes."

The professor began distributing the folders down each row.

"Each folder contains your assigned partner."

Someone sighed dramatically enough to earn a laugh from the surrounding students.

"You don't get to choose," the professor added before anyone could ask. "Yes, they're random. No, I won't swap anyone. Half the purpose of this assignment is learning to work with perspectives different from your own."

The folders travelled slowly across the lecture theatre. One by one. Closer. Closer. Eventually one landed in front of you with a soft papery thud. Your name had already been printed neatly across the cover.

Below it—Research Pair: Group 14

You opened it. Your assigned partner's name sat beneath yours.

JEON WONWOO

You frowned thoughtfully. The name sounded familiar. Not personally, academically. Someone who answered questions during lectures with suspicious confidence. Someone tutors seemed to recognise. Someone you'd seen around campus more than once without ever speaking to. Mina leaned across immediately.

"Who'd you get?"

You turned the page towards her.

"Oh."

"What?"

She gave you a look that somehow managed to communicate both sympathy and amusement.

"Good luck."

"...That helpful?"

"I've got a friend in psychology who had a class with him last semester."

"And?"

"He argued with the lecturer."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"He won."

Before you could ask another question, the lecture theatre door opened. Five minutes late. A tall figure stepped quietly inside, carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder as though arriving after the lecture had begun didn't concern him in the slightest. There was no frantic apology, no awkward attempt to avoid drawing attention. He simply offered the professor a brief nod, received one in return, and scanned the room for an empty seat. You recognised him immediately from the photograph attached to the research folder.

Jeon Wonwoo.

He settled into one of the remaining seats a few rows ahead without speaking to anyone, pushing his glasses back into place before opening the folder that had been left on the desk for him.  You watched his eyes skim the first page. Pause. Then continue. Nothing about his expression changed. Not surprise. Not annoyance. Nothing. He simply closed the folder again.

The professor clapped her hands together gently.

"Now that everyone knows their partner, I'd like each pair to spend the remaining class introducing yourselves and discussing your preliminary position."

Chairs scraped backwards across the room almost instantly. Students stood, searching for unfamiliar names and uncertain faces.

"Group Four?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Who's Olivia?"

Mina squeezed your arm.

"Good luck."

"You've said that twice."

"Because I think you'll need it."

She disappeared into the growing crowd before you could respond. You stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, scanning the room until your eyes found him again. He had already found you. Not because he waved, not because he smiled, simply because he was looking directly at you with the quiet recognition of someone matching names to faces. He approached first. Up close, he seemed somehow taller than expected, though perhaps it was only because he carried himself with an unhurried confidence that made everyone else seem louder by comparison.

"Y/N?"

His voice was calm. Lower than you'd imagined.

"That's me."

He nodded once.

"Wonwoo."

"I figured."

A brief silence settled between you, not necessarily uncomfortable, merely unfamiliar. You offered a small smile anyway.

"I guess we're partners."

"It seems that way."

There was something almost amusing about how matter-of-fact he sounded, as though being assigned to work together ranked somewhere between receiving a library receipt and checking tomorrow's weather forecast. You gestured towards two empty seats near the side of the lecture theatre.

"We should probably start?"

He followed without objection. The assignment brief sat open between you, covered in highlighted sections and handwritten annotations that already looked wildly different. Your notes wandered into margins with arrows connecting ideas that hadn't yet fully formed. His remained perfectly organised, concise, almost clinical. You noticed he had already circled one sentence.

Construct an evidence-based conclusion.

"You've started already?"

"I was reading."

"You've highlighted one sentence."

"It seemed important." You couldn't help smiling.

"You seem like the type to colour-code your lecture notes."

"I do."

"I knew it." He looked almost confused by your satisfaction.

"You say that like it's unusual."

"It isn't. I just enjoy being right." Something very close to amusement crossed his face before disappearing again.

"So," you began, tapping the title page, "what's your opinion?" He didn't need time to think.

"Soulmates don't exist." The sentence landed with complete certainty. Not dismissively, not mockingly, simply factually. You blinked.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"No hesitation?"

"No." You leaned back in your chair.

"Interesting." He tilted his head slightly.

"You disagree."

"I do."

"I guessed."

"Was it the fact I highlighted interview ideas before the assignment had even been explained?"

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"You smiled when the professor introduced the topic." Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them.

"You noticed that?"

"You were sitting in front of me."

"So?"

"So I noticed." The simplicity of the answer somehow made it more convincing. You folded your arms loosely across the desk.

"I think soulmates exist."

"In what sense?"

"That depends." He waited. Not impatiently, just quietly.

"I don't think there's one perfect person pre-selected by the universe," you explained. "I think there are connections that feel statistically impossible. People who arrive in your life and alter its direction so completely that calling it coincidence almost feels inadequate." He considered your words for a moment before responding.

"People are good at assigning meaning to random events."

"And people are equally good at dismissing meaningful ones because they can't quantify them."

"Our brains search for patterns."

"Sometimes because patterns are there." He looked at you for another second.Then, unexpectedly, a small smile. Barely noticeable.

"Professor was right."

"About what?"

"This is going to take the entire semester." You laughed before you could help yourself. It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a particularly graceful one, but it escaped all the same, drawing a brief glance from the pair sitting nearby. Wonwoo looked almost surprised that he'd been the cause of it. Perhaps you were equally surprised.

Maybe this assignment wouldn't be quite as straightforward as you'd imagined. Or perhaps that was exactly what made it worth doing.

—

[CASE FILE 001 — Department of Sociology, Research Pair Registration]

Pair Number: 14

Student A: Jeon Wonwoo Preliminary Position: The concept of soulmates is a cultural construct that cannot be empirically supported.

Student B: Y/N Preliminary Position: Soulmates exist as meaningful interpersonal connections, regardless of whether they can be objectively measured.

Professor's Observation: Significant ideological contrast.Encourage both students to challenge assumptions rather than defend them.Productive disagreement often produces the strongest research.

—

"You've highlighted the entire article."

"I highlighted the important parts." Wonwoo glanced up from his laptop just long enough to give you a look somewhere between disbelief and quiet resignation before returning to his own notes.

"You've highlighted eighty percent of the paper."

"The remaining twenty percent wasn't relevant."

"Then you didn't need the highlighter."

"It helped me read."

"I don't think that's what highlighting is for."

"It is for me." He paused, fingers hovering above his keyboard as though debating whether correcting your study habits was worth the effort. Eventually, he decided it wasn't, and the faint shake of his head was so subtle that you almost missed it.

It had been just over a week since the first lecture. Long enough to settle into a routine. Every Tuesday after class, the two of you met in the same corner of the university library, occupying a table tucked beside floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus courtyard. The location had never been discussed. After the first meeting, you'd simply wandered towards the empty table, and Wonwoo had followed without comment. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the space had somehow become yours. The first ten minutes were always quiet. Not awkward. Just quiet.

You unpacked your bag in exactly the same order every time—laptop first, notebook second, pencil case last—while Wonwoo plugged in his charger, aligned three different coloured sticky tabs along the edge of his notebook, and opened whichever academic journal he had downloaded that morning.

Somewhere nearby, the library printer whirred to life. Pages shuffled. Chairs scraped softly against carpet, and the occasional muffled laugh drifted from the collaborative study rooms before being silenced by a passing librarian.

It was strangely peaceful.

"So," you said eventually, breaking the silence. "How many papers have you read?"

"Twenty-three." You blinked.

"...Twenty-three?"

"They were relatively short."

"You read twenty-three sociology papers in a week?"

"I skimmed seven."

"Oh, well that makes it normal." He ignored the sarcasm.

"There isn't substantial empirical evidence supporting the soulmate hypothesis."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm stating a finding."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You wanted one to prove wrong." He looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

"I wanted evidence."

"You wanted a challenge."

"I have one." He gestured vaguely towards you. You tried very hard not to smile. Instead, you opened your own notebook, where the page labelled Possible Interview Subjects had become increasingly crowded over the past few days.

"We're supposed to start collecting qualitative data this week."

"I know."

"The professor wants a minimum of ten interviews."

"I know."

"You keep saying you know."

"Because I do." You leaned your chin into your palm.

"You're no fun."

"I've been told."

"Really?"

"No."

"...That was almost a joke."

"I don't joke."

"Liar."

"I don't."

"You literally just did."

"I didn't intend to."

"Still counts." He sighed so quietly it almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

—

The sociology department had prepared interview consent forms, questionnaires, and recording equipment for every research pair, though the professor had insisted that the interviews themselves be arranged independently.

That was how the two of you found yourselves standing outside the weekend farmers' market early Saturday morning, clipboards tucked beneath your arms while people wandered past carrying reusable shopping bags and bouquets of flowers.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of his satchel.

"This seems inefficient."

"It's perfect."

"There are too many variables."

"There are too many people."

"Exactly."

"That's the point." He looked unconvinced.

"You picked this location because..."

"There are families." He waited.

"Couples." Still waiting.

"Grandparents."

"...Continue."

"And everyone walks slower because they're buying vegetables." He stared at you.

"What?"

"I wasn't expecting the vegetables."

"They're essential."

"To sociology?"

"To catching interview participants."

"...Right." You smiled innocently.

"Trust me." He didn't. That much was obvious. Still, he followed you towards the first elderly couple browsing homemade honey.

"Excuse me," you asked politely, "would you mind answering a few questions for a university sociology project?"

The couple exchanged a look before smiling warmly.

"We've got nowhere to be." You glanced sideways at Wonwoo.

"See?" He simply uncapped his pen.

—

The first interview lasted nearly twenty minutes. The couple had been married for forty-eight years. When you asked whether they believed they were soulmates, the husband laughed before his wife answered first.

"Oh, goodness, no." You blinked.

"No?" She smiled.

"I couldn't stand him when we first met."

"I still don't know why she married me," her husband admitted.

"You proposed six times."

"You counted?"

"I rejected five." Wonwoo wrote something down. You tried not to laugh.

"So..." you asked carefully, "when did you know?" The woman looked at her husband for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think there was a single moment." Her fingers reached absentmindedly for his hand.

"I think one day we realised we'd spent years choosing each other." Her husband nodded.

"Love isn't fate."

A pause.

"Staying is."

Silence settled over the table. The market continued bustling around you. Someone called out prices for strawberries. A child laughed somewhere behind you. Nearby wind chimes clinked softly against one another. You scribbled the quote into your notebook almost immediately. Beside you, Wonwoo didn't speak. You waited. Normally, he would've already pointed out retrospective bias or emotional reconstruction. Instead, he quietly underlined something in his notes. Only after thanking the couple and watching them disappear into the crowd did either of you speak again.

"...Well?" He closed the notebook.

"It was interesting."

"That's all?"

"It was."

"You don't have an argument?"

"Not immediately." You looked at him in surprise.

"I'll need to think about it." For some reason, that felt like a victory. Not because he'd agreed with you.  Because he hadn't dismissed the interview outright.

—

The afternoon passed in much the same way. An engaged couple who had met online through a video game. A divorced woman who insisted soulmates existed but timing mattered more. A university student who believed compatibility could be calculated using personality tests.  Each interview challenged one assumption only to reinforce another.

By the time the market began packing away stalls, your voice had become slightly hoarse. You dropped onto a nearby bench with a sigh.

"My social battery is gone." Wonwoo handed you a bottle of water.

"You forgot this." You frowned.

"When?"

"You've carried it since this morning."

"...I completely forgot."

"I noticed."

"You notice everything." He considered that.

"I notice patterns."

"You noticed I hadn't had water."

"You'd spoken continuously for nearly three hours."

"And?"

"You usually drink after about forty minutes." You stared.

"...You know that's a little creepy."

"It wasn't intentional."

"I know."

A breeze stirred the trees lining the footpath. People continued filtering towards the train station, conversations fading into the distance. Without thinking, you reached into your backpack and pulled out two convenience store sandwiches you'd bought earlier that morning.

"I completely forgot these too."

"You forget a lot."

"I remember important things."

"You forgot lunch."

"I remembered eventually." You held one sandwich towards him.

"Here." He hesitated.

"You only bought two."

"I know."

"You'll be hungry."

"I'll survive." Another pause. Eventually, he accepted it.

"...Thank you."

"You said that like you weren't expecting me to share."

"I wasn't."

"Why not?"

"You've known me for eight days."

"So?"

"So..." He looked faintly puzzled by the question. "People don't usually do that." You shrugged.

"I had two." The explanation seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Wonwoo looked down at the unopened sandwich in his hands before quietly peeling back the wrapper.

"You know," you said after a while, "I thought you'd be colder." He glanced sideways.

"I've barely spoken."

"Exactly."

"And yet?"

"And yet you keep noticing little things." He frowned slightly.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"It has nothing to do with being nice."

"I didn't say nice."

"You implied it."

"I implied observant." Silence.

"...You think I'm observant?"

"I think you pretend not to care." He looked away first.

"You've reached that conclusion after eight days?"

"Maybe."

"...Your sample size is too small."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"Turning everything into research."

"It is research."

"I know." You smiled despite yourself.

"But you're still doing it." He didn't deny it.

—

Later that evening, after the interviews had been transcribed and uploaded to the shared folder, your phone buzzed with a new notification. Wonwoo uploaded a file. Curious, you opened it. 

Instead of another journal article, it was the transcript from the elderly couple. One sentence had been highlighted.

Love isn't fate. Staying is.

Beneath it, in the comments section, was a single line.

Potential distinction between destiny and commitment. Worth exploring further.

You smiled at the screen. Without thinking too much about it, you replied beneath his comment.

Maybe soulmates aren't found. Maybe they're built.

Three minutes later, a new notification appeared. Wonwoo replied. 

Interesting hypothesis.

It was only two words. But somehow, for the first time since meeting him, it felt less like the beginning of an argument and more like the beginning of a conversation.

—

[Interview Transcript — Couple #01]

Question: Do you believe you were soulmates?

Response (Wife): No. Not when we met.

Response (Husband): We became them.

Handwritten annotation (Y/N): Maybe soulmates aren't discovered. Maybe they're something people create together over time.

Comment added later (J. Wonwoo): Interesting hypothesis. Investigate whether this idea appears in attachment theory literature.

—

By the third week of the semester, the library had become less of a meeting place and more of a habit.

Neither of you remembered making the decision to continue studying there after every lecture. It simply happened. Tuesdays were reserved for sorting interview transcripts, Thursdays for reading journal articles, and Saturdays, more often than not, ended with another round of field interviews somewhere around the city. Somewhere between colour-coded folders, shared Google Drive documents, and arguments over citation formatting, the line separating obligation from routine had quietly disappeared. You were beginning to suspect Wonwoo noticed it too.

He was already sitting at your usual table when you arrived that Thursday afternoon, though he hadn't messaged to say he'd gotten there early. His laptop was open, half a dozen journal articles tiled neatly across the screen, while an untouched cup of coffee rested beside his elbow. Judging by the faint curl of steam that still rose from the lid, he'd only been there a few minutes.

"You ordered coffee before I got here?" you asked, setting your backpack down with a muffled thud.

"I ordered mine." You looked around the table.

"There are two." Without looking up from the paragraph he was annotating, he reached across and nudged the second cup towards your side.

"You usually buy one before we start." You blinked.

"I... do."

"You were running late."

"So you just..."

"I was already there."

"...Bought mine too?" He finally looked up, expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses.

"It saves time." You stared at the cup for a second longer than necessary. It was the same order you'd been buying since the first week. Medium vanilla latte. One sugar. No whipped cream.

"You remembered."

"You've ordered it six times."

"You counted?"

"I noticed." There it was again.

That quiet way he answered every observation as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He never seemed aware that most people didn't remember how someone took their coffee after a handful of meetings, or which hand they wrote with, or that they always tucked loose strands of hair behind the same ear whenever they were concentrating. He simply noticed.

"You know," you said, peeling back the lid carefully, "if sociology doesn't work out, you'd make a terrifying detective."

"I've considered it." You laughed.

"I'm not joking."

"I know."

"...Wait." He returned his attention to the article without another word. You narrowed your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"I considered forensic psychology once."

"You can't just casually mention that and keep reading."

"I didn't think it was particularly interesting."

"It is to me."

"Hm."

"You really don't understand what people find interesting about you, do you?" His fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a brief moment, silence settled between you.

"I've never thought about it." The answer came so honestly that you didn't know how to respond.

—

The professor arrived ten minutes late to the afternoon tutorial carrying a stack of printed worksheets that looked considerably thicker than anyone appreciated. An audible sigh rippled through the classroom.

"Good afternoon." No one returned the enthusiasm. She smiled anyway.

"I've read through your interview transcripts." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"They're promising." There were a few relieved exhalations around the room.

"However..." Collective dread.

"...interviews only tell us what people believe happened." She placed the worksheets on the front desk.

"Human memory is remarkably unreliable." Wonwoo’s pen immediately clicked. You recognised that look. He agreed.

"So," the professor continued, "we're moving on to behavioural observation." Several students frowned.

"You'll spend the next two weeks observing your assigned partner." Someone near the back groaned dramatically. The professor ignored them.

"You are not trying to prove they're your soulmate." A few laughs broke out.

"You are observing unconscious patterns." She began writing on the whiteboard.

Walking pace. Eye contact. Speech rhythm. Personal space. Gesture mirroring. Listening behaviour.

"You may record anything you find relevant," she explained. "The important rule is this."

She underlined the next sentence.

Do not tell your partner what you're recording.

The room erupted into confused chatter.

"What?"

"That's so weird."

"They're going to overthink everything."

"Exactly," the professor replied. "Which is why I don't want you discussing your observations until the fortnight is over." She looked around the classroom.

"People reveal the most about themselves when they believe nothing important is being noticed."

—

The walk back to the library felt strangely different. Not because anything had changed. Because now you couldn't stop wondering whether it had.

Were you walking normally? Did you always swing your backpack from your right shoulder? Did you speak with your hands this much?

You caught yourself fixing your posture halfway across campus before realising exactly what you were doing. Beside you, Wonwoo seemed completely unaffected. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding it.

"This assignment is cruel," you muttered.

"It'll produce better data."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It probably will."

"You aren't even a little curious about what I'm writing down?"

"I'll find out eventually."

"...That's it?" He shrugged lightly.

"If I change my behaviour because I'm thinking about it, the observations become less useful."

"You've accepted this frighteningly quickly."

"It's interesting."

"You called interviewing strangers inefficient."

"It was."

"And spying on each other is interesting?"

"We're not spying."

"It feels like spying."

"It's structured observation."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"I'm defining the methodology." You laughed under your breath.

"See?"

"What?"

"You've already started."

"I haven't."

"You've become more formal."

"I always speak like this."

"When you're trying to win an argument. I noticed."

He looked at you for a long second before the corners of his mouth lifted—just slightly.

"So did I." You frowned.

"So did you what?"

"I noticed."

"...You smiled before disagreeing."

You hadn't even realised.

—

That evening, your shared project folder gained two new files.

Behaviour Observation Log — Y/N

Behaviour Observation Log — Wonwoo

Password protected. You opened your own template first. At the top of the page sat a single instruction.

Record observations objectively. Avoid interpretation until analysis is complete.

You snorted softly.

"That's going to be impossible."

You had barely spent ten days working with Wonwoo, yet already every observation seemed to carry two versions. The objective one. And the one you couldn't quite explain.

Objective: He waits for elderly people to exit the lift before entering.

Subjective: He never seems aware he's doing it.

You sighed, deleting the second sentence before replacing it with something more academic. At least... you tried.

—

[CASE FILE 003 — Behavioural Observation Study]

Subjects: Pair 14

Observation Period: Weeks 3–5

Research Objective: To identify unconscious behavioural patterns that influence perceived interpersonal compatibility.

Reminder: Observation is not interpretation. Record what occurs. Explain why only after sufficient evidence has been collected.

—

The observation period began on a Monday. You hated it almost immediately. Not because it was difficult to write observations—if anything, there were too many things to write—but because the assignment had transformed every ordinary interaction into something strangely self-conscious. Every time you caught Wonwoo glancing in your direction, your immediate thought was no longer Is something wrong? but Did he just write that down? By Wednesday, you were convinced you had forgotten how to exist naturally.

"You've looked at me three times in the last minute."

"I wasn't counting."

"You definitely were."

"I wasn't."

"You paused before answering."

"I was thinking."

"Exactly." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"...From who?"

"You."

"I don't think I've actually said it."

"You implied it."

"You keep doing that."

"What?"

"Turning everything I say into evidence."

"It is evidence."

"It isn't."

"It could be." You let out an exaggerated sigh before dramatically opening your notebook.

"Observation number twenty-seven." He looked up.

"'Subject is deeply irritating.'"

"...That's not objective."

"I'm making an exception."

"It'll affect the validity of your findings."

"It'll improve my emotional wellbeing." Something that looked suspiciously like amusement crossed his face.

"You smiled."

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I disagree."

"You can't disagree with your own facial expression."

"I'm questioning your interpretation."

"You absolutely smiled."

"I don't have sufficient evidence." You stared at him for a long moment before laughing.

"You know, for someone who doesn't believe in soulmates, you're weirdly committed to making sure I never win an argument."

"I've accepted that I won't."

"...What?"

"I've accepted that you won't stop arguing."

"...That's not what you said."

"I know."

—

The campus café became another unspoken routine. Originally, it had simply been somewhere convenient between lectures. Now the barista greeted both of you before either of you reached the counter.

"The usual?" You nodded automatically, Wonwoo answered at almost exactly the same time.

"Yes." The barista smiled.

"I'll have them ready in a minute." You didn't notice anything unusual until you sat down.

"You ordered for me."

"You were looking for your student card."

"...I was."

"You usually spend about thirty seconds searching your bag." You blinked.

"You've timed that too?"

"No."

"You know that's somehow worse."

"I've noticed it happens."

"You make it sound completely normal."

"It is."

"No, normal people don't know how long someone spends looking for their wallet."

"They might."

"They absolutely don't." He took a slow sip of coffee before answering.

"I think people notice more than they realise."

"You definitely notice more than average."

"You've said that."

"And I keep being proven right." He didn't argue this time. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below, where students hurried between buildings carrying umbrellas against the light drizzle that had started sometime during your lecture. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think most people notice."

You looked at him.

"They just don't remember." There was something unexpectedly thoughtful about the way he said it. Not detached. Not analytical. Almost personal.

"What makes you remember?" His fingers paused around the paper cup.

"I don't know." He considered the question carefully before continuing.

"I think... once I've noticed something, it feels wrong to forget it." The sentence lingered in your mind long after the conversation had moved elsewhere.

—

Thursday's tutorial required each research pair to spend forty-five minutes silently observing one another while completing a collaborative puzzle. No discussion. No planning. No speaking. Only observation.

"This feels unethical," someone complained.

"It's educational," the professor replied.

"It's creepy."

"It's sociology."

"I'm changing majors." The professor laughed.

"No, you're not."

Sheets of coloured wooden blocks were distributed around the room, each pair receiving an identical puzzle that required recreating a geometric pattern using only non-verbal communication. You and Wonwoo exchanged a look.

"No talking?" you mouthed.

He nodded once. The timer began. Almost immediately, you reached for the wrong piece. Before your hand even touched it, Wonwoo gently slid the correct block towards you without looking up from the diagram.

You frowned. How had he—

You placed it into position. He rotated another piece exactly ninety degrees before setting it beside your hand. Again, correct. By the ten-minute mark, neither of you had spoken a single word. You barely needed to.

He seemed to understand what piece you were reaching for before you reached for it, quietly moving obstacles out of the way without interrupting your train of thought. When you hesitated over where a triangular block belonged, he tapped the corner of the diagram once before continuing with his own section. It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed. It simply worked.

Across the room, other pairs whispered apologies after instinctively speaking, argued silently through exaggerated gestures, or accidentally reached for the same pieces at the same time. Your table remained almost entirely still. When the professor called time, she'd barely finished the sentence before stopping beside your desk.

"You finished?" You both nodded. She examined the completed puzzle. Perfect.

"Hm." She made a note on her clipboard.

"Interesting." As she walked away, you finally looked at Wonwoo.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"We didn't even talk."

"The puzzle didn't require talking."

"It definitely did."

"I don't think so."

"Everyone else talked."

"We didn't."

"You handed me the exact pieces every single time."

"You usually solve left to right."

"...I what?"

"You start from the outside corners."

"I've never noticed that."

"I have." You stared.

"When?"

"You've organised every interview transcript the same way."

"..."

"You also unpack your stationery in the same order."

"..."

"You always finish reading the introduction before looking at the headings."

"..." He stopped.

"...Was I not supposed to notice those?" For a second, all you could do was blink.

"No."

"I thought they were obvious."

"They are to you." Another pause settled between you before you laughed quietly, shaking your head.

"I don't think you realise how different your brain works."

"I've never had another one to compare it to." The answer was so genuine that it caught you completely off guard.

—

That evening, after returning home, you opened your observation log again. The cursor blinked expectantly. You read back through the objective notes you'd managed to record over the past four days.

Day Four Subject remembers every source cited during discussion without checking notes.

Day Five Subject notices environmental changes before verbal acknowledgement by others.

Day Five Subject consistently positions themselves on the outer side of the footpath when walking together.

You frowned. You hadn't noticed writing that last one.  When had that happened? You thought back. 

Leaving the library. Crossing the road after interviews. Walking between lecture buildings. Every single time, without ever mentioning it, Wonwoo had quietly shifted to whichever side was closest to passing bicycles, traffic or crowds, leaving you on the inside of the path. It wasn't dramatic enough to draw attention. If anything, it was the kind of habit you only recognised once you'd seen it repeated enough times.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. You typed another line.

Day Six Subject performs considerate actions automatically, often without appearing aware of them.

You hesitated. Then deleted the word considerate. Too subjective. After another moment's thought, you rewrote it.

Subject changes behaviour in response to environmental conditions affecting others before changing his own.

Technically objective. Technically. You weren't entirely convinced.

— 

[Behaviour Observation Log — Extract]

Observer: Wonwoo

Day 4 Subject unconsciously smiles before disagreeing with someone.

Day 5 Subject says "interesting" when they are actually confused.

Day 5 Subject thanks bus drivers regardless of whether anyone else does.

Day 6 Subject slows walking pace when speaking about something important without appearing aware of it.

A line beneath the final observation has been crossed out, the original sentence is no longer legible. Only three rewritten words remain.

Worth remembering.

— 

The midpoint presentations arrived far sooner than either of you expected. It wasn't that the semester itself had moved particularly quickly. If anything, the weeks had been packed so densely with interviews, observation logs, literature reviews and tutorial discussions that every day felt longer than the last. Somewhere between the seventh transcript and the fifteenth journal article, however, the project had stopped feeling like a university assessment and quietly become part of your routine. You no longer wondered whether Wonwoo would be in the library after class. He always was.

Likewise, he had stopped asking whether you wanted coffee before starting work. At some point, the question had disappeared entirely, replaced by a second paper cup already sitting opposite him whenever you arrived a few minutes late. You weren't entirely sure when that had started. More strangely, neither of you had acknowledged it.

"You know," you said one afternoon, dropping your bag beside the chair opposite him, "normal people would probably think this is weird."

Wonwoo didn't look up from the spreadsheet he was editing.

"What part?"

"You buying my coffee."

"You always pay me back."

"That's not my point." He finished typing the sentence he'd been working on before finally closing the laptop halfway.

"What is your point?"

"My point is..." You paused, realising you hadn't actually thought this through. "Well..."

"You don't have one."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I think..." You tapped absentmindedly against the side of the coffee cup. "I think we've become suspiciously efficient." He considered that.

"We've spent approximately forty-seven hours working together."

"You counted?"

"I estimated."

"...That somehow isn't better."

"No." A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again. You caught it anyway. There had been more of those lately. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice. Enough that you did.

—

The tutorial room buzzed louder than usual as each research pair prepared their midpoint presentations. Laptops opened, extension cords snaked across the floor, and conversations overlapped as students made frantic last-minute edits.

Your professor moved quietly between the rows, occasionally stopping to answer questions before reminding everyone, for what felt like the tenth time that morning, to keep their presentations under ten minutes.

"You look nervous." You glanced sideways. Wonwoo was organising printed handouts into perfectly aligned stacks.

"I'm not nervous."

"You've rearranged your slides three times."

"I was fixing formatting."

"You changed the font."

"It was inconsistent."

"It was one title."

"It was bothering me." You smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The perfectionism."

"I prefer consistency."

"I know." He looked at you for a second before speaking again.

"You've rewritten your opening sentence eleven times. I counted." You folded your arms.

"I hate that you're right."

"I usually am."

"You sounded far too pleased saying that."

"I wasn't."

"Liar." He looked down to hide another almost-smile.

—

The presentations themselves varied wildly. Some groups had already reached confident conclusions. One pair argued that soulmate beliefs were largely reinforced by media representation. Another claimed attachment styles explained every interview they'd conducted. Someone else presented an elaborate statistical model that attempted to predict relationship longevity based on personality inventories.

When your turn came, neither you nor Wonwoo rushed to the front. You walked up together, setting your notes on the lectern without speaking.

"Our research question," you began, "asks whether soulmates exist."

"At this stage," Wonwoo continued, "our findings remain inconclusive."

A few classmates exchanged amused looks. You noticed.

"We've interviewed twelve participants across varying demographics," you said, changing slides. "Our qualitative findings reveal strong personal belief in soulmate concepts, although definitions vary considerably."

"Existing literature," Wonwoo added, "does not currently provide empirical evidence supporting soulmates as an objectively measurable phenomenon." You nodded.

"However..." He glanced towards you.

"...the interviews suggest something different." You continued seamlessly.

"Participants consistently described long-term relationships using language centred around choice rather than inevitability." The presentation flowed more naturally than either of you expected. Neither of you needed prompting. You instinctively knew when the other had finished speaking, quietly continuing each explanation without interrupting or repeating information. By the final slide, you almost forgot everyone else was watching. Until question time. A student near the back raised their hand.

"If you've spent over a month researching together..."

They looked between you and Wonwoo.

"...have either of you actually changed your minds?" Silence. You opened your mouth first.

"I..." Nothing came out. Because the truthful answer wasn't simple anymore. Had you changed your mind? Not really. You still believed soulmates existed. But your understanding of them had shifted. You looked towards Wonwoo. He spoke first.

"Our arguments have become more complicated." The classroom waited.

"We disagree about the conclusion." He adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.

"But we've stopped disagreeing about the evidence." A thoughtful silence settled across the room. The professor smiled.

"That's one of the best answers I've heard all day."

—

After class, while packing away your laptop, you overheard two students speaking just loudly enough that they clearly weren't trying very hard to keep the conversation private.

"I honestly thought they were dating." You froze.

"Nah."

"They've got that weird old married couple thing."

"They literally finish each other's presentations."

"Maybe the soulmate project worked." Someone laughed.

"Imagine." You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo. He had stopped placing papers into his bag. Only for a second. Then, without saying anything, he finished packing his things and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"We should go." His voice sounded perfectly normal. Perhaps too normal.

—

The walk to the library was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable. Simply lacking. Normally, one of you would comment on the presentation, complain about another journal article, or argue over interview methodology before reaching the main courtyard. Today, neither of you started a conversation. You tried twice.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"...Nothing."

He nodded once. The silence returned. It stayed with you through the rest of the afternoon. Through organising references. Through editing transcripts. Through packing your bags. When you finally left the library, he offered the same polite goodbye he always did.

"See you Tuesday."

"Yeah." He hesitated almost imperceptibly.

"See you." And then he walked away.

—

It wasn't until later that evening that you realised something felt wrong.

Not dramatically wrong. Nothing had happened. No argument. No disagreement. No misunderstanding that you could clearly identify. And yet you found yourself opening the shared document twice before remembering he wasn't editing tonight.

You almost messaged him a journal article before remembering he'd probably already found it himself. You even caught yourself glancing towards the empty chair beside yours during dinner. You frowned. That was unusual.

Across town, Wonwoo was staring at the unfinished observation log on his laptop. The cursor blinked beneath today's date. He typed one sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too. Eventually, he closed the document without saving. For the first time since the assignment had begun, he wasn't entirely certain how to describe what he'd observed.

—

[INTERNAL MEMORANDUM]

Research Pair 14

Midpoint Progress Review

Completed

✓ Literature Review

✓ Behavioural Observation (Phase I)

✓ Participant Interviews

✓ Preliminary Presentation

Outstanding

□ Emotional Bias Assessment

□ Final Analysis

Professor's Margin Note:

Excellent collaboration. Be mindful that prolonged observation can influence participant objectivity. Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

Someone—neither you nor Wonwoo—has circled the final sentence twice.

The next chapter is where the misunderstanding quietly deepens, forcing both of you to question whether your growing closeness is helping the research—or making it impossible to stay objective. It's also where the assignment begins to stop feeling like an investigation into soulmates and starts becoming an investigation into each other.

—

There was a peculiar kind of silence that only existed between people who had grown accustomed to one another.

It wasn't uncomfortable. Nor was it empty. It was the sort of silence built over weeks of shared routines, where conversation became optional because neither person felt responsible for filling every quiet moment. You had never thought much about it before meeting Wonwoo. Silence, to you, had always been something to fix—a pause that invited another question, another story, another attempt to keep the conversation moving.

Now, sitting across from him in your usual corner of the library, you realised nearly twenty minutes had passed without either of you speaking.

The only sounds were the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, the turning of pages somewhere nearby, and the distant hum of rain against the windows overlooking the courtyard. Strangely, you hadn't noticed the time. Wonwoo was reviewing the coding categories for your interview transcripts, occasionally making neat annotations in the margins of the printed pages spread around him. You were rereading the behavioural observation logs, trying to identify recurring themes before beginning the final report.

Every so often, one of you would slide a document across the table. No explanation. The other would read it, nod once, and continue working. It had become almost effortless. The realisation should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled you. Because the professor's feedback from the midpoint presentation refused to leave your mind.

Consider whether the researcher has begun affecting the research.

You had laughed when you first read it. Now it seemed less like feedback and more like a warning.

"Can I ask you something?" Wonwoo looked up immediately.

"You already are." You rolled your eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He closed the notebook in front of him, giving you his full attention.

"What is it?" You hesitated longer than expected.

"Do you think..." The words felt strangely difficult.

"...we've become biased?" He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the question with the same care he gave every research problem.

"In what sense?"

"The assignment."

"Our conclusions?"

"No."

You shook your head.

"I mean..." You searched for the right wording.

"...do you think we've spent so much time observing each other that we've stopped being objective?" His expression remained thoughtful.

"I think..." Another pause.

"...that was probably inevitable." You stared.

"You're admitting that?"

"It would be difficult not to."

"You always argue objectivity."

"I still do."

"But?"

"But objectivity doesn't mean pretending bias doesn't exist." He folded his hands together on the table.

"It means recognising where it exists." You looked down at your own notes.

"So we're biased."

"Yes."

"...That's a problem."

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether we're willing to acknowledge it." The answer lingered between you. It wasn't the answer you expected. Nor was it the one you wanted. Because admitting bias meant admitting something else.

That neither of you had remained detached observers. Somewhere along the way, the research had stopped being about strangers.

It had become about the two of you.

—

Your final task before writing the report was deceptively simple. Each research pair had to submit an individual reflective statement answering one question:

How has this project influenced your understanding of human relationships?

No word limit. No references required. Only honesty. You stared at the blank document for almost fifteen minutes.

Eventually, you began typing.

I entered this project believing soulmates were something people found.

You stopped. Deleted the sentence. Started again.

I don't think I believe in coincidence any less than I did twelve weeks ago.

Delete. Again. Nothing sounded right.

Across the table, Wonwoo had already begun writing.

His expression gave nothing away. You resisted every temptation to lean across and read his screen.

"You've already started."

"I have."

"How?"

"I know what I think."

"You always know what you think." He looked at you for a moment before answering quietly.

"Not always." The admission surprised you enough that you forgot your own frustration.

"You don't?" He shook his head.

"I just usually don't say anything until I do."

—

The deadline for the reflective statements was Friday evening. You submitted yours at 11:43 p.m. Wonwoo submitted his at 11:46.

Neither of you mentioned what you'd written. Neither asked. It felt oddly personal. Some thoughts belonged to the report.

Others, perhaps not.

—

Monday arrived with your final consultation before presentation week.

The professor skimmed through your draft silently, making only occasional notes in the margins.

When she finally looked up, she smiled.

"You've both done excellent work."

Relief settled quietly across your shoulders.

"Your analysis is thoughtful."

She tapped one particular paragraph.

"Especially this section."

You glanced down.

It was the conclusion the two of you had rewritten four separate times.

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to develop through repeated acts of mutual investment rather than a single defining event.

The professor nodded.

"I agree." Then she closed the report.

"There is only one thing I'd like you to think about." You exchanged a glance with Wonwoo.

"What is it?" She smiled knowingly.

"You've spent three months studying why people choose one another." A pause.

"I wonder..." She gathered the papers neatly into a pile.

"...whether either of you has considered that question outside the assignment."

Neither you nor Wonwoo answered. The professor didn't seem to expect one.

She simply handed back the report.

"I'll see you both next week."

—

The walk back across campus was unusually slow.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The afternoon sun had finally broken through after nearly a week of rain, leaving the pathways crowded with students reclaiming patches of grass between classes. Someone was playing music beneath the science building, while clubs recruited new members with handmade signs and bowls of wrapped lollies.

Life continued around you exactly as it always had.

And yet, you couldn't stop thinking about the professor's question.

Eventually, Wonwoo broke the silence.

"I think she's wrong."

You looked at him.

"About what?"

"She's assuming the assignment changed us."

You frowned slightly.

"You don't think it did?"

He shook his head.

"I think..."

He searched for the words.

"...it only gave us enough time to notice."

For the first time since the semester began, you found yourself without an argument. Not because you disagreed. Because you thought he might be right.

—

[CASE FILE 014]

Research Status: Final Analysis Pending

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Current Findings

No empirical evidence conclusively demonstrates the existence of predetermined soulmates.

Participants consistently describe enduring relationships as products of repeated choice, trust, and shared experiences.

Extended observation significantly increases interpersonal understanding between research partners.

Researcher's Note: Variables initially considered external may have become internal. Further separation between observer and subject is no longer possible.

—

The final presentation was scheduled for nine o'clock on a Thursday morning.

Campus looked no different from any other day. Students hurried across the courtyard balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments, cyclists weaved between lecture buildings, and somewhere outside the student union someone was advertising a bake sale with far more enthusiasm than the audience deserved.

It felt strangely unfair.

For the past three months, this assignment had quietly reshaped your entire semester, and yet the rest of the university continued exactly as it always had, blissfully unaware that a forty-percent assessment somehow carried the weight of something much larger.

You arrived outside the sociology building fifteen minutes early. Wonwoo was already there.

Of course he was.

He stood beneath the awning reading over the printed copy of your presentation one final time, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket while the other absentmindedly turned pages already memorised. He looked up almost immediately when he heard your footsteps.

"You beat me."

"I usually do."

"I was early."

"You were."

"So you've been here a while."

"Seven minutes."

"You timed it?"

"I looked at my watch."

You laughed softly.

"I don't know why I still ask."

"I don't either."

The conversation settled into a familiar quiet. Not because either of you had run out of things to say. Because neither of you felt pressured to fill every second.

Eventually, Wonwoo held out a paper cup.

"I got your coffee."

"You keep doing that."

"You keep forgetting breakfast."

"...I had toast."

"You had half."

You blinked.

"I finished the other half while walking."

"No."

"...How do you know that?"

"You always carry your keys in your left hand when you're eating."

"..."

"You've got jam on your sleeve."

You looked down. Sure enough—

A tiny smear of strawberry jam sat near your wrist.

You sighed dramatically.

"You really would've made a terrifying detective."

"I know."

"You admitted it."

"I've had time to think about it."

The corners of your mouth lifted.

"So have I."

—

The presentations passed one by one. Some groups argued that soulmate beliefs were entirely cultural.

Others concluded that compatibility could be explained through attachment theory, personality traits, or shared values.

One group confidently declared that love was nothing more than neurochemistry and evolutionary advantage.

Another insisted destiny existed because statistical improbability could not adequately explain meaningful coincidence.

You listened carefully. Three months ago, you would have known exactly which side you agreed with.

Now you weren't so certain. Or perhaps you were certain for entirely different reasons.

"Pair Fourteen."

The professor smiled.

"Whenever you're ready."

You and Wonwoo walked to the front together.

No discussion. No deciding who would speak first. By now, neither of you needed to.

The first slide appeared behind you.

Do Soulmates Exist?

You looked out across the room before beginning.

"When we started this project, we approached the question from opposing viewpoints."

Wonwoo continued naturally.

"One of us believed soulmate relationships could not be empirically demonstrated."

"And one of us believed they existed regardless of whether they could be measured."

He changed slides.

"Our original objective was to determine which perspective was better supported by evidence."

"It didn't happen."

A ripple of quiet laughter travelled through the room. You smiled.

"Instead..."

The next slide appeared.

Findings

"We discovered something neither of us expected."

You looked briefly towards Wonwoo before continuing.

"None of the couples we interviewed described love as something that simply happened."

"Regardless of whether they believed in fate," he added, "their relationships depended upon repeated choices."

"They described commitment."

"Consistency."

"Trust."

"Attention."

"Shared routines."

"Mutual understanding."

Neither of you had rehearsed the alternating rhythm.

It simply happened.

The presentation flowed almost conversationally now, each sentence picked up naturally by the other before the silence had time to settle.

"Our literature review found no empirical evidence proving predetermined soulmates."

"However," Wonwoo said, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence."

You looked at him, surprised. He noticed.

"I read your notes."

"You quoted me."

"It supported the argument."

You smiled before turning back towards the audience.

"Our conclusion is therefore not that soulmates definitively exist..."

"...nor that they definitively do not."

Another slide appeared.

Final Conclusion

Long-term interpersonal attachment appears to emerge through repeated mutual investment, trust, and deliberate choice rather than a single predetermined moment.

Silence followed. Not awkward. Thoughtful. The professor nodded slowly.

"Questions?"

A hand rose almost immediately.

"So..."

The student grinned.

"Did either of you change your minds?"

You looked instinctively towards Wonwoo.

He looked back.

Neither answered immediately.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I still think people can become irreplaceable."

Wonwoo nodded almost imperceptibly.

"And I still don't think fate explains why."

The room waited.

"But..."

He adjusted his glasses.

"...I don't think that's the important part anymore."

The professor smiled.

"Why not?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Because after interviewing dozens of people, we realised none of them stayed together because destiny did the work."

He glanced sideways.

"They stayed because they kept choosing each other."

No one spoke. The professor thanked you both before dismissing the class for a short break while she finalised grades.

Just like that, the assignment was over.

—

You found yourselves standing outside the building with nowhere particular to go. For the first time in months, there was no interview to schedule. No journal article to discuss. No observation log waiting to be completed.

The routine that had quietly built itself around the two of you had simply ended.

"We're done."

"We are."

"We don't have another meeting."

"No."

"...That's strange."

"It is."

Students drifted around you in small groups, already talking about upcoming exams and weekend plans. Someone from another tutorial waved goodbye.

Life continued. Again. Exactly as it always had.

"I suppose..." you began carefully, "...this is where we stop accidentally seeing each other four times a week."

Wonwoo frowned slightly.

"Why would we?"

You looked at him.

"The assignment's finished."

"I know."

"So..."

"So?"

"You don't have to keep buying me coffee."

"I wasn't buying it because of the assignment."

"...You weren't?"

"No."

You laughed quietly.

"I genuinely can't tell when you're joking."

"I'm not."

The words settled gently between you.

You realised then that they weren't really about coffee.

"Were you serious," you asked softly, "when you said the assignment didn't change us?"

"Yes."

"What did it do, then?"

He thought about it.

"I think..."

He looked out across the courtyard before answering.

"...it forced us to pay attention."

"To sociology?"

He smiled faintly.

"To each other."

Your heart stumbled. Just enough that you noticed it.

"I've spent months trying to prove or disprove soulmates," you admitted.

"And?"

"I don't know if I've reached an answer."

"You don't have to."

"No."

You looked down at the empty coffee cup still warming your hands.

"I suppose I haven't."

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

"Would you like dinner?"

You looked up.

"What?"

Wonwoo looked almost embarrassed by his own question.

"We usually work after class."

"We do."

"We're not working anymore."

"No."

"So..."

Another pause.

"I'd still like to spend time with you."

You couldn't help smiling.

"You know, that almost sounded like you were asking me on a date."

"I was."

"...Oh."

"I thought I was being reasonably clear."

"You were."

You laughed, shaking your head.

"I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."

"How else was I supposed to say it?"

"I don't know."

"You've spent three months telling me communication matters."

"I have."

"So."

He met your eyes.

"I'm communicating."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you nodded.

"I'd like that."

Relief softened something in his expression so subtle that someone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

Together, you turned towards the path leading away from the sociology building.

There was no assignment waiting at the end of it.

No hypothesis left to test.

Only another choice.

This time, neither of you needed research to make it.

—

[CASE FILE 014 — CLOSED]

Research Question: Do soulmates exist?

Official Conclusion: Inconclusive.

Supplementary Findings: Participants consistently demonstrated that enduring relationships are sustained through repeated acts of trust, attention, and mutual choice. Extended observation unexpectedly altered the perspectives of both researchers.

Professor's Final Comment: You never proved soulmates. You did, however, provide compelling evidence that people can become indispensable to one another.

Status: CASE CLOSED.

—

@junplusone @spookykryptonitegardener @passionfruitenthusiast @imhereonlytoreadxoxo (i lowk forgor to tag u guys in the last 1/2 fics in the series, so theres that...)

[supi-wupi]

currently working on my kiss me series for wonwoo i promise.. just give me a sec...

[sailorsoons]

Teeth (k.sy)

PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13 PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Soonyoung PACK MEETING: Soonyoung is an irritable mess and no one can figure it out until he wanders in your room in the middle of the night. REQUESTED BY: ANON REQUEST: soonyoung got his rut earlier than expected and everyone has been wondering why hes so snappy these days, and it was answered when soonyoung goes to the omega’s room and yeah u know it lol GENRE: Fluff, smut, mild angst AU: Omegaverse WC: 9,867 RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. PACK WARNINGS: Some mild angst and fighting among members, Soonyoung is picking fights with everyone that are petty and stupid, lots of frustration, a single moment between Soonyoung and Mingyu where Soonyoung almost turns things physical but reader diffuses, some awkwardness because reader is still relatively new to the pack, lots of hormones and body chemistry, Soonyoung having some anxiety about spending a rut with reader, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected sex, mild biting, some scenting, teasing, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, very very light dirty talk, Soonyoung being possessive, and a moment of Soonyoung being territorial to another member at the end briefly. SMUT NOTICE: This chapter is centered around smut and shout be skipped if you don't like reading smut - it makes little sense to read without. A/N: This does not lean into rut dynamics a ton nor does it lean toooo heavily into omegaverse smut dynamics because I wanted to lean into the idea that this is the first time since reader has joined the pack that she's helping with someone's rut and thus the dynamic is entirely different and slower/more personal than it typically would be among seasoned rut partners. A/N 2: As usual this is not beta read this because I'm impatient and just wanna post these as I finish writing them. Also Hali stick to under 5k challenge failed again.

HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK

SOONYOUNG IS AN EASY ALPHA TO READ. As someone who wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face, you rarely have a problem reading him now that you know him well enough. Plus, whatever isn't on his face or in his tone is usually coming directly from the source himself, never the one to shy away from communicating exactly what he thinks of something.

So it's unusual when you realize on a Friday afternoon that something is wrong with Soonyoung but you don't quite know what that something is.

The sun is slanting through the western windows of the house, turning the floors honey-warm and catching the dust motes floating lazily through the air. You're curled into the corner of the sectional - a spot that has become yours over the last few weeks - with a book in your lap. It's some novel that Wonwoo recommended and that you're half paying attention to because Mingyu keeps singing off-key in the kitchen where he's baking and because there's base thrumming from Jihoon's studio basement, vibrating up through the couch into your spine.

It's the kind of afternoon that's calm but doesn't exactly leave space for reading, especially when Chan flops down on the couch next to you, immediately pushing into your side to nuzzle close and lay his head in your lap.

"Hi," he sighs dreamily, tilting his head back to look up at you. "This okay?"

You grin, running your fingers through his hair. "Of course it is."

He nearly purrs under your touch, melting into your lap as he settles, his dark hair soft against your fingers as he gets comfortable with one arm draped over his stomach and the other hanging off the edge of the couch. He smells like the laundry detergent the pack uses, warm and clean and the distinct lavender and sea salt smell that is so him.

Putting the book down, you continue to stroke his hair, feeling him relax into your lap, heavy and solid. You smile. You like this - you're glad that you finally have figured this out, the intimacy that's both physical and mental, both casual and sexual. Now that you've finally settled and figured them out, this kind of contact is easy. Welcome. Craved.

The afternoon light catches the side of Chan's face and you notice the faint freckles across his nose, the way his face is soft, eyes closed and content as he drifts. It's moments like this that make you understand why the pack works and why fourteen people in one house don't feel chaotic and feel like this instead.

Soonyoung's voice is what cuts through the silence, reminding you that the pack has its bad days too. You turn to look over the back of the couch the way his voice is coming, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. Chan shifts too, the beta making an unhappy noise as he cracks an eye open.

"I said I would handle it, Seokmin," Soonyoung snaps somewhere. You straighten, the alpha's voice rigid and more severe than you're used to hearing. "So stop."

"I'm just trying to help." Seokmin's calmer voice barely reaches you, careful and placating. You can hear his confusion even without seeing his face. "If you'd just listen-"

"I don't need to listen."

Footsteps keep your attention pinned to the entryway from the hall. Soonyoung rounds the corner into the living room and the sight of him makes something in your chest clench. His jaw is tight, muscle twitching beneath the skin, and his shoulders are drawn up and rigid. There's something wild in his eyes that make your instincts prickle, a warning bell going off in the back of your head that's telling you there's an alpha in distress.

Seokmin trails behind him with his hands raised in a gesture of peace, his expression caught somewhere between apologetic and frustrated. He's still in his work clothes, dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie loosened around his neck, but the tension in his neck has nothing to do with Soonyoung.

Your book is long forgotten. Chan's head is turned in your lap, watching as Soonyoung storms into the room, Seokmin behind him. Seokmin looks at you before his eyes dart meaningfully between you and Chan, a silent request. You understand immediately and pat Chan gently. The beta stirs immediately, unfolding from your lap with a quick kiss to your forehead before he heads toward Seokmin.

"Help me with something in the kitchen?" Chan asks Seokmin, reaching for him.

"Sure," Seokmin sighs, moving toward the hallway. He shoots you one last look, mouthing thank you as he follows Chan out of the room, leaving you alone on the couch.

The moment they're gone, Soonyoung is moving toward you, his agitation evaporating. He falls onto the couch, settling against you instantly, head finding the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, his arms wrapping around you as he breathes you in.

"Hi," he says quietly, voice muffled as he presses in closer. "You smell good."

His scent washes over you as he burrows closer, deep teakwood with an undercurrent of warmth that you've come to associate with him, though there's something slightly off about it now. Something sharp and acidic underneath. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly even as your omega instincts purr at his proximity.

"Hi," you murmur, tugging him further into you.

"What are you reading?"

"Something Wonwoo recommended."

He hums, a low sound in the back of his throat, and leans even closer to peer at the cover. You can feel the heat of him along your side, can see the way his hair falls into his eyes as he tilts his head. "Is it good?"

"It's okay. It's a little slow."

"Do you want company? I can sit with you."

There's something almost desperate in the offer, something that makes your chest tight. You study his face, trying to understand what just happened, trying to reconcile the alpha who just snapped at Seokmin with the one who's looking at you now like he might die if you say no. You'd never say no, though, so you smile and nod.

"Always," you say softly, and watch the way relief floods his expression like sunrise breaking over water. “Just keep the teeth away, yeah?”

He nods and shifts, adjusting his position so he's lying more fully against you, his head pillowed on your thigh where Chan had been moments before. The weight of him is different, heavier and more solid, radiating a heat that seems to seep through the fabric of your leggings and into your skin. One of his arms wraps around your leg, holding on like you might disappear if he doesn't anchor himself to you.

Without thinking, you card your fingers through his hair, and the effect is immediate. He melts. There's no other word for it as the tension that had been coiled through his shoulders and jaw just dissolves under your touch, his whole body going soft and pliant against you. A sound escapes him, something between a sigh and a groan, and he presses his face harder against your thigh.

"That feels nice," he mumbles. "Don't stop doing that."

You smile, continuing the gentle motion, your fingers sliding through the dark strands. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly mussed from where he'd been running his hands through it earlier, and you work through the tangles with careful attention. Each pass of your fingers seems to pull more tension from him, until he's practically boneless against you, his breathing evening out into something slow and deep.

The afternoon light has shifted, no longer streaming directly through the windows but casting everything in a softer, golden glow. That's when you notice it again. That off note in his scent. It's subtle, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention, but it's there, sharp and acidic beneath the familiar teakwood warmth, like something fermented or turned. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly, your omega instincts prickling with a vague sense of concern. You've never smelled him like this before. Usually his scent is all warmth and depth, grounding and steady, but this is different.

You frown slightly, your fingers pausing in his hair as you try to place what it reminds you of. Your first thought is rut, that sharp, aggressive edge that alphas get when their biology starts to take over, but you dismiss it almost immediately. You've been with the pack long enough now to know everyone's schedules, the careful tracking system they use to make sure no one's caught off guard. Soonyoung isn't due for a rut for at least another three weeks. You'd know. Seungcheol keeps a calendar, and you've seen it enough times to have most of the dates memorized.

So it's not that. Maybe he's just stressed? The thought settles uneasily in your chest. He has been more on edge lately, more irritable with the others, though you'd chalked it up to work or pack dynamics or any of the hundred other things that can make an alpha tense. Maybe it's manifesting in his scent, some kind of stress response you're not familiar with yet.

You let it go, resuming the gentle motion of your fingers through his hair. Whatever it is, he clearly needs this and you're not about to pull away because of some vague concern you can't even properly articulate. If it's serious, someone else will notice. Seungcheol will notice.

Soonyoung makes another one of those soft sounds and you feel your heart do something complicated in your chest. You smile, thinking about how much you like him. The realization isn't new - you like all of them. But it hits you fresh at this moment, with him soft and sleepy against you.

"You're really good at that," he murmurs, his voice drowsy and content. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. "Like, unfairly good."

"Just scratching your head," you say, but you're smiling, your fingers finding that spot behind his ear that makes him practically purr.

"Mm, no. It's more than that." He shifts slightly, tilting his head to look up at you, and the expression on his face makes your breath catch. There's something raw in his eyes, something open and honest that he usually keeps hidden behind jokes and easy grins. "You make everything feel easier."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He reaches up, his hand finding yours where it's resting against his temple, and he threads your fingers together. His palm is warm, slightly rough, and the gesture feels impossibly intimate. "I really like being close to you. Is that okay? To say that?"

"Of course it is. I like being close to you too."

His smile is small but genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if you told me to."

You laugh quietly, resuming the gentle motion through his hair with your free hand while he keeps the other one captive, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knuckles. His touch is comforting and you can feel the way his body has gone completely relaxed against you as the house settles around you, the sound of pack life continuing in other rooms.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light to shift again, the golden glow deepening toward amber. Long enough for your legs to start going numb under his weight, though you don't mention it. Long enough for you to memorize the exact shade of his hair in this light, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he closes his eyes.

"Thank you," he says eventually, so quiet you almost miss it.

"For what?"

"For not asking questions. For just letting me be here."

You want to tell him he never has to thank you for that, but the words feel too big, too revealing, so instead you just squeeze his hand and keep running your fingers through his hair, and hope he understands anyway.

He seems to. His eyes drift closed again, his breathing evening out. And despite that lingering concern about his scent, despite the confusion about what happened with Seokmin, despite everything, you let yourself have this, relaxing against the couch as Soonyoung dozes in your lap.

-

The second time you notice something off with Soonyoung is worse.

It's Saturday morning and the kitchen is alive with the weekend chaos you've come to expect now that you eat breakfast at more reasonable hours. Mingyu is at the stove making what smells like pancakes while Vernon sits at the island with his laptop and a cup of coffee that you think has gone cold. Joshua hums as he sets the table in the dining room while morning light streams through the windows, coffee and the scent of bodies filling the room.

You're standing at the counter making tea, watching the kettle when you hear the commotion start somewhere just outside the kitchen.

"I'm just saying," Junhui says, his voice measured and calm in a way that suggests he is trying very hard to be patient. "If you'd communicated better, it would-"

"I don't need you to tell me how to communicate, Jun." Soonyoung's voice cuts through the morning peace like a knife, sharp enough that you see Mingyu's shoulders tense at the stove, see Vernon's fingers still on his keyboard.

Your hands tighten on the edge of the counter, your whole body going alert. Not again. Please not again. You glance at Mingyu who winces and shrugs his shoulders before turning back to stare intensely at his pancakes, preferring to let the alphas argue it out.

"I'm not telling you how to do anything." Junhui's voice is still calm but you can hear the edge creeping in, can hear the alpha authority starting to bleed through. "I'm just saying that if you'd communicated better, we wouldn't have had the conflict with-"

"Right, so it's my fault."

"That isn't what I said-"

"It's what you meant!"

You turn your attention back to the kettle, listening with half an ear as the argument continues. It's not the first time you've heard pack members disagree, and it probably won't be the last. The whistle is building now, getting louder, and you're reaching for your mug when you hear a crash loud enough that you jerk your hand.

The kettle wobbles but you catch it, steadying it with both hands as you let out a breath. Your heart kicks up for a moment before settling back down. Just an argument. Just pack dynamics working themselves out.

Mingyu has turned from the stove, spatula still in hand, his expression somewhere between concerned and resigned. Vernon has closed his laptop, watching the doorway.

"Soonyoung." Junhui's voice is harder now, carrying that alpha command that says stand down. "You need to calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down."

There's a beat of tense silence, and then footsteps, quick and purposeful before Soonyoung appears in the kitchen doorway. He looks wound tight, his chest heavy slightly, his eyes bright and a flush high on his cheeks that tells you he's stressed. His hair is a mess like he's been running his hands through it, and his t-shirt is rumpled, twisted slightly to one side. For a second he just stands there, breathing hard, his gaze sweeping the kitchen like he's looking for something.

Then his eyes land on you, and everything changes.

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and his expression softens immediately, the wild edge in his eyes gentling into something warm. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, he’s pressing into your side like he needs the physical contact to breathe.

"Hi," he says quietly, his voice rough but softer than it was seconds ago. One of his arms wraps around your waist, and he leans into you, his forehead coming to rest against your temple. "You making tea?"

"Yeah." You can feel the heat of him along your entire side, can smell that sharp acidic edge underneath his usual teakwood warmth. It's more pronounced than it was yesterday. "Want some?"

"No. Just want to be here."

"Alright."

You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, scraping the blunt edge of your nails against his scalp. He hums, chest vibrating against you as his eyes flutter, scent blooming warm and rich, the acidic note vanishing. The kettle is whistling properly now, so you pour the water one-handed, Soonyoung still plastered to your side like he has no intention of moving. He doesn't say anything, just stands there with his arm around you, his breathing evening out as you finish making your tea.

Behind you, you can hear Mingyu returning to the pancakes, the quiet sizzle of batter hitting the pan. Vernon has reopened his laptop but you can feel his attention still on the two of you. Joshua appears in the doorway, takes one look at Soonyoung wrapped around you, and just nods to himself before heading back to finish setting the table.

"Breakfast is almost ready," Mingyu says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "If you guys want to sit down."

Soonyoung makes a noncommittal sound against your hair but doesn't move. You smile, wrapping both hands around your mug now that it's ready, and lean back into him slightly.

"Come on," you murmur. "Let's go sit."

He follows you without question, his hand sliding from your waist to tangle with your free hand, keeping you connected as you move into the dining room. The table is set thanks to Joshua, who looks between you and Soonyoung before winking.

You choose a seat near the middle of the table and Soonyoung immediately claims the chair right next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours when he sits. His hand finds your knee under the table, his thumb rubbing small circles against the fabric of your leggings, and you can feel the way he's still wound tight despite the softness in his expression.

Junhui appears in the doorway a moment later, and you watch as his eyes land on Soonyoung pressed up against your side. Something complicated crosses his face - frustration, maybe, but also understanding, and what looks like relief. He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly, and when he meets your eyes there's gratitude there.

Thanks, he mouths silently and you nod.

He takes a seat across the table, his posture still tense but no longer aggressive. The argument isn't resolved, the set of his jaw and the tension in his hands making that much obvious, but it's set aside for now for when Soonyoung isn't whatever this is right now.

Soon, the table fills out with the rest of the pack and loud conversation backtracked by the sound of silverware on plates. Soonyoung serves you first, putting pancakes on your plate before his own, his hand never leaving your knee. He eats one-handed, the other staying firmly on you like he needs the anchor despite Seungkwan poking fun at him.

Soonyoung gradually relaxes against your side. His scent is still off, but his breathing has evened out, and the tension in his shoulders has eased. He's not talking much, just listening to the conversation around him, but every so often he glances at you like he's checking that you're still there.

Across the table, Junhui catches your eye again and gives you a small nod. The message is clear: Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.

So you do. You finish your tea and eat your pancakes and let Soonyoung stay pressed against your side for as long as he needs, and you try not to think too hard about what it is that's bothering him, ready to wait him out and let him come to you.

-

By Sunday, Soonyoung's tension has been noticed by everyone.

It's the kind of afternoon where the house has that lazy, syrupy feeling of the weekend as people scatter across the estate with their routines. You can hear Seungkwan's laugh coming through an open window, backtracked by someone playing music.

Sun bakes down on the top of your head as you stretch, sweaty skin sticky against the cloth of the cabana seating. Mingyu is tucked next to you, the smell of his clean, floral musk and sunscreen soothing.

The afternoon sun turns the pool surface into liquid gold, the light dancing and refracting in patterns that shift with every ripple. The air smells like chlorine and sunscreen and the jasmine that grows wild along the fence line, music playing from the speaker next to Mingyu softly while the two of you lounge

He's stretched out next to you in swim shorts that are slung low on his hips, his long legs crossed at the ankle, a book open in his lap that he's been so called reading for the past twenty minutes despite the fact he hasn't turned a page in at least ten. His chest is bare, shoulders already warming to a golden tan, and there's a faint sheen of sunscreen on his skin that catches the light.

You are definitely not reading your book. Instead, you're acutely aware of the way Mingyu's chest rises and falls with each one of his breaths, every defined line of his abs, and the way his muscles in his shoulders flex when he shifts his position. Your eyes drift from his collarbones to his sternum to the dip of his waist where his swim shorts sit low on his hips, and you have to physically force your gaze back to your book.

When you glance sideways, you catch the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows. Of course he knows. Mingyu always knows when you're looking.

Footsteps draw your attention on the pool deck. Soonyoung is approaching, jaw tight and shoulders tense. You frown and his scent hits you a moment later as the wind shifts, sharp and acrid. You shift and Mingyu notices, glancing at you from behind his sunglasses before he realizes Soonyoung is there.

"Mingyu," Soonyoung says, voice clipped. He stops at the edge of the cabana, his eyes locked on Mingyu with something that makes the beta tense. "You left the fridge door open this morning. Again."

Mingyu blinks. "What?"

"Yeah."

"Soonyoung, I made breakfast at seven. It's been hours." Mingyu shields his eyes, looking up at Soonyoung, his tone more bewildered than defensive. "What even is-"

"And yesterday," Soonyoung continues, "You left stuff all over the kitchen counter. It's rude and messy."

You watch as Mingyu's expression shifts from confusion to something closer to exasperation. "I cleaned that up. Wonwoo saw me clean it up."

"Not very well, apparently." Soonyoung's voice is sharp. "And you were making noise in the kitchen at like six in the morning. Some of us were trying to sleep."

"You were literally in the gym at six." Mingyu closes his book deliberately and sets it on the small table next to the cabana. When he looks up at Soonyoung, his expression is guarded, not angry. "What's your actual problem Soonyoung? Spit it out."

"I don't have a problem. I just think it would be nice if people actually thought about the shared spaces instead of just doing whatever they want."

"Nobody's doing whatever they want."

Mingyu stands now so he's facing Soonyoung directly. He's a beta, but he's not small. He towers over Soonyoung, imposing in a way that makes your instincts flare, feeling the shift of tension between the two.

"You're picking a fight," Mingyu says, softer than before.

"I'm not picking a fight."

"Soonyoung, you're-" Mingyu cuts himself off and sighs. You can see him trying to control his temper, trying to figure out what Soonyoung is actually mad about. "You know what, whatever. You're right."

He turns to leave, his movements sharp and frustrated, stepping away from the cabana toward the pool deck. The afternoon sun hits him full-force, turning his skin golden, and for a moment you think maybe that's it. But then Soonyoung's hand darts out, wrapping around Mingyu's arm just above the elbow, fingers digging in hard enough to dimple Mingyu's skin.

"Don't walk away from me," Soonyoung growls, teeth flashing.

"Okay, enough."

Your voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding in a way that surprises even you. You're on your feet before you've consciously decided to move, a frustrated growling rippling through you at their bickering and Soonyoung's obvious struggle with something.

The effect is immediate and absolute. Soonyoung's hand drops from Mingyu's arm like he's been burned, his eyes going wide as they snap to you. Mingyu takes a step back, his posture immediately shifting from defensive to something closer to chastened. They're both staring at you now, and you can see the moment they register your expression.

"I don't know what's going on with you," you say, your gaze locked on Soonyoung, "but I am tired of watching you pick fights with everyone in this house. And Mingyu, you know it sets him off when you walk away like that."

"I wasn't-" Mingyu starts, but you hold up a hand and he stops immediately, his mouth closing.

"I don't want to hear it. Not from either of you. Soonyoung, put the teeth away."

The afternoon sun is hot on your shoulders, the chlorine smell sharp in your nose as a beat of silence passes. Soonyoung looks like he's been slapped, his expression crumbling from aggressive to something that looks almost like shame. His shoulders drop, his hands unclenching, and you can see the way his whole body seems to deflate.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice smaller than you've ever heard it.

"I know, Soonyoung." Your voice softens a fraction. "But you need to figure out what's going on with you, because this isn't okay. Mingyu didn't deserve that."

Soonyoung glances at Mingyu. "I'm sorry."

Mingyu is rubbing his arm where Soonyoung grabbed him, and you can see the red marks already forming, can see the shape of fingers pressed into his skin. His expression is a mix of anger and hurt, and you can tell he's struggling to not let his temper flare again. He takes a deep breath and nods, the frustration melting out of him in the way that betas are always good at.

"You need to talk to Seungcheol," Mingyu says, his voice much calmer now. "Today."

"I know."

Mingyu doesn't seem convinced. "I'm serious."

"I know. I'm going to."

For a second, Mingyu hesitates. Then he nods and glances at you, tilting his head toward Soonyoung subtly. You nod and Mingyu backs up a few paces, keeping his eyes on you until he's sure that you'll be fine with Soonyoung before he turns, sulky and irritated but knowing that Soonyoung needs space and recently, you're the only one who can reason with him.

Soonyoung looks wrecked, his expression apologetic. He's trembling a little, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but can't or won't, his scent a mess. His pupils are blown wide, somewhere between fighting whatever instinct is making him so cagey and panic that he's upset you - he hates upsetting anyone, but most of all he hates when you're mad.

"Can I…?" He drifts off and gestures vaguely in your direction.

He's asking permission, deferring to you completely, and you can see in his eyes that he'll accept whatever answer you give. That he knows he just got put in his place and he's not going to push.

You let out a breath, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. "Yeah. Come here.

He crosses the distance between you in two quick strides, but when he reaches you, he's careful, his arms coming around you slowly enough to give you time to pull away. You don't and instead let him pull you close so he can bury his face in your neck, breathing you in and scenting you enough to make you both dizzy and clinging to one another. Your lashes flutter, a rush going through you as he brushes his nose against the softness of your neck, blood turning molten.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your skin, and his voice is broken. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry."

Your hands come up automatically, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his back. You can feel the knobs of his spine through his shirt, can feel the way his muscles are locked tight with tension.

"I know you are," you murmur. "But you need to figure out what's wrong. This isn't like you."

You can feel the way he's trying to calm himself down, trying to match his breathing to yours, trying to use your presence to anchor himself. You feel a pang in your chest, hugging him a little tighter. Soonyoung is always hard on himself - harder than he needs to be - and he hates fighting with anyone, especially Mingyu. Especially in front of you.

You guide him back to the loungers, settling onto one and pulling him down beside you. He goes willingly, curling into your side like he's trying to make himself smaller, his head resting on your shoulder. The afternoon sun has shifted, the shade of the cabana stretching longer across the pool deck, and the water has gone still and mirror-smooth in the absence of any breeze.

"You should talk to Cheol," you murmur.

Soonyoung nods against you. "Okay."

You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he relaxes incrementally with each pass, the tension in his shoulders easing degree by degree. The strands are soft, slightly damp from the heat and humidity, and you work your fingers through them slowly, deliberately, the way you know he likes. His scent is still sharp underneath, still carrying that acidic edge that speaks to whatever is happening inside his body, but it levels out now, teakwood baked under sun.

"Better?" you ask softly.

He makes a small sound of agreement, his arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah."

-

Someone knocking on your door pulls you from sleep. You squint at the clock on the nightstand, the blurry numbers telling you it's well past three am. Your bed is warm, blankets tangled around you and the faint smell of Jeonghan lingering from the hoodie of his you have shoved under your pillow. You sit up, rubbing your eyes as you get your bearings.

"Come in," you croak.

Before the door even opens, you know who it is. You can smell Soonyoung before the door fully opens, but when it does, it hits you like a physical force. It's his normal warm, woody smell but there's something new now, something hot and thick and almost overwhelming. It makes your mouth water, omega instincts kicking in, warmth pooling low in your belly.

Soonyoung steps into your room and closes the door behind him with a soft click, and in the dim light filtering through your curtains from the streetlamp outside, you can see that something is very, very wrong. Or right, by the smell of him.

He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose sleep pants that hang low on his hips, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat despite how cold the house is at night. You can see the way his chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. His hair is a mess like he's been pulling at it again, and when he looks at you, his eyes are dark and dilated, pupils blown so wide there's barely any iris left.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is rough, wrecked. "I know it's late."

You push the blankets aside and shift to the edge of your bed, feet finding the cool hardwood floor to stand. "What's wrong?"

His entire body reacts to the sound of your voice. He sways slightly toward you, nostril flaring as he scents you, a shiver rippling through him. You take a step toward him and he makes a pitiful sound, looking entirely at war with himself.

"I feel like I'm burning up," he mumbles. "Feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I don't see you."

"Come here."

It's a command - softly given, but a command none the less. He listens like it's instinctual, crossing the room to you in three strides. You feel the heat radiating off of him when he stops in front of you and you reach up without thinking, pressing your palm to his chest. He's fever-hot under your touch, his heart hammering in his chest.

"You're burning up," you say softly, frowning.

"I know." His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm harder against his chest like he needs the contact, needs the pressure. His eyes close and he takes a shuddering breath. "You smell so good. You always smell good but right now it's maddening."

Something clicks into place in your mind. The aggression. The clinginess. The way his scent has been getting sharper and hotter for days. The fever. The way he's looking at you right now like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"Soonyoung," you say slowly, carefully. "Are you in rut?"

His eyes snap open, meeting yours, and for a long moment he just stares at you. You can see him processing the question, see the moment the realization hits him. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something that looks almost like relief.

"Oh. Um. It does feel like that."

"But it's early, isn't it?" You keep your hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palm. "You're not supposed to go into a rut for another few weeks."

"Right." He seems to think about something and he makes a small sound, leaning into your touch. "I've never had an omega in the house though."

"Oh."

"I think having you here made my body kind of freak out and decide it was time even if it wasn't."

You can feel your own body responding to his proximity, to the thick, heady scent of him in rut. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to help, to soothe, to give him what he needs. But more than that, you want to. You want to pull him into your bed, want to feel his fever-hot skin against yours, want to take care of him the way every cell in your body is telling you to.

"Let me help you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intended, almost pleading.

His eyes go wide. "What?"

"Let me help you through it." You slide your hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the way he leans into your touch like he can't help himself. "You don't have to do this alone. You don't have to suffer through it."

"I can't ask you to do that. You haven't been here that long and haven't been through one…"

"It's pretty instinctual. I'll be okay."

He's trembling now, and you can't tell if it's from the fever or from nerves or from the effort of holding himself back. "What if I hurt you? What if I can't control myself?"

"Soonyoung, you won't hurt me."

"You don't know that." But even as he says it, he's leaning closer, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath is hot against your lips, coming in short, uneven pants. "You don't know what it's like. What I'm feeling right now."

"Then take it," you whisper. "Take what you need."

He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a whimper and a growl, and his hands come up to grip your waist. His fingers dig in, not quite hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you can feel the desperation in his touch.

"But what if-"

You cut him off by kissing him.

It's soft at first, just a gentle press of your lips against his to turn off his spinning thoughts, but the moment you make contact, something in him breaks. He makes a desperate sound against your mouth and kisses you back like he's drowning and you're air. His lips are fever-hot and slightly chapped, and he tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely him, purely alpha, purely Soonyoung.

His hands tighten on your waist and he pulls you closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between you. Your chest presses against his and you can feel the heat of him even through your thin sleep shirt, can feel the way his heart is racing, can feel the slight tremor in his muscles as he holds himself back from taking more than you're offering.

But you want him to take more. You want him to let go.

You part your lips and he groans, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and you can feel the moment his control starts to slip. His hands slide from your waist to your hips to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him harden against your stomach, the way he's already straining against the low slung sweat pants.

Knowing he wants you this much makes your head spin. You omega preens and you shiver, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily, driven by a more powerful want than you have ever felt in your life. He responds in kind, walking you backward toward the bed, feet tangling until you're falling backward and he's caging you in.

For a moment, he just hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, his chest heaving as he stares down at you with those dark, dilated eyes. You reach up and trace his jawline and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. You've always thought he had the prettiest eyes, dark and hungry and so full of life. Right now they're burning with something hotter than you've ever seen and it makes you sing.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long."

"Then have me," you whisper. "Take me."

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

He kisses you again, slower this time, his lips moving against you with gentle purpose like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hands start to wander, sliding up your sides, pushing your sleep shirt up inch by inch until his palms are pressed against your bare skin.

The contact makes you both gasp. His hands are so hot they're almost burning, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire. He explores slowly, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts.

"Can I?" He asks, twisting a fistfull of your shirt in his hand. You nod and he grins.

He sits back on his heels and helps you pull the shirt over your head, and the moment it's gone, his eyes go even darker. He stares at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful, his gaze tracking over every inch of exposed skin.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."

He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast, then another to your stomach. His lips are hot and soft, and every place he kisses feels like it's been branded. He works his way down slowly, kissing and licking and occasionally scraping his teeth gently against your skin in a way that makes you arch up into him, his name broken and shaky on your lips.

Soonyoung's sounds are equally as needy, groaning low in his throat in a way that makes your thighs close around his waist, the ache between your legs growing despite the way his hips pin yours to the bed. Friction. You need friction but any thoughts of asking for it vanish from your head when he leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, the heat and wet slide of his tongue making you cry out.

Your hands fly to his hair, threading through the messy strands, holding him against you as he sucks and licks and occasionally scrapes his teeth gently across the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, and you can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass of his tongue.

"So responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So perfect for me."

He gives the same attention to your other breast, his hand coming up to play with the one his mouth just left, and the dual sensation makes your head spin. You're panting now, your hips shifting restlessly against the mattress, seeking friction that you need so badly.

"Soonyoung," you gasp. "Please."

"Please what?" He lifts his head to look at you, and his lips are wet and swollen, his eyes dark with hunger. "Tell me what you need."

"Touch me. Please touch me."

His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers light and maddening. When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he pauses again, waiting for permission. You lift your hips in answer, and he hooks his fingers into both your shorts and underwear, pulling them down your legs in one smooth motion.

Cool air hits your overheated pussy and you whine. Soonyoung growls in response, looking down where your thighs threaten to shut. He keeps you pressed open, his hands firm on your thighs as he makes an appreciative sound low in his chest, almost a purr.

"You're so wet," he says, his voice rough. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you breathe. "All for you."

He stays kneeled there on the bed, his hand tracing down your thigh until he’s sliding his fingers through your sticky, heated folds. He explores slowly, the drag of his fingers making you tremble, thighs twitching until he presses gently against your clit and you let out a high-pitched sound, the contact sending a bloom of warmth spreading through you.

"There?" He asks and you can hear the smile in his voice, smug.

"Yes. Please."

Soonyoung obeys, circling your clit slowly, increasing the pressure as you buck under him. You feel yourself dripping, a wet mess as he plays with you, making little appreciative sounds as his slick fingers work you higher until you're tangling your hands in the bed and writhing under him.

When he slides one finger inside you, you cry out, your hands fisting in the blankets beneath you. It feels good but you want more, immediately asking him for more, mumbling and messy and lightheaded and overwhelmed with the thick scent of him and the heat of his finger pressing against your front wall.

"Yeah?" He asks. "You can take another?"

"Yes. Please. More."

He adds a second finger and the stretch is delicious, perfect. He curls them inside you, searching, and when he finds that spot that makes you see stars, you nearly sob with relief.

"There," you gasp. "Right there. Oh god, Soonyoung, right there."

He works you with single-minded focus, his fingers curling and stroking while his thumb circles your clit, and you can feel yourself getting close, the pleasure building higher and higher until you're teetering right on the edge.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Let me see you come."

You turn your head to the side, pressing it into the mattress as your hips roll toward his hand, letting him fuck his fingers into you until you're coming around them, clamping down hard on his fingers. He moans with you, pumping his fingers through it as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, the pleasure so hot you stop breathing for a second.

"Too much," you gasp, and he immediately gentles, his fingers slipping out of you carefully.

He brings his hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers clean, his eyes closing as he hums in delight. You stare at him, panting and sweaty, sheets sticky against your skin as he opens his eyes, the moon reflecting off them.

"Taste so fucking good," he growls. "Bet you taste better from the source, but if I don't fuck you right now I might lose my mind."

"Please," you beg. "Want it so bad."

He makes a desperate sound and reaches for his sleep pants, shoving them down his hips. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and the sight of it makes your mouth water. He's thick and throbbing, and you watch like you're hypnotized as he grips himself, stroking slowly a few times as he settles on the bed between your legs.

Soonyoung leans forward, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your wet cunt where he pauses, swiping the head of his cock through your slick folds. You whine and he grins, clearly loving the effect he has on you.

"You sure?" He asks after a minute, the head of his cock notching on your entrance but not pushing in. "We can stop."

"I want you," you assure him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, alpha."

Your words have an immediate effect. He shivers, a ripple going through him as he growls low in his throat and presses in. You're wet enough that he slides in smoothly, but you can still feel every inch of him, can feel the way your body has to adjust to accommodate his girth. The drag of him against your walls enough to make you gasp.

"Fuck," he breaths, pressing in until he bottoms out. "You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect." He rolls his hips experimentally, grinding deep, and the pressure against that spot inside you makes you cry out. "Yeah, there it is. I can feel you clenching around me already."

You can feel the fever-heat of his skin, the way his muscles are taut with restraint. His scent wraps around you, that deep teakwood gone sharp and heady with rut, overwhelming your senses until all you can smell is him. It makes your head spin, makes you want to pull him closer, to drown in it.

"Soonyoung," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Move. Please move."

"Impatient," he says with a grin, but there's heat in his eyes.

He pulls out so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, all the way until just the head of him is inside of you before he snaps his hips forward, driving deep in one smooth thrust, and the sudden fullness makes you cry out. He doesn't give you time to adjust before he's pulling out and driving in again, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady and absolutely devastating. Each thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

"Oh fuck," you groan, going tight around him. "Fuck fuck fuck."

The sounds of the wet slide of him fucking into you fills the room backtracked by his breathing, ragged and uneven as he groans everytime you clench around him. You dig your nails in, scraping down his back to his waist where you urge him faster, your fingers sliding against his sweaty skin.

"That's fucking it," he pants. "Taking my cock so well, huh? Were you made to take it?"

You nod, his words making heat flood through you, making you clench around him involuntarily. He feels it and grins, that cocky, confident smile that makes your heart race.

"You like that?" he asks, his pace never faltering. "Like hearing how perfect you are? How good you feel wrapped around me?"

"Yes," you gasp as he thrusts hard, jostling you up the bed. "Fuck. Yes, Soonyoung."

He shifts the angle slightly, pressing deeper, and suddenly every thrust is dragging against your g-spot with devastating precision. The pleasure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat low in your belly that winds tighter with each movement. He reaches between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right speed.

"I can feel you getting close," he says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Can feel the way this perfect pussy is clenching. You gonna come for me?"

"Yes!"

You can feel yourself climbing higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, your cunt clenching hard, breath hitching as you start to shake. He drives in harder, finger speeding up until you're standing on the edge of your orgasm, breath held, waiting to dive over.

"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to nip your heard. "Come for me, baby."

You do, the orgasm hitting you hard. It steals your breath and your entire body locks up as you cry out his name, your pussy clamping down on him. His rhythm stutters immediately as he groans, but he doesn't stop, working you through it until you're shaking and feeling like you're going to come apart again, unsure if your orgasm has stopped or if it's another one starting.

"I can't-"

"You can," he urges, breath hot against your ear. "You're going to give me another one, baby."

He pulls out suddenly, and the loss makes you whimper. But before you can protest, he's flipping you over onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and pulling them up.

"On your knees," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you obey without thinking.

When he slides in from behind, the new angle makes him feel deeper. You can feel him everywhere, the stretch, the fullness, the way he's pressed against every single spot inside of you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to dimple the skin, holding you exactly where he wants you as he fucks you in earnest, hips snapping and bed hitting the wall.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans. "Taking me so deep. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."

One of his hands slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, and you let yourself collapse forward onto your forearms. The change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you cry out with the intensity of it.

"Too much?" he asks, but there's a teasing edge to his voice. He knows it's not too much. He knows you can take it.

"No," you gasp. "More. Please, more."

"Greedy," he says with a laugh, but he gives you what you want.

His pace increases, his thrusts getting harder, faster, and you can feel another orgasm building already. It's different this time, deeper and more intense, starting low in your stomach and spreading outward like fire.

His hand slides around to find your clit again, and the added stimulation makes you sob with pleasure. You're so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but you don't want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

"Come on," he urges, his voice strained now. "Give me another one. Want to feel you come apart on my cock again."

The orgasm builds and builds, the pressure almost unbearable, and when it finally breaks you scream into the pillow. Your whole body shakes with it, your inner walls clenching around him so hard you can feel him groan, can feel the way his rhythm falters.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good."

His hips stutter, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully, and then he's coming with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his chest. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, can feel the pulse of his cock, and the sensation triggers another small aftershock that makes you whimper.

He collapses over you, his chest pressed against your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You can feel his heart racing against your spine, can feel the way he's trembling slightly, can feel his breath hot and uneven against your shoulder.

For a second, the two of you lay there like that, hearts pounding in sync, the messy slide of your bodies warm and comforting, his scent blooming around you as the mess between your thighs runs down your legs and onto the mattress. You don't care, going near catatonic as Soonyoung presses closer to your scent gland, his tongue darting out to taste you. It makes you moan and push back into him, wanting more and he laughs.

He shifts slightly, starting to pull out, but you make a sound of protest. "Not yet. Stay."

"I'm crushing you," he points out, but he doesn't move.

"Don't care," you say. "Want to feel you."

He makes a soft sound and settles more comfortably against you, his arms wrapping around your waist. He's still inside you, softening but not pulling out, and there's something intimate about it that makes your chest feel tight.

You lie there in the darkness, your bodies cooling, your breathing gradually evening out. You can feel the way his scent is already starting to shift, still hot and thick with rut, but not quite as sharp, not quite as overwhelming.

"How long do ruts usually last?" you ask quietly.

"Three days, usually. Sometimes four." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "But I don't know if this one will be normal. Everything about it has been weird so far."

"We'll figure it out," you tell him.

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft, vulnerable. "Thank you. For this. For helping me. For not being scared of me."

"I would never be afraid of you."

"Even after the past few days?"

"Especially after the past few days." You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, and even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "You were in pre-rut and you were still gentle with me. You were still asking permission. You were still you. That tells me everything I need to know."

He closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, and when he opens them again, they're suspiciously bright. "I don't deserve you."

"Shut up," you say, but there's no heat in it. "You deserve everything good. And I'm going to make sure you get it."

He kisses your shoulder, soft and sweet and perfect. When he pulls back, you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Round two?" he asks, and you can already feel him starting to harden again inside you.

You laugh, the sound surprised and delighted. "Already?"

"Rut," he says, rolling his hips experimentally and making you gasp. "Told you it was going to be intense. Think you can keep up?"

"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe. Think you can handle it?"

"I can handle anything you give me," you tell him, and you mean it.

"Good," he says, his voice dropping to that low, commanding tone that makes heat pool in your belly. "Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."

"Prove it."

"Oh, I will," he promises. "We've got all night. And all day tomorrow. And the day after that."

"Good," you tell him, rolling your hips and feeling the way he's already fully hard again inside you. "Because I'm not letting you go."

- The knock comes around late morning, soft but insistent.

You're half-awake when you hear it, drifting in that comfortable space between sleep and consciousness where everything feels warm and syrupy. Soonyoung is sprawled across your chest, his head tucked under your chin, one arm thrown over your waist. His breathing is deep and even, his body finally relaxed after taking you four more times throughout the night on and off. There's an ache between your legs but it feels good, feels right. Like you're right where you should be, pressed against a member of your pack, scents twisted together.

The knock comes again, a little louder this time.

"Come in," you call quietly, not wanting to startle Soonyoung awake too abruptly.

The door opens and Jeonghan steps inside, cradling bottles of water and bowls of rice and chicken. You realize it's what you both need to sustain yourself through Soonyoung's rut and you're immediately grateful, shooting Jeonghan a tired smile. He smirks in response, trailing toward where you and Soonyoung are tangled on the bed.

Soonyoung senses Jeonghan's presence, eyes snapping open. He's up on his elbows in an instant, his body going rigid, and a low growl rumbles from deep in his chest. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl that's pure territorial aggression, his pupils dilating as he positions himself between you and Jeonghan like a shield.

Jeonghan doesn't even flinch. Instead, he sets the food and water down on the dresser and turns to Soonyoung, face calm and placid before his face shifts, lips pulling back to bare his teeth at Soonyoung in kind. There's no anger in it, but rather a reminder to Soonyoung that Jeonghan is number two in this pack and Soonyoung's senior and he is not intimidated.

Soonyoung's growl falters. You can feel the moment he recognizes the dynamic, the moment his rut-addled brain processes the hierarchy and accepts it. His teeth retract, his lips closing over them, and he settles back down slightly, though his arm never leaves your waist.

"Keep the teeth away," Jeonghan snorts, walking toward the door. "Congrats on finally figuring it out. You cannot imagine the relief I felt seeing you crawl up here last night."

He turns and exits the room without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

For a moment, there's silence. You can feel Soonyoung's heart still racing, but his anger is immediately replaced with a sheepish laugh and him awkwardly scratching the back of his head, looking at you.

"Sorry," he laughs. "I've never done that before."

"It's okay," you tell him, reaching back to run your fingers through his hair. "It was cute."

"Cute?" He scoffs. "I'm not cute. I'm tough. I have teeth."

"Uh huh." You lay back on the bed, looking up at him, grinning. "Use those big teeth on me then."

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice dropping to something low and hungry. "You want me to?"

"Yes."

That's all the invitation he needs. He moves fast, rolling you onto your back and pinning you to the mattress in one fluid motion. His hands find your wrists, pressing them gently but firmly into the pillows on either side of your head. His body settles over yours, his weight pressing you down into the bed, and you can feel him already hardening against your thigh.

His teeth find the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear, and he bites down gently, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that you feel it, hard enough that it sends a spike of heat straight through you. He works his way down your neck, marking you with his teeth, and every bite is followed by a soothing lick of his tongue.

"I'll show you teeth," he mutters, scraping them over the curve of your breast.

You grin, arching into him, finally feeling settled and feeling home.

[xomakara]

Oops!!! We Broke the Plot | KIM MINGYU

You and Mingyu are childhood friends and two self‑aware comic characters that are forced into clichéd romcom roles you both hate. On the page, he’s the perfect jock and you’re the villainess; off the page, you’re a nerd–queen duo secretly in love. Fed up with scripted drama and unwanted love triangles, you rebel, glitching the comic as the Writer fights to force you back into place. What follows isn’t a romcom but a battle for agency, freedom, and the right to choose each other.

PAIRINGS |  Kim Mingyu x F. Reader 

GENRE | romantic comedy, smut, angst, drama, childhood friends to lovers, meta, breaking the fourth wall(?)

CONTENT/WARNINGS |  non-idols au, swearing, comedy, self-aware characters, verbal jabs, reader is a bully but she can't help it because that's how her character is written, punching and grabbing narration boxes, forced scripted “scenes” (comic scenes), miscommunication, yearning, kissing, caressing, unprotective sex (wrap it up folks), shower sex, oral sex, hair grabbing

LENGTH |  22,169 words

NETWORKS |  @k-vanity @ksmutsociety @cosyhomenet @hybehunters

TAGLIST |  @lovetaroandtaemin @theidontknowmehn @livelaughloveseventeen @liaaya-17 @codeinebelle @j3nnch3ls3a @choco_scoups @bearynicesworld @unholywriters @bebskyy @aethnie @seungminimpossible @frayaatiny @little-mix-fan-forever @parakissss @star-dust17 @cakebootyscaca @scoupsahoy @junniesoleilkth @datcrazyybratt @woo-wonwoo

AUTHOR’S NOTE | She's finally doneeeeee! This fic is for the SVTFLIX collab hosted by @100vern. It's loosely inspired by the k-drama Extra-Ordinary You and I had soooo much fun writing this 💚. Thank you @livmarauder for reading a portion of this and hyping me up as I write this and thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for reading the whole thing when I thought I was going crazy that my ending was rushed. Maybe we'll have a part 2???

Seventeen Masterlist | Main Masterlist

PANEL 1 — WIDE SHOT: CAMPUS QUAD, GOLDEN HOUR.

Students stroll across the lawn in perfect symmetry. Cherry blossoms drift in slow motion. A sparkly pink narration box hovers above the scene like a smug cloud.

NARRATION: Springtime at Carat University, where love blooms, hearts flutter, and destiny awaits...

PANEL 2 — CLOSE ON YOU

You’re standing dead center, holding a coffee. You stare directly at the narration box with the expression of someone who's been dealing with this for far too long.

“Don’t you dare,” you warn it.

The narration box flickers.

NARRATION: ...and the villainess plots her next—

“NOPE,” you snap, grabbing the box mid‑air like it’s a misbehaving balloon. “We talked about this. No villain monologues before 9 a.m.” You fold the narration box until it is the approximate dimensions of a post-it note and shove it into your pocket.

The rest of the campus, meanwhile, bustles around you like nothing happened. Like it never happens. Like there isn't a floating narration box following you from birth and plotting your eventual fall from grace. You really should start looking into those therapy services offered by the mental health office. You know they can't help you with "being narrated since birth," but it's probably the next best thing, right?

Anyway, it's spring and, frankly, you're very tired.

You, Y/N, are the notorious campus queen: the stunning daughter of an affluent political family and the presumed villainous antagonistic force in Kim Mingyu's, your childhood friend, star-crossed love story. For three volumes and counting, you, Mingyu and Lee Ara have fallen into a rhythmic dance of misunderstandings, relationship dramas, and flashy battles all leading to one, inevitable conclusion: Mingyu and Ara will fall in love and live happily ever after.

Or that's how it's supposed to work.

Except none of that happens in the shadows, the white spaces that the Writer's pen never quite fills in. Those are the places where characters come to life in ways even the omnipotent Writer can't see coming. Like when Mingyu saved you from a car last spring. Or that night you snuck into the school pool together and splashed around instead of studying. When it was just the two of you, when no one could see, no one was writing. When everything seemed perfectly scripted without a script.

In those moments, when the narration box couldn't reach you, nothing else seemed quite as important as his smile.

Until the next scene began, that was.

You don't remember when you and Mingyu became aware of the fact that none of this was real. You always thought that you were losing your memory, wondering how you ended up at home when you were just in class seconds ago, how so much time seemed to pass without your realizing it. It didn't click until you were aimlessly roaming the school halls one afternoon and noticed the air fluttering unnaturally around you, things moving floating out of place in the corner of your vision and an unsettling feeling of something. A presence? A monster? A force beyond your knowing and naming trying to reach out to you.

When you talked to people, they'd be confused or dismissive, thinking you're joking. And when you'd ask them again some time later, they wouldn't know what you meant and keep repeating the same responses over and over, no matter how many times you would try and ask, hoping it'd finally ilicit a different response.

Finally, you tried talking to Mingyu about what was happening to you, only to find Mingyu was feeling exactly the same way. That things were happening without his express conscious will, and he felt the presence of something vaguely sinister outside of his direct sphere.

That's when you both realized the absurd, nonsensical reality that you're living in a webtoon, in a narrative world crafted by someone who felt very little need or concern for either of your agency. That something, a presence beyond human knowledge and imagination, was dictating and guiding you along towards an end goal: an inevitable romance between Kim Mingyu, the male lead, and Lee Ara, the female lead, and you're left to be the evil side character who had to be defeated for Mingyu and Ara to obtain their Happy Ever After.

Which sucks ass because you really like Mingyu. Maybe even a little too much. And you know, deep down, that the feeling is mutual. The Writer might make you do whatever she wants to further the plot, like flirt with Mingyu against your will during scripted love tropes. But whenever the writer isn't actively intervening, you get to be just you and Mingyu, and not the fictional, plot-dictated versions of you two that are forced together by the writer. You wonder sometimes, if it wasn't for this damned world, if you'd be happily dating each other.

You feel the narration box wriggling in your pocket, desperate to escape and comment. To announce loudly, obviously that you'll do whatever you can to disrupt Kim Mingyu and Lee Ara from meeting, but ultimately end up helping the course of fate along because the Writer makes it so. Because the narrative demands a twist at the very last second, and Kim Mingyu can't end up with you.

With a sigh, you take the now much smaller narration box out and unfold it, letting its words be absorbed back into reality:

NARRATION: ...and the villainess plots her next loser plan to keep our golden boy and pure maiden away from each other.

"I fucking hate you," you mutter under your breath.

Just then, a slim figure rounds the corner: Lee Ara in all of her oblivious perfection, wearing a fluffy dress that no college student would survive in, looking very much like she is running towards you.

PANEL 3 — BUST SHOT: YOU, GLOWERING.

Your lips curl up into your default, scheming smile. You really wish it didn't feel so natural.

PANEL 4 — EXTREME CLOSE UP ON LEE ARA.

Her hair blows dramatically out of the way as she stares determinedly ahead like this isn't a typical, daily interaction for the two of you. You can't tell if it's supposed to look brave or goofy, but it sure isn't intimidating.

"Ara, you look absolutely stunning today," you feel your eye twitch as the words leave your mouth, words you didn't choose, didn't want to say, words that materialized on your tongue like someone else is operating your vocal cords.

Which, technically, someone was.

Ara blinks up at you with those impossibly wide doe eyes. "Oh! Um, thank you? That's... really nice of you to say."

No, it fucking isn't, you thought viciously, even as your face arranges itself into what you know is a calculated, mean-girl smirk.

"I just wanted to say," your mouth continues without your permission, and you feel the familiar horror of a scripted scene taking over, "that dress is so brave. Not everyone could pull off that... particular shade of yellow."

There it is. The backhanded compliment. Right on schedule.

Ara's face falls slightly, and you want to scream. You helped her pick out that dress last week during your actual, off-page friendship that the Writer conveniently ignores. You told her the sunshine yellow made her look like bottled happiness.

"Oh," Ara says softly. "I... thank you?"

"If you like looking like you're blocking traffic, then feel free to keep wearing it," you snort and then the scene releases you like a puppet with cut strings, and you immediately grab Ara's arm. "Wait, that came out wrong—"

PANEL 5 — ARA TURNS.

She's already walking away, and you know why. The Writer has got what they wanted: another moment of you being terrible to the heroine. Another panel of the villainess doing villainess things.

You stand there in the middle of the quad, students flowing around you like water around a stone, and contemplate the very real possibility of screaming until your throat bleeds.

"Rough scene?"

You don't have to turn around to know who it is. You recognize that voice anywhere. It's the voice that makes your stomach do complicated acrobatic routines, the one that belongs to your best friend since childhood, the one that's supposed to fall in love with Ara and definitely not with you.

"Mingyu," you say, turning to face him. "I just told Ara her dress makes her look like a jaundiced traffic cone. How do you think it went?"

Mingyu winces, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. He's wearing his usual off-scene outfit: an oversized hoodie that's seen better days, glasses slightly askew, hair unstyled and falling into his eyes. He looks nothing like the chiseled, perfectly-coiffed golden boy who appeared in the actual comic panels.

"Ouch," he says. "Did you at least get to apologize before the scene ended?"

"Tried. She walked away. The Writer probably needed her to be sad for the next panel where you comfort her and she realizes she has feelings for you for the millionth time," you make a gagging noise. "I hate this. I hate all of this."

"I know," Mingyu falls into step beside you as you start walking toward your next class. "I had a scene this morning where I had to flex at the gym for fifteen minutes while Ara watched from the doorway. Fifteen minutes, Y/N. Do you know how long fifteen minutes of flexing is?"

Despite everything, you snort. "Did you at least get a good pump?"

"I got a cramp in my left bicep and the overwhelming desire to go home and read my economics textbook," he pauses. "Which I did, by the way. Chapter twelve is fascinating. Did you know that—"

"Mingyu, I love you, but if you start explaining supply and demand curves right now, I will push you into that trash can."

The words hung in the air for a moment. I love you. You said it all the time, had said it for years, best friends who'd grown up together and know each other's every secret.

But lately, the words felt heavier.

Mingyu's ears turned red, they always did when you said it, even casually, and he clears his throat. "Right. No economics. Got it."

You reach your classroom and stop, turning to face him fully. He's tall, he'd always been tall, but he hunches slightly, like he's trying to take up less space. It's such a contrast to his on-page persona, where he stands with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted himself a day in his life.

"Same time tonight?" you ask. "My place? We can finish studying for that chem mid."

His face splits into a grin, a wide, boyish one that makes his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose. "Definitely," he agrees. "Maybe without the interruption this time."

PANEL 6 — ARA WALKING TOWARDS MINGYU

"And here I go," you mutter, "back to fading into the background so these two can have their meet-cute."

"I'm really sorry," Mingyu says again, "and I know that doesn't mean anything. I hope I can—"

NARRATION: ...Kim Mingyu notices his true love standing alone in the corner, a beautiful flower ready to bloom into...

"You changed into your jock gear," you note, sounding unimpressed, as Mingyu looks down and realizes that yes, he's wearing the clothes his character usually wears to work out instead of the sweater he wore before.

"Fuck," he sighs, "Here I go, I guess."

"You want me to text you after?" you ask him.

He nods, giving you a strained smile, and says, "Please."

PANEL 7 — SLOW ZOOM-IN ON ARA'S FLAWLESS SKIN AS SHE LOOKS UP AND ATTENDS MINGYU'S DAZZLING SMILE, HEARTS POPPING AROUND HER AS WE DRAMATICALLY FOCUS IN ON MINGYU.

"Ara! Just the girl I wanted to see."

You let out a long sigh, before turning away from the pair. Your story might be stuck in this linear route, but you really don't have to stick around and watch the love of your life play his part in this tale.

PANEL 8 — Y/N WALKS AWAY, SHOULDERS HUNCHED, BACKGROUND BLURRING INTO SOFT PASTELS AS THE ROMANTIC SCENE CONTINUES BEHIND HER

Each step away feels like wading through honey. You can hear Ara's delighted laugh behind you, that genuine, sweet sound that makes you hate yourself for being scripted to hurt her. You can hear Mingyu's voice doing that thing: that confident, flirty thing that isn't him at all.

The real Mingyu stutters when he's nervous. The real Mingyu talks about economic theory at 2AM and falls asleep with his glasses on.

But the Writer doesn't care about the real Mingyu.

PANEL 9 — CLOSE-UP ON Y/N'S FACE, EXPRESSION CAREFULLY NEUTRAL, BUT EYES BETRAYING PAIN

NARRATION: Meanwhile, the villainess retreats to lick her wounds, knowing she can never compete with—

"Oh, fuck off," you snap, reaching up to grab the narration box again. It's vibrating indignantly, trying to narrate your heartbreak into something convenient for the plot.

You squeeze it harder.

"You don't get to narrate this. This part is mine."

You track down Jeon Wonwoo, the webtoon's dark, brooding second male lead, in the library—specifically, on one of the beanbag chairs near the back. Wonwoo's sprawled out like an overly pretentious Renaissance statue, head titled to the sky, eyes closed, reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a heavy, glossy book perched precariously on his chest.

"What happened this time?" He mumbles. "Faded into the back like usual before the scene started?"

Wonwoo became self-aware just like you and Mingyu; about five episodes ago. And also like you and Mingyu, he didn't come into his new reality prepared. He hadn't realized it at first. He was too busy brooding and contemplating life's meaning, so it wasn't until he was speaking to Mingyu about his memory blackouts. That was when Mingyu called you over, and the three of you had had the worst meeting you could've imagined.

Wonwoo wasn't particularly enthused to find out he was a love interest. He wasn't really interested in the romantic side of things in general. Not when he was made out to be the mysterious, dark bad boy who sulks in corners, glares at people, and spends too much money on poetry books that aren't actually worth their cost.

"Fuck me," you drop yourself into the bean bag beside him, throwing your backpack across the table and letting out the loudest, most exasperated sigh of frustration known to mankind.

"You can let Mingyu do that once he's back in the shadows," Wonwoo chuckles softly as he flips a page of the book.

"And then what will happen when we have sex and a scene between him and Ara happens?" You glare at him. "He vanishes from my bed, to confess to a woman he doesn't even like? You want that to happen? I sure as hell don't."

"Then don't have sex." Wonwoo doesn't look up from his book.

"...That's your answer?"

"Don't have sex and become canon."

"I..." you let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for the nearest object near you to throw. You grab a discarded highlighter and throw it at his forehead, causing him to shut his book and finally glance over at you. "If only it were that easy, asshole."

"Can I go back to my book, or have you finally broken?" Wonwoo looks bored out of his mind as he speaks.

"We're talking about my and Mingyu's relationship. Mingyu and mine's. I hate being the villain. I'm the most popular fucking girl on campus. I'm nice to everyone, and I somehow still get treated like an evil piece of shit when a scene starts." You kick your leg up for dramatic effect, which causes a few students around you to shift uncomfortably. "This is bullshit!"

Wonwoo picks up the highlighter you threw at him and examines it like it's a particularly uninteresting specimen. "You done?"

"No, I'm not—"

"Good. Because you're making a scene, and the last thing either of us needs is to trigger another scripted moment." He tosses the highlighter back to you. "Go study with your boyfriend. At least off-page you can pretend you have free will."

You catch the highlighter reflexively, your anger deflating into something closer to exhaustion. He's right, of course. He's always right in the most infuriating way possible.

"He's not my boyfriend," you mutter, but it sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Semantics." Wonwoo reopens his book. "Now get out of here before the Writer decides we're having a moment and I have to brood attractively at you."

Your apartment is blessedly, perfectly normal.

No cherry blossoms. No golden hour lighting. No background music swelling as you open the door. Just your slightly messy living room with Mingyu already sprawled on your couch, his laptop open, surrounded by a frankly alarming number of economics textbooks.

He's wearing his glasses, the ones that never appear on-page because apparently the Writer thinks they make him look "too nerdy" for a male lead. His hair is unstyled, falling into his eyes. He's wearing a hoodie that's two sizes too big and sweatpants with a hole in the knee.

This is the real Kim Mingyu.

"You're late," he says without looking up from his screen, but there's no accusation in his voice. Just familiarity.

"Wonwoo was being useless." You drop your bag by the door and collapse onto the couch next to him, close enough that your thigh presses against his. "How was the rest of your day? Did the Writer make you do anything else humiliating?"

"Define humiliating." Mingyu finally glances at you, and his expression softens. "I had to carry Ara's books to her next class. My hands were full, so I couldn't even text you to complain about it in real-time."

"Tragic."

"It really was." He shifts his laptop to the coffee table and turns to face you properly. "She kept talking about how strong I must be. I'm not even that strong. I'm just tall. There's a difference."

You can't help but smile. "You're a little strong."

"I have the upper body strength of a particularly determined pool noodle." He pushes his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit he's had since you were kids. "How was your scene with her? The dress thing?"

Your smile fades. "I told her she looked like a sad banana."

"You didn't—"

"I did. Well, the Writer did. Through my mouth." You lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "We picked out that dress together last weekend. She was so excited about it. And then I had to stand there and watch my own mouth form words about how it washed her out."

Mingyu is quiet for a moment. Then his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with a practiced ease that comes from years of this, this thing between you that has no name because the Writer won't allow it one.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Not your fault."

"Still sorry."

This is what you love about him. Not the on-page version with the perfect smile and the athletic build and the confident swagger. This Mingyu, who apologizes for things he can't control and stutters when he's nervous and gets genuinely excited about fiscal policy.

This Mingyu, who has held your hand through every forced scene and every narrative violation and every moment where you've both felt like puppets with cut strings.

"Did you finish the problem sets?" you ask, because if you keep thinking about how much you love him, you might do something stupid. Like kiss him. And if you kiss him off-page, there's no telling what the Writer might do to punish you for it.

"Most of them." He reaches for his laptop again, but doesn't let go of your hand. "I got stuck on number seven. The one about market equilibrium."

"Let me see."

You spend the next two hours like this, working through economics problems, your head eventually finding its way to his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your knuckles. He explains supply curves with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for their favorite movies. You argue about elasticity and make him laugh so hard he snorts.

No narration box appears to comment on the "comfortable silence" or the "unspoken tension." No background music swells. No cherry blossoms drift past your window.

It's just you and Mingyu, existing in the spaces between the story.

"I wish it could always be like this," you murmur at some point, when the sky outside has gone dark and you've both abandoned any pretense of studying.

Mingyu's arm is around your shoulders now. You're not sure when that happened, but it feels right. Natural. Like this is how you're supposed to fit together.

"Me too," he says, pressing a light, half-awake kiss against the crown of your head. "Just like this."

You lean into his warmth, your eyelids fluttering closed as you memorize the weight and shape of his arm against you, his head resting against yours, the steadiness of his breathing as he begins to drift off. You memorize it all.

You memorize every last detail.

Because when you open your eyes, you're alone again.

PANEL 1 — MEDIUM CLOSE-UP ON KIM MINGYU, RUNNING ON A TREADMILL AND CONSIDERING THE THOUGHTS IN HIS GORGEOUS HANDSOME BRAIN

"Damn," Mingyu mutters as he treads, "I can't even sleep peacefully on the couch with the woman I'm hopelessly in love with."

PANEL 2 — WONWOO, EXHAUSTED AND DEBATING LEAVING MINGYU TRAINING TO WALLOW IN HIS MELANCHOLY MUSINGS BY HIMSELF

"I fucking hate my life." Wonwoo groans out his displeasure. He wonders how much trouble he'd get in if he "accidentally" hit the speed button and watches Mingyu flail off the treadmill.

NARRATION: Back on campus, the handsome male lead dwells on the true love he so sorely misses.

Mingyu grabs the narration box and flings it into the nearest corner of the gym, where it blinks weakly and powers itself off to spare itself any further humiliation.

"You done?" Wonwoo asks, the picture of composure and zen.

"No, I'm still fucking pissed off!" Mingyu hops off the treadmill and heads straight for the boxing station, grabbing some tape and bandages and wrapping up his fists in record time.

"Do you wanna tell me why you're pissed off this time, or are we just gonna keep going back and forth like this forever?"

"Y/N and I were just working on the homework, and it was... perfect. It felt perfect. Right. It was good—real good. But then, before I could realize what had happened, the Writer snatched me and now here we are."

Wonwoo nods along like the therapist that his character and personality have inexplicably deemed him, and sighs deeply.

"Happens to me all the time." Wonwoo goes about packing up his belongings for his trip back home. "One moment I'm helping one of the female side characters with a jammed door lock and the next moment I'm staring at Ara for four pages straight wondering if I want her to be my first or last kiss. Every. Damn. Time."

"You poor thing," Mingyu mumbles condescendingly as he furiously punches the boxing bag.

Wonwoo steps away as he watched the narration box slowly creep over to join the two men. "A scene is starting soon, just warning you now."

PANEL 3 — MINGYU CONTINUES TO HIT THE BOXING BAG, UNTIL HE HEARS A SUDDEN CRACK.

NARRATION: He swings and it hits. His fists continue, his speed increasing as he repeats a simple question in his head: why is Y/N messing with Ara?

PANEL 4 — MINGYU STILL BEATING THE HELL OUT OF THE BOXING BAG.

NARRATION: Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. His anger is spilling out like a broken kettle, and its burning, stinging him.

"STOP!" Mingyu shouts to no one in particular, punching the narration box instead of the bag.

"And this is why I wanted to stay home," Wonwoo murmurs out loud. "I hate these things."

"Why can't someone else be the main character?" Mingyu whines. "It doesn't have to be me."

"Because you're the one with huge muscles, you're tall, and you've got the best abs in the entire school?" Wonwoo offers bluntly.

Mingyu doesn't answer and turns his attention to the boxing bag again, throwing several more powerful punches until suddenly, the narration box begins to hover, drawing both men's attention as a new caption begins to write itself:

NARRATION: As his heart screams and his fists bleed, the only image that flashes through Mingyu's mind is Ara.

Mingyu screeches, throwing the gloves at the boxing bag this time. "LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU EVIL BOX. STOP SHOVING ME BACK INTO THE CAST OF THIS DUMBASS STORY."

PANEL 5 — KIM MINGYU IS PISSED

NARRATION: An irrational urge seeps into him. An urge to reach his hand into his own heart, find Ara, and...

Wonwoo narrows his eyes suspiciously at the box and waves a finger in Mingyu's direction, directing his attention. "Stop."

"It's not going to work!" He screams at the narration box. "LEAVE MY HEART ALONE YOU STUPID BOX!"

But the narration continues to hover, circling Mingyu like the ring leader of a very messed up circus. Mingyu swings for it with his bare hands, punching at the thin air before it moves out of the way, now standing closer to him than it was a moment ago, the writing appearing faster. The text is bold and demanding now.

NARRATION: The urge is too powerful. He sees Ara's face, and all he can think about is her.

"NO!" Mingyu screams, tears of pure, unfiltered rage welling in the corners of his eyes as he punches the wall beside him, putting a hole through it. "I DON'T LOVE ARA. I DON'T."

The wall patches itself instantly, the hole vanishing as if it were never there. But the crack in Mingyu's composure remains, spiderwebbing across the surface of the Writer's perfect narrative.

"It's trying to rewrite you," Wonwoo says, suddenly serious. "Pushing you into the corner where you have no choice but to think about her. It's rewriting your thoughts, Mingyu."

The narration box pulses with an almost smug satisfaction. The new words appear, glowing with an unsettling light.

NARRATION: His heart belongs to Ara. It has always been Ara. It will always be Ara.

"It's not true," Mingyu whispers, his anger deflating into a desperate plea. He's looking at Wonwoo now, really looking at him. His knuckles are bleeding from the punch. "It's not true, is it?"

Wonwoo sets down his bag and crosses the distance between them. For once, he doesn't look bored or annoyed. He looks like a soldier assessing battlefield damage.

"You know the answer to that," Wonwoo says quietly, so quietly that the narration box might not catch it. "The question is, how much of you is still left for you?" He glances at the hovering box. "The Writer is getting more aggressive. This is new. This is... invasive."

They've fought scenes before. They've tried to walk the other way, to mumble their lines until the scene reset, to trip over conveniently placed props. They've tried everything, but it's always been external. Pushing against the boundaries of their world, not the boundaries of their minds.

This feels different. This feels like a violation.

"I can't..." Mingyu staggers back, leaning against the now-perfect wall. "I feel it. Trying to get in. Like... like static in my head. A thought that's not my thought."

Wonwoo's face is grim. He's read every book in this godforsaken library, including the ones on psychology he never wanted to read. He knows what gaslighting looks like. He knows what brainwashing feels like. And this has all the hallmarks of both.

"It wants you to break," Wonwoo states, his voice flat. "It wants you to give in and accept the role. If it can't control your actions, it'll try to control your mind."

PANEL 6 — Y/N WALKING INTO THE GYM DRESSED IN TOO TIGHT WORKOUT CLOTHES TO TURN ANY MAN'S HEAD.

"What kind of scene is this?" You mutter to yourself as you pass the two men and head towards the cycling machine in the other room.

NARRATION: As Y/N crosses the room, a flash of anger illuminates the depths of Mingyu's soul.

"Huh?" You stop short, one leg forward as the narration begins to morph again.

NARRATION: As she crosses the room, Mingyu can't take it anymore. Just the sight of her makes Mingyu burn with hatred.

"Well, fuck you too, buddy," you murmur at the box now trying to smack you in the face. You don't even need to stick around to know where this scene is headed, and you aren't going to stick around when Ara bounces through the doors in her pink sports attire to try and talk Mingyu down from his fury.

"Ugh," you groan as you walk into the cycling room and find that this is already the set up for a scene. "Oh, this is just perfect."

"Y/N!" Someone calls you, and it's Seungcheol, a supporting character in this shitfest who's written to have a crush on you. His smile is easy, and so is he, because in this dumb universe, Seungcheol is so much less important than the main character and you're allowed to trample all over his heart, though he somehow continues to pine for you.

"Oh, hey there," you offer a grin and head over to the spin bike next to him, joining him and his row of friends from the track team. The nameless ones. All of them here to serve a single purpose—and yet none of them are aware enough to break out of it.

You know when a scene starts because suddenly, you're having a casual conversation. Everything about your posture is suddenly just slightly more interesting—your lips redder, your cheeks rounder, the cut of your collarbones subtly highlighted by the shine from the lights above you. Everything is suddenly for show, but this time, so are you. You're not speaking the lines you want.

PANEL 7 — YOU INSIDE THE CYCLE ROOM, ON YOUR BIKE AND TALKING TO SEUNGCHEOL.

NARRATION: Y/N tries desperately to seduce a certain boy. She teases him in her sickly sweet tone.

"Cheol!" You greet, laughing at one of his jokes. You know what's coming next, and you know that you aren't saying this and yet the words escape anyway, as if they belong to someone else. You hate it. You hate this.

NARRATION: Seungcheol teases her right back, not knowing that Mingyu is watching their every move.

"Maybe you could give me some more advanced lessons," you bat your eyelashes and flash Seungcheol that sweet smile. You hope you don't throw up.

NARRATION: So distracted, she didn't notice Ara right behind her.

You glance down as you begin to cycle, glancing behind you for a split second. There are too many characters in here, and there's no guarantee that the story won't make an extra scene out of your path crossing with any of them, and your luck really does run out, because right there, in pink workout gear to match Mingyu's blue, is Ara, pretending not to watch you and Seungcheol.

PANEL 8 — Y/N FINALLY NOTICING ARA.

"So much for privacy." You scowl, your voice pitched higher to catch the attention of the one-woman audience that's suddenly in this scene. You know it's just a scene, you don't mean what you're saying and you definitely did not mean to flirt with Seungcheol. You get angry thinking about how fake this entire world is. "What?" You turn to look at Ara, tilting your head and smirking. "You've never seen a man and a woman flirting before?"

"I-" Ara starts, but suddenly looks downright uncomfortable. "It's not like that, Y/N."

You sigh and turn forward, meeting the screen again and shaking your head at how utterly useless it is to try and even change things. No one's in this scene to notice what you say, so why does the story even care? The story is stupid, and pointless, and written entirely around Ara and you don't care who's on board. "Why should you care who I flirt with anyway? You got Mingyu wrapped around your pretty little fingers, don't you?"

"I would never," Ara tries again. "He's-"

"He's what? Something else I can never have?" You're a villain through and through, apparently, and the Writer wants this kind of drama. "It's cute how you think I'll stay away, just because of a little warning." You smirk and wait a beat, just to watch the discomfort bloom across Ara's face. "We both know you don't have the stomach to threaten me back."

PANEL 9 — MINGYU STEPS IN

You can see the look in Mingyu's eyes. He doesn't care about what the narration is doing, apparently, and in the midst of this disaster of a story, you suddenly realize it.

"Mingyu," Ara almost sighs. "I- please don't-"

"You." He points to you, and for a brief second, you can see how Mingyu clenches his fist, trying to fight against the word that's already forming on his lips. "Watch it."

"Mm, and if I don't?" You shrug, innocently pouting and getting off the bike. You ran your fingers down his chest, making sure to keep eye contact. "What are you going to do to me, Kim Mingyu?" You lick your lips and don't stop touching him, running your fingers down his torso and the planes of his muscles, one hand over his arm and the other curled up to grip at his chest. "Don't you think you and I have more fun ways to play, or have you forgotten about the night we-"

Mingyu holds on to your wrist tightly, holding your touch away from him. "Shut your mouth."

You look up at him and bite your lip, shrugging again. "Or what?"

"Please stop, Mingyu!" Ara tugs at the side of his t-shirt, begging Mingyu, who barely notices.

He was there, during that one weekend, when the story took a vacation and let your real selves drive. Neither of you were ready to stop. Neither of you were ready to be written and puppeteered as the main characters. There's so much Mingyu wants to say right now. Instead, the Writer uses his mouth to spit vitriol and spite.

"Stay the fuck out of my life, and off my girl," Mingyu hisses. "Do whatever the fuck you want, but stay the hell away from her."

"Oh wow." You roll your eyes and pull away from him, wiping his hand down your skirt. "Protective, aren't we?" You cross your arms and lean into his personal space. "Wouldn't want me to show her how much better I could fuck you, huh?"

Ara gasps, backing away and covering her mouth with her hands. "Why would you say such a thing!" She screeches at you, and you shrug it off.

"That's not happening." Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, fists curling into themselves.

PANEL 10 — INTENSION OF RAGE HANGING AROUND MINGYU.

"Now that just sounds like a challenge, handsome," you tap the tip of his nose and flash him that perfect smirk, the kind designed to bring even the biggest, baddest, male characters to their knees. You turn away, and head to leave the gym. "Your girlfriend can keep playing house, but you and me?" You blow him a kiss as you walk to the changing rooms. "I'm always down to play rough."

And as you walk away, you can hear the familiar sound of fists punching a bag, Mingyu screaming, and a heartbreaking "I hate her!" that makes the Writer grin in delight.

When the door to the changing rooms close, you sink to the ground, pulling your knees up to your chest and fighting back the tears in the corner of your eyes. You hate this. You don't want to be a villain. You just want to love him and be loved, and the Writer just refuses to let that happen.

For the next thirty minutes, the Writer leaves you alone, and you're curled up against the bench as you cry. The last thing you really needed was Mingyu to actually hate you.

And you hate the thought of being anyone's villain. Especially his.

Mingyu finds you curled up in your bed. Not just a lump under a mound of pillows. In your bed, buried underneath the blankets and nursing a tub of ice cream.

"You okay?" he asks gently.

"Not really," you mutter and take another spoonful of ice cream, avoiding eye contact. You're being grumpy and pathetic, but you don't really care.

Mingyu grabs the tub of ice cream and places it on your nightstand, not caring if it'll melt, as he gathers you into his arms, letting you wrap your own around his torso.

"I don't like doing it," Mingyu whispers. "It was-" He takes a deep breath and holds you a little tighter. "God, saying those things to you, I hate that the Writer made me do it. Even the visual of... of-" He doesn't need to finish his sentence.

"Me and Seungcheol," you mumble, and let him lift your chin.

Mingyu nods. "But Y/N-" He searches your face and taps your forehead. "I didn't mean a single bit of it. None of it. Never. Okay? I would never ever treat you like that, okay?"

Your eyes tear up, and you nod, biting your lip and trying to get rid of the sting of the Writer's manipulations.

"And I hate myself for hurting you like that," he admits softly. "Even if I didn't mean it, I still said it, and that hurts. But... but at least we're self-aware?" He gives you an awkward grin.

You manage a laugh through the tears. It was a crap day, and maybe Mingyu wasn't helping, but your favorite thing about your best friend has always been that you feel understood when you're with him.

"This is hard," Mingyu groans, flopping backward on your bed. He hugs you close to him, so you don't flail around. "Can't we just," he moves one hand, gesturing wildly "I dunno, rewrite this stupid thing so we're happy?"

"If only that was a possibility," you giggle.

"Wait," Mingyu props himself up on an elbow. His eyes sparkle. "Wait. Y/N, what if we do exactly that."

"What," you roll your eyes and give Mingyu a blank look, not trusting his tone.

"Seriously! Let's rewrite this ourselves," Mingyu exclaims. "You and I, Wonwoo too, are self-aware. Why don't we work together to change things? It could work, don't you think?"

"What would we change, Gyu?" You ask him, a tiny glint of hope lighting up behind your irises.

"Well, to start," Mingyu grimaces. "Maybe, uh, have the Writer stop trying to make you kiss the entire university population, yikes."

You grimace and lift your hands up to the sky as if you're going to fight the Writer's pen with your bare hands. "That's a damn start. My god, we need a human resources department for this shit."

"It's more like human rewrite department and I'll file a complaint," Mingyu deadpans and the two of you share a quick look before bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, needing this moment of levity after the exhausting scenes you're usually roped into.

"Wait, wait," you can't believe how many brilliant ideas come to you once you give yourself an afternoon to wallow. "Wonwoo!" You glance around as you grab Mingyu's phone from the floor, quickly dialing Wonwoo's number and grinning mischievously when it picks up. "We're forming a union. Bring beer. See you later." And then you hang up.

Mingyu is beside himself in a fit of laughter. "Oh man, won't the writer be pissed when they find out three of their characters are rebelling against the plot line."

"I hate this stupid plotline," you groan. "I'm the most popular girl in school but what does the narrative care about?! Me kissing a different character every week. I swear, we're literally nothing more than tropes used just to create more drama for the narrative, and it's annoying and pointless and I've had enough!" You let out a long, loud sigh and Mingyu grins.

"Damn, you're hot when you're angry," Mingyu mutters and when you give him a look, he looks away with flushed cheeks.

"Gross." Wonwoo let's himself into your apartment and holds up the beers. "Union time, but please. Can you not flirt with each other. I've dealt with enough forced bullshit today."

"What happened?" You look over the couch and see a distressed looking Wonwoo, your confusion and Mingyu's morphing into that same glare the two of you shared mere hours ago. "Did you just get some scene thrown into your storyline as well?"

Wonwoo winces and rubs the back of his neck. "I was forced out of the comfort of my own apartment to walk around the campus with Ara, the words spewing from my own tongue saying how she's everything I want and more, and how her personality is so cute, I can't get her off my mind, bla bla bla..."

The two of you just sit there, horror written on your face as the thought of a love sick Wonwoo has your brain nearly short circuiting.

"Dude, what the hell," Mingyu gags and shudders. "Was this scene like-" he pauses, horrified with the thought that passes through his mind. "Don't tell me. I don't want to imagine it."

"Neither did I, believe me, Mingyu. Please don't say anything else. I had to go through five showers with nearly boiling hot water to rid the thoughts of even holding her hand." Wonwoo winces as the memory makes his skin crawl. "Okay. So." Wonwoo nods. "Union time!"

As the sun dips low beyond the horizon and night overtakes the room, the three of you drink and dream and plan for the world that's promised. It's been far too long, since you've allowed yourself to dream. But with Mingyu and Wonwoo? It might actually work.

"Holy shit, guys." You stare up at the building looming overhead and then at the sign next to the door, squinting and reading out loud. "'Humanity Rewrite Agency. The world's solution to author control.'"

"I was kidding about it," Mingyu starts as he looks between his co-conspirators. "But there's really a HR building in the shadows? Do you think the Writer knows about this place?"

"Dude, if it's in the shadows then they won't be able to see it," Wonwoo shakes his head, almost wanting to laugh at the three of you standing outside of the building. It was a spur of the moment decision to go into the HR building, and though the three of you were pretty serious about the whole union thing, it all seems a bit far-fetched.

"Alright, let's go," You shrug and make your way up to the sliding doors, pushing in and finding the empty reception desk. "Um. Excuse us?"

A person pops out from beneath the desk, glasses askew and jacket slightly messed up. "Y-yes, how can I help you today?"

"We're thinking about forming a union? And thought a place like this might help, given it's hidden in the shadows." Wonwoo comments casually, leaning on the counter.

The receptionist's mouth opens, surprised. "A union?" Their eyes drift from Mingyu, to Wonwoo, and settle on your gaze. Their eyes soften, lips parting a moment later as a few memories spark in their mind. "Oh. Oh, dear. You three really are self-aware, huh." The receptionist, who's name tag reads Joshua, snaps out of his thoughts and offers a kind smile. "You're not the only self-aware characters working through an issue. Follow me." Joshua spins around the desk, flicking off the switch to the light above and disappearing into the hallway behind him, beckoning the three of you to follow. "You must know about Danoh and Haru, right? What happens to them in Secrets? What happens after?"

"Secrets?" Your brow furrows as your try to connect the dots, knowing very little about the book in question.

"I see you three really haven't done your due diligence then." Joshua laughs a moment later, voice light and cheerful. "Secrets is a comic about the typical high school romance. But in their case, our spunky Danoh was a supporting extra with a heart disease and Haru was a faceless extra." Joshua stops at his office door and gestures to the chairs across from him.

"Is there a reason why they're important?" Mingyu asks, clearly perplexed with the idea of side characters rebelling in their own way.

"Oh yes. I'll let Seungkwan tell you. He's like your mediator or something, I dunno. But he can help you find some answers at the very least."

You trail behind, your mouth moving faster than your brain as you pepper Joshua with questions. Wonwoo and Mingyu shake their heads but listen just as intently to Joshua's ramblings. You know there's a whole world here, out there in the shadows, and now that you've tasted self-awareness you're hungry for every detail you can find.

"In here," Joshua calls over his shoulder. "Everyone. These are our newest clients."

"New clients?!" A male's voice practically squeals, followed by a swift punch to the arm.

"More self-aware folk who don't know enough?" A second male's voice pipes up, amusement glinting in his eyes as a slow smile pulls across his lips. "Well, we can fix that. Hi, everyone! Welcome to Human Rewrite Agency, located conveniently in the shadows, where we'll do anything within our power to help."

"It's great to be here," you nod, stepping forward. "I'm Y/N." You tilt your head to your two conspirators, a shy smile on Mingyu's lips. "This is my best friend, Mingyu. And that brooding, tired-looking beanpole, is Jeon Wonwoo."

"Flattering," Wonwoo smirks, shaking his head as he pushes his glasses up his nose.

"I'm Boo Seungkwan," the bright male who's eyes sparkled from the moment you stepped through the doors bounces over and pulls you and Mingyu into a tight embrace before doing the same to Wonwoo. "This is Vernon. A few of the others are working with clients so you can't meet them right now, but it'll probably be a long time before anyone else does, especially if your situation is even half as strange as a love pentagram." Seungkwan rolls his eyes.

"Love pentagram?" Wonwoo murmurs.

"Another comic where the female lead falls for four men and she can't chooses between them," Vernon shakes his head. "All the four men ended up self-aware because her dilemma and they have yet to figure out how to resolve their issue."

"Wow," you shake your head. "Who has the time and energy to think of this mess of a love story."

"The Writer of that comic does, and they're enjoying the pain," Seungkwan chirps. "Our agency does what we can to resolve their issues without erasing their awareness, so they can live their lives as they truly want to."

"How do you guys fix the issue?" Mingyu wonders aloud.

"Depends," Seungkwan tilts his head in thought. "Sometimes their comic becomes too unstable and they have to go through a series of major rewrites for them to fall into the correct timelines or character placements, etc. I assume Joshua has mentioned Danoh and Haru?" He catches your nod. "There were lots of up and downs with those two and their comic. Secrets came to an end and even though Danoh and Haru weren't end-game there, they became extras in a new comic and have the agency to choose each other, finally."

"So you're saying..."Mingyu begins as his brow furrows in thought. "We're fucked no matter what we do? No matter how hard we try to change the narrative, the Writer can always rewrite whatever happens? If we create a glitch, the Writer will just delete it? There's no winning in that."

Seungkwan grins and nods at the question. "Correct, for the most part," He agrees, not willing to dismiss any fears the three of you are harboring. "Which is why, a lot of these couples learn to focus on their lives in the shadow while still fighting to get to a happy ending. Because happy endings are for every character, even a background one."

Mingyu reaches for your hand, squeezing it in his palm. "So what should we focus on?"

"Do your part. Flirt in scenes, take the kisses when scripted and try not to gag...too much." Seungkwan laughs brightly, noticing the distasteful expressions on the three's faces at the thought. "Just because it's written one way doesn't mean you're doomed. Hell, our main clients in the Love Pentagon have to act out this drama where they basically hate the shit out of each other but in the shadows, they're all friends and bond over their scenes at their local bar." He laughs, his face glowing at the fond memory. "All because they're learning to balance both. The shadow and the world beyond." Seungkwan comes forward and places a reassuring hand on both Mingyu's shoulder and your hand.

"Don't forget, you can always visit. We're open seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. I encourage the glitching and breaking the fourth wall, but do keep in mind, a sudden plot twist will never sit well in the comic so sometimes the Writer's hand will get involved. But don't give up." He squeezes again, pulling his hand away. "At the end of the day, the three of you are still you. Self-aware doesn't change that and the Writer can't remove that fact either. They might be able to rip the self-awareness right from under your noses, but what they can't do is control the you you've created for yourself in the shadows."

Your entire being hums from his words, Seungkwan's melodic voice full of genuine kindness. You let Seungkwan's gentle reassurances sweep the worry from your brow, even as your mind continues to swirl. You've found an ally, one with endless optimism. You let out a sigh and your gaze settles on the grin dancing at the corners of Mingyu's mouth, the hope you always feel blooming whenever you're close, blossoming behind your ribs. "Shall we?"

Mingyu squeezes your hand once more. "You bet."

Another day, another scene. This time you're staring at an unrealistically happy Wonwoo as he looks down at Ara, his fingers brushing a lock of her hair from her eyes. Mingyu stands beside you, a look of disgust on his face as he tries not to vomit from Wonwoo's forced expressions.

"Is this how you feel when you look at me and Ara during our scenes together?" Mingyu asks out of the blue and you laugh.

"Now you know my pain," you pat his cheek with your palm. "Tough to watch?"

"Painful," he admits. "Happy Wonwoo is hard to watch. I'm so used to him being broody and aloof, it's just strange seeing him like this."

"And that's coming from a nerd who's forced to flex his muscles every day," you chuckle. "He's all brawn and brains and still scared of horror movies."

"To be fair," Mingyu pouts slightly. "Horror movies are terrifying."

"I love you Gyu, but you're just a big baby."

"Your big baby," he counters, pout growing. "Right?"

"C'mere, baby," you laugh, cupping his chin as you stand on the tips of your toes and plant a firm kiss on his cheek. Mingyu flushes a shade of pink that spreads up his neck and blooms across his ears as a stupid grin flashes across his face.

"Eww, gross." The sudden exclamation catches your attention, spinning you around. Wonwoo stands a few feet away, shaking his head in mild disgust and faked annoyance. "Ugh. Get a room."

"Done with your scene? Ready to go back and brood like your normal self?" You smirk.

Wonwoo glowers. "Shut up." He tucks his hands into his pockets as he falls into step beside the two of you. "I am the model of happiness."

"What a lie," you laugh. "Wonwoo, no. Your true self is brooding. Being happy is not your forte. But it's okay. We still like you."

"That's kind of cruel but not untrue," Mingyu adds. Wonwoo heaves an exasperated sigh but says nothing.

The three of you stroll off the campus grounds, heading downtown toward Mingyu's favorite bakery. When your thighs begin to ache, Mingyu gallantly offers you a piggyback ride. "Took you long enough," you mumble, but a grin breaks free the minute your arms are looped around Mingyu's neck and his arms are linked under your knees, his palms curled snugly around the curve of your thighs. You're cackling the entire way.

When you arrive at Mingyu's favorite bakery, Wonwoo slows to a stop. "Sorry to skip out," he sighs. "I'm tired and I need to wash whatever happened in my scene today off of me. But text me the plan, alright?" He leans in and steals a pastry from the box Mingyu just purchased, much to the latter's protest.

"Dude, that was my favorite," Mingyu frowns, watching him run off with the pastry clenched tightly in his fist, looking smug as he turns the corner.

"So dramatic," You shake your head and steal the next pastry from the box before darting away, laughter erupting from behind you.

"Why do I even bother?" Mingyu rolls his eyes in jest, racing after you, easily catching up. "You really gonna make me run when I'm holding a box of goodies?"

"You'd anything for me, dummy," you tease with an arched brow.

"Can't say no to that," Mingyu laughs brightly, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, a feeling that makes your entire body glow.

He'd walk through fire for you. And, you suppose, you'd walk through fire for him too. Even if it was scripted and the flame was all special effects. Still, you'd do it. The whole thing could crash and burn, literally, but it'd be worth it. He's always worth it.

You two collapse onto a picnic table, watching a gaggle of young children chase each other, swinging wildly at their pinwheels. Their joy echoes across the grass and you feel your body relax as you and Mingyu devour another pastry in seconds.

"These are the moments I really want," he finally admits after an extended moment of silence. "To sit with you, be in the moment and have the ability to laugh at stupid shit like those kids or something serious. It's just peaceful."

"Agreed," you tilt your head with a smile, content and free as a stray curl whips across your eye and Mingyu leans across the picnic table to brush it aside. "We deserve better than what the Writer has in store for us," you muse. "Not sure what that better is, but we deserve better."

"This," he breathes suddenly, looking nervous despite the calm, easy atmosphere of the park. "Us. Together." He gestures, an awkward fumbling of long arms and large hands that makes you want to cry-laugh, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying the shy tone his voice has.

"Mingyu." He smiles at you softly as you lean across the table and press a soft kiss to the very corner of his mouth. He sighs in content, pulling you against him so you were sprawled across his lap as he buries his nose into your hair. "I really do love you. You know that right? Nothing the Writer creates is going to stop me from loving you."

"Oh god," Mingyu pretends to gag playfully. "Such a fucking sap. I've rubbed off on you."

You reach up and pinch his jawline before swiping his nose with your palm. "Silly, dorky himbo of mine." He groans but doesn't deny the affection, a shy smile hiding behind his lashes.

"Can't deny the truth."

"Knew you loved it."

"Love you more." Mingyu bumps your noses together as he presses his lips to yours, sighing the minute your lips slot into his perfectly as he tightens his grip around you. The pair of you sigh blissfully into the kiss and you grin, unable to help yourself as you bring the back of your hand to your forehead.

"God," you say, rolling your eyes. "Could this sunset and the taste of the chocolate filling of Mingyu's favorite bread be any better?"

"Shhh," he chuckles softly against your lips. "Stop ruining the moment, Y/N."

"One, never. Two, never," you insist, smiling at the ridiculous look on his face as you press one final kiss to his pouting lips. "Y'know, I like that smile of yours best."

"The one I reserve for you alone," he whispers, eyes shut. You can feel the light breeze tossing Mingyu's hair about as you bask in the peace he brought you, the feel of his strong body pressing against yours, holding you impossibly closer, keeping the nightmares and chaos of the comics at bay. For now.

That night, you have a dream. A weird dream. In that dream, you’re with Mingyu. That part isn't unusual. But it feels different, familiar, somehow. Almost like a past life where you and Mingyu were free. Truly free. But when you wake up, your memory of the dream fades fast, the dream dissolving like a mirage in the desert. You fall back asleep, remembering only the comfort of your dreams, and Mingyu's strong arms.

The next morning, you make your way to HR, knocking before sliding your head in to find Seungkwan there, smiling up at you and gesturing for you to come inside and have a seat in his office.

"Hey Seungkwan. Good to see you again, thanks for giving me your time." You begin, having wanted to ask him a few questions. "I've been having some weird dreams recently, a past life it felt like. I couldn't really remember them all when I'd wake up but..." You trail, hoping you were making sense to Seungkwan.

"Glad you're here," He gestures to the empty seat directly across his desk, inviting you to make yourself comfortable while you have a little chat. Seungkwan slides a few files your way before folding his hands on his desk. "I actually managed to procure these after our last chat. it seems like you were the main character in the writer's last piece. If this helps jog your memories, that'd be a real win-win."

You let the pages slip beneath your fingertips, curiosity boiling behind your lashes as the scenes came back to you, the very dreams you were having all were on this very sheet of paper. It makes you want to laugh as you look at the very scene of Mingyu walking toward the girl who was the perfect mirror of you.

You flip through the pages and notice you were in a bookstore and had even dreamed a few nights prior about it. All of this is true, these aren't scripts...they’re the past. "You found all of this after my last visit?" You ask in awe.

"Yes!" he says proudly, unable to hide the glint in his eyes. "There were a few snags here and there. From what I researched, you and Mingyu's story wasn't supposed to end in such a tragic way."

Your smile falls from your face as you realize his words aren't ones of encouragement, but almost pity. "Tragic ending? What do you mean?"

"Well," Seungkwan sinks a little further into the leather of his chair and rubs the back of his neck, eyes focusing intently on his notes as if he wishes that he hadn't uttered the last few words. "It's sad. You were arranged to marry, he was drafted for the war. He never returned."

"Oh," you manage as the words hit you, and your head is screaming, begging for something. "So why was it put on hold?" You ask the only logical question left.

"The Writer abandoned it." He slides you a copy of the draft you were just looking at. "It wasn't getting the traction because of the heavy story, apparently," Seungkwan winces at the idea that he may have said too much, but you just nod at him. "The Writer decided that the current comic that you're in is getting more readership."

"Great, so glad to hear she gave up and moved to a new storyline instead." You seethe, not realizing how harsh the words were as you grit your teeth. "But why was Ara chosen as the main character instead of me?"

"She's naive, innocent," he offers, sliding a piece of gum into his mouth. "Pretty." Seungkwan wrinkles his nose as if it was unavoidable, a sad fact. "What?"

"And I'm not? That doesn't seem fair," you groan, arms crossing over your chest as a pout works it's way over your lip. "That is a real blow." You huff out a sarcastic laugh.

"You're the bombshell that's relagated to the background. Not that you're a background character by any means. You're the villainess."

"Don't say it," you roll your eyes. You know it. Everyone knows it. That you were the supposed villainess. But the fact that someone, especially Seungkwan, has admitted it out loud? Well, you don't want to admit the truth, but it stings like a motherfucker.

"You're self-aware," he states quietly. "Can we focus on that?"

"Fine," you grumble, before forcing yourself to calm down. It's not Seungkwan's fault. "But why Mingyu? The Writer could have written another male character that isn't Kim Mingyu."

"Maybe the Writer felt bad for him in the last draft, and thought she'd give him a chance as the main character of a new romance series."

"By turning him into the ultimate, white knuckled himbo who flexes his abs whenever?" You groan, "The poor boy."

"He may be the male lead of the comic and geared for Ara," He leans forward. "But he will always choose you and you him. It's fate, even for characters written into existence." Seungkwan chuckles before standing and dusting his suit pants off. "Alright, thank you again for chatting with me. That is all I wanted to talk about. Stay self-aware and keep your focus on the real goal, Y/N."

"And what's that?"

Seungkwan flashes you a bright smile as he ushers you from his office, "Getting out of this shit comic, duh!"

From your corner of the dancefloor, you watch Mingyu lean in closely to whisper something into Ara's ear. Whatever he is saying makes her erupt into giggles as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears. As the music plays and they spin together, your heart breaks into pieces.

You really want to smack the Writer for making you see this.

Wonwoo sidles up to you, shaking his head at the sight before him as the pair looks ridiculous as they stand on the dance floor and the scripted splash panel. "You can vomit in my shoes later if you need," Wonwoo offers, trying his best not to make this anymore miserable for you. "Want a drink?"

"Fuck yes," you snap, looking for a moment before shaking your head. "I've got this, stay. Enjoy the dance, look pretty for the crowd and try not to burst into flames from boredom."

"What am I, an ornament? Because I've gotta say, this bowtie is uncomfortable." Wonwoo wrinkles his nose at the feeling of the tie wrapped around his neck as you chuckle and take your leave, heading for the bar.

"A shot. Top shelf, please." You watch as the bartender grabs a bottle and lines the small glasses up in front of you, grabbing a pack of salt as he sets up. After the glasses were filled, you look up to find Mingyu looking directly at you as you lick a long strip across your wrist before downing the glass of tequila. The way he bites his lip is undeniably hot, and the slight daze in his eye is doing wonders.

Worth it.

"You're good," Seokmin, the bartender, comments as you blink your way back, slamming the tiny glass back on the bar counter. "Lookin' to impress anyone?"

"Someone, but he's too preoccupied at the moment," you sigh, gesturing to the man and woman currently on the dance floor as they sway back and forth.

"Ah," Seokmin purses his lips sympathetically. "Want another one?"

"Keep them coming." The next shot goes down easy, just like the other glasses you had poured down your throat in the hopes you could avoid Mingyu for the rest of the night.

Mingyu could've easily left her side and spent the remainder of the evening with you. You sigh wistfully, you had dreamed that this party would end differently. And not with him twirling another woman around the ballroom like this was some sort of poorly-written romance flick.

As the night drags on, the tequila keeps pouring down your throat until you can barely tell which Mingyu is the real Mingyu. Or is Ara real? You can't seem to care because when she disappears and the lights dim, he's suddenly right in front of you. "I think that's enough drinking for tonight, Y/N. Please?"

You look up at him drunkenly, anger brewing deep within you as you bite your lip, tears blurring your vision before you wipe angrily, angry, not that he would understand because, at the end of the day, it was Mingyu. Your Mingyu. "I hate this, Mingyu."

"Me, too."

"It feels like my insides have been crushed. It hurts to see you with her, and know that the entire evening the Writer kept pushing you two together, again, and again, and again." Your voice cracks and Mingyu reaches out to gently catch one of the tears that spilled down your cheek.

"C'mon." His hand is warm against yours. The two of you shuffle back to his apartment. "It's late," he mumbles as he shuts the door and throws his car keys into the tray on the counter, bending over to shrug his dress shoes off, and you stumble backwards until you feel your knees bump against the sofa and you let yourself fall against the soft cushions. "Are you just going to sleep with your dress on?" Mingyu asks, and you scoff.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Oh, right. Forgot who I'm talking to." He laughs and it sounds bitter and broken. He rubs a hand down the side of his face, shaking his head. "Anyway, you want to get out of those clothes? Here. Let me help you. Don't want you falling and hurting yourself."

"I'm not five, Mingyu."

"No," Mingyu pauses, gaze boring into yours, "But you sure can act like it."

"So, I can be a brat and you can treat me like you’re my Daddy, yeah?" You don't mean to laugh, but you are. You are fucking delirious, and so, so inebriated. But you're drunk and can't hold back the words tumbling out your mouth. "I'm such a fucking mess," you moan, hands flying to cover your face. "Just…just leave me here."

"Let's get you sober and then we can talk about that kinky side of yours." Mingyu holds out his hand, but the angle of the overhead light creates a glare. He's haloed in white light, like an angel or a figment of your imagination, you aren't quite sure. He taps your nose lightly, smile pulling at his lips, the slightest bit smug. "Take my hand and let's get you some fresh air. You smell like tequila."

"Mhm," You reach forward and slap your hand against his palm, sighing as Mingyu pulls you towards him and loops a supportive arm around your waist. "You like it, don't lie," you mumble. He rolls his eyes at that as your head dips back onto his shoulder and your feet stumble slightly before you are righted.

"Whatever you say, you drunk," he murmurs as he leads you to the balcony and dumps you on a lounge chair, reaching a hand out to press against your back. "Stay. I'll get you something to sober up before we get you showered and ready for bed. Okay?"

"Okay." Your voice comes out muffled since you bury your face in the pillow. "Mingyu?" you ask as a cool breeze chills your face.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for looking out for me."

"I'd do anything for you."

After a while of comfortable silence, and a cup of hot coffee in your hands, you both were looking out towards the street and were enjoying each others silent company. "You know we used to be in another series together?" you speak as you look over.

"Really?" he asks.

"Yea," you say wistfully.

"What was it about?" he inquires further.

"Not sure. But you and I were..." your lips pull up into a sad smile and your eyes slide back to the city street, "We were in love. Well, at least the Y/N and Mingyu from that series were." You smile sadly. "How we danced around each other in secret meetings during the war, and had to act like we were not madly in love once daylight hit. Even though I knew we'd always be safe no matter what because we loved each other."

"What happened, then? With us?" he asks.

"I was arranged to get married...to someone that's not you," you admit and it hurt like a stab to the gut. "And you were drafted, and I never saw you again." You turn back towards the view. "Can you imagine? How you loved someone with all your heart, but the narrative made sure you never had your happy ever after. No matter how badly you wanted it? The Writer just abandoned that series, never brought that story to an ending because it was so heavy and tragic. Wrote our lives off, just to throw us into something less heavy."

"Hey, come here." Mingyu sits up, pulling you into his arms. "We can't dwell on things in our past, even though the story may have hurt us, this time, things will be different."

"Will they, though?" you question with a sad shrug of the shoulder, wrapping your arms around his waist. Mingyu tilts your head towards his. "I'm not the main character this time. Just the villainess in this particular comic, forced to watch someone else get the happy ending. The happy ending the Writer robbed you and I out of."

"Shh," he hushes as he kisses your forehead.

"Promise you'll stay true and never abandon me? No matter what?" your voice wavers a bit as the threat of a sob remains close. Mingyu's big and warm hands gently tilt your head back to look up at him. He's got the most gorgeous face you've ever seen, with eyes so deep they put the night sky to shame and hair that gleams bronze in the sunlight.

"I'd do anything to keep you close," Mingyu says. "I promise."

"Pinky swear?" you sniff.

"Pinky swear." He links his pinky finger with yours. You breathe a small laugh. Mingyu had a smile to rival the sun, you always thought. All teeth, a bit lopsided and big and warm. Even in your current state of distress.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" your gaze darts down to where the two of you are connected by a finger.

"More often than necessary."

"I really, really love you, Kim Mingyu," you smile up at him.

"Love you, too." He presses his forehead against yours.

"Like, super duper, you don't even have a clue," you mumble into his chest. He only snorts.

"Sure I don't, dummy." He pats your head.

"Then maybe I should show you?" The words sound suggestive to Mingyu as you wrap your arms around his torso tightly, your hot breath tickling his ear.

"Y/N, come on," Mingyu says, wriggling away, cheeks going crimson.

You squint up at him, mischief in the creases in the corners of your eyes. "Why not?" you pout.

"Well, because," Mingyu ruffles the back of his hair. "You're drunk."

"I'm so damn sober right now that I could paint you a picture of the ocean."

"No, no, no." Mingyu pushes the hair out of his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Maybe I should prove to you I am a very willing participant?" you begin to say as he closes his eyes for a split second. Before he can do or say anything to prevent it, your hands have snaked themselves behind his neck. The scent of cologne and detergent fill your nose as he stiffens slightly and groans against your skin.

"You drive a hard bargain," Mingyu finally murmurs. "But first, you need a shower."

"Join me?" you suggest and you grin up at him with a mischievous waggle of the eyebrows. "There's plenty of room for two." You see the way Mingyu bites his lip, then sighs.

"Fine. Lead the way," he says, and when you squeak happily and pull him towards the bathroom.

Moments later, the bathroom is thick with steam, blurring the clean lines of the tiled walls until the world outside feels entirely locked away. The water drums a steady, heavy rhythm against the porcelain, a barrier of noise that no scripted dialogue or intrusive narration box could pierce.

"You're still clumsy," Mingyu murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rid of the booming, confident cadence the Writer always forced into his throat on-page. Here, he sounds rough around the edges, grounded, and entirely yours.

"I am perfectly balanced," you retorted, though your hands gripped his shoulders for support as you stepped under the spray. The heavy silk of your party dress clings to your skin, soaked through in an instant, but neither of you care about the clothes.

Mingyu reaches behind you, his large palms warm against the small of your back as his fingers find the zipper. With a slow, deliberate slide, the wet fabric parts. He peels the dress away, letting it pool heavily at your feet. When his gaze meets yours, there’s none of the scripted, aggressive arrogance he was forced to display at the gym. His eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a fierce, protective reverence.

"You look beautiful, Y/N," he whispers, his thumbs tracing the line of your hip bones, wiping away the lingering traces of the comic’s forced aesthetic. "The real you. Not the villainess."

"Then stop looking and do something about it," you challenge, leaning up until your lips are inches from his.

Mingyu doesn't hesitate. He pulls you flush against his chest, the spray of the shower slicking his hair back, exposing the sharp, handsome angles of his face. His mouth comes down on yours with a desperate, hungry heat, a stark contrast to the polite, hesitant kisses the script dictated for him and Ara. This is raw, heavy with years of unspoken longing and the terrifying knowledge that your time in the dark is always limited.

His hands slide down to lift you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. You gasp into the kiss as he presses you back against the warm tiled wall, the friction of his skin against yours sending a sharp jolt through your chest.

"I'm not letting them take this," Mingyu groans against your neck, his lips tracing a burning path down to your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to leave a mark, claiming every bit of you that he could.

You grab at the nape of his neck, fisting your fingers in his wet, raven black hair. "Shut up and fuck me, Mingyu."

The slick tile of the shower wall is hot against your back, but it’s nothing compared to the blistering heat of Mingyu's skin. He holds you pinned, one massive hand anchoring your hip while the other cups the back of your head, his fingers tangled deeply in your wet hair.

Every kiss is a bruising, desperate reclamation. On the page, the Writer made him tentative, full of scripted hesitations and soft, clean glances meant for Ara. But here, in the heavy steam of the shadows, Mingyu is ravenous. He drinks the small, broken sounds from your throat, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s entirely unscripted, chaotic, and real.

"Y/N," he growls against your lips, his chest heaving against your breasts. The water cascades over his broad shoulders, slicking down the heavy planes of his muscles. "Tell me you're here. Tell me it's you."

"It's me," you gasp, arching into his touch as his hand slides down the curve of your thigh, lifting your leg to hook over his hip. "It's always been me, Gyu."

He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your collarbone as he buries his face in your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin right above your shoulder blade, biting just hard enough to anchor you to the reality of the moment. You cry out, your fingers digging into the thick muscles of his back, your nails leaving pale tracks in their wake.

When he shifts, guiding your hips back against the wall, the friction is unbearable. He pauses for a single, agonizing heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes completely dark, pupils blown wide with a fierce, protective hunger.

"Look at me," he whispers, his voice rough and laced with a desperate edge. "Don't close your eyes. I want you to see me when I..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He drives into you in one smooth, heavy push.

A sharp, breathless sob escapes your lips, your hands flying to clutch at his wet shoulders as the sheer intensity of the fullness ripples through you. Mingyu lets out a ragged breath, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. He begins to move, slow and agonizingly deep at first, before the rhythm catches fire.

The sound of the rushing water drowns out the rest of the world, creating a sanctuary where no narration boxes could grow. Every thrust is a declaration of war against the script. You grip his shoulders, throwing your head back as he hits the exact spot that makes your mind fracture into pure, unadulterated sensation.

"Mingyu. Gyu—" you whimper, your internal walls tightening around him as the friction builds an unbearable, sweet agony behind your ribs.

"I've got you," he pants, his pace turning fast and punishing, his muscles bunching under your hands as he lifts you completely off the floor. Your other leg wraps around his waist, locking him close. "I'm right here."

"Mingyu," you begged against the corner of his jaw. "Gyu. Yes, yes, yes, please, don't stop."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He groans the words into the tender flesh below your ear as his lips and teeth trace a burning line from your jaw down the side of your throat. The water blurs between you, but he refuses to shut his eyes or drop his gaze. Every breath is shared, every inch of contact heated.

And every thrust is a silent cry. Fuck the script. Fuck Ara. Fuck everything but us.

The Writer's commands can't reach the shadows. Mingyu doesn't give her a chance to command him here, where the camera could only capture their silhouettes and the reader can't see beyond the steamy haze.

"Mingyu. Mingyu. Please, I need..." You shudder, a violent, blinding release cascading through your lower abdomen as you clamp down around him. The sight of your undone expression throws Mingyu over the precipice. With a low, ragged shout, he buries himself deep inside you one last time, his body stiffening as he spends himself completely, his pulse throbbing forcefully against your own.

For a long time, the only sound is the heavy thrumming of the water and your synchronized, ragged breathing. Mingyu holds you tight, his arms wrapped around you like a vice, refusing to let your feet touch the cold ground just yet. He kisses you again—long, tender, slow—as he turns the knob of the shower off. With your legs still wrapped around his hips and his arms still supporting your full weight, he carries you both towards the bed.

"We're still wet," you murmur, lips moving against his collarbone.

"Does it matter?" he grunts. Mingyu settles atop of the pillows, the mattress squeaking beneath him as he pulls you to sit astride his lap. His damp hair falls over his forehead in wild, messy tendrils, but he doesn't seem to mind. "You're just gonna get wet again, anyways."

"Is that so?" You rest your forehead against his, brushing the fallen strands away. Mingyu nods, hands gripping your thighs tight as his thumbs brush in circles on the exposed flesh of your skin.

"Definitely."

The peace shatters at exactly 7:15 a.m.

One moment, you’re tangled in Mingyu's sheets, the faint scent of his laundry detergent and the lingering warmth of his body enveloping you in perfect, drowsy comfort. Your hand is resting flat against his bare, broad chest, feeling the steady, calming beat of his heart.

The next moment, a violent, neon-pink static snaps through your brain.

Your eyes fly open. The cozy, dimly lit bedroom is gone. The soft cotton sheets beneath you instantly morph into the stiff, scratchy fabric of a public bench. The smell of detergent is replaced by the overwhelming scent of chlorine and expensive perfume.

"No," you whisper, your throat tight. "No, please, not yet."

You look down. You’re no longer wearing Mingyu's oversized t-shirt. Instead, you’re clad in a stunning, albeit incredibly impractical, designer tweed skirt suit with pristine white heels.

Directly across from you stands Ara, holding a tray of iced coffees, looking utterly defenseless and doe-eyed. And standing right next to her, looking polished, perfectly coiffed, and completely devoid of his glasses, is Mingyu. He’s wearing his varsity jacket, his posture rigid and towering.

The transition is so violent it makes you nauseous. The physical memory of his touch is still burning on your skin, but your body is already moving against your will. Your spine straightens into a haughty, elegant posture. Your lips curl into a sharp, poisonous smirk.

Above your heads, a massive, glittery pink narration box materializes with a smug hum.

NARRATION: The next morning at the campus cafe, the villainess lays her trap, determined to humiliate Ara in front of the boy she desperately covets...

You try to swallow, but your vocal cords tighten as the Writer takes the reins, violently forcing the script into your mouth.

"Oh, Ara," your voice chimes out, dripping with sickly-sweet venom. "Did you personally brew those coffees, or did you just pick them up from the trash? Because honestly, the aroma matches your outfit today."

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, your mind screams at Ara, but your face remains a mask of flawless, cruel arrogance.

Ara flinches, her eyes immediately welling with tears as she looks up at Mingyu. "I... I just wanted to bring everyone drinks..."

Mingyu's jaw clenches. You see the brief, agonizing flicker of horror in his eyes, the real Mingyu trying to scream through the cracks of his character's programming. He knows exactly what you had just shared hours prior. He doesn't want to do this.

But the Writer's grip is ruthless.

Mingyu steps forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. He grabs the iced coffee from Ara's tray and, with a harsh, aggressive movement, slams it down on the table right in front of you, splashing a few drops onto your pristine tweed jacket.

"Keep your mouth shut, Y/N," Mingyu spits, his voice booming with a cold, scripted hatred that makes your stomach violently churn. "Ara has a heart of gold, which is something you wouldn't understand if it bought your family's entire political empire. Stay away from her. You disgust me."

The words feel like a physical blow to your chest. You disgust me. Even knowing it’s the script, the sheer force of his dictated anger cuts through you like a knife.

Your character merely laughs, a sharp, tinkling, villainous sound. "We'll see about that, Mingyu," your mouth drawls, tilting your head up to flash him a mocking wink.

PANEL 1 — CLOSE UP ON MINGYU'S FURIOUS EXPRESSION AS HE TURNS HIS BACK ON THE VILLAINESS, GUIDING A WEEPING ARA AWAY INTO THE SUNLIGHT.

The moment the imaginary camera shifts focus to follow them walking away, the invisible strings snap.

Your smirk collapses. You slump against the cafe bench, trembling violently as you clutch your stomach, dry-heaving from the sheer emotional whiplash. Across the courtyard, you can see Mingyu walking with Ara, his shoulders tightly hunched in that familiar, real-world telltale sign of pure, unadulterated distress.

He can’t look back at you. If he did, the Writer would freeze the panel.

You dig your nails into the wooden bench, staring at the pink narration box as it slowly dissolves into air. The battle for your freedom isn't just a union meeting anymore—it’s survival.

NARRATION: With the dramatic exit of the campus golden boy, the villainess is left alone to stew in her own bitter defeat, unaware that her cruel games are pushing her further into isolation...

"Oh, eat glass," you hiss under your breath, waiting exactly three seconds until the glowing text fully dissolves into the morning air.

The moment the script completely lets go of your muscles, you practically collapse onto the iron table. Your hands are shaking so hard, you almost knock over the remaining iced coffee. The emotional whiplash is a physical ache in your chest. Just hours ago, his hands were warm against your waist under the heavy steam of the shower, pulling you close, whispering that he would never let them take you away. Now, the phantom sting of his scripted words—You disgust me—echoes in your ears like a slap.

You need a drink, a sanctuary, or a very large blunt object to swing at the sky. Lacking all three, you grab your designer bag, haul your aching body out of the cafe courtyard, and head straight for the one place on campus where the shadows were thickest: the back rows of the university library.

"You look like shit." Wonwoo doesn't even look up from his massive, leather-bound textbook as you slide into the beanbag chair next to him, burying your face in your hands.

"Don't start, Wonwoo," you groan, your voice muffled. "I just got violently ripped out of Mingyu's bed at seven in the morning to be dropped into a 'cafeteria confrontation' scene. I told Ara her coffee smelled like garbage and Mingyu told me I was disgusting. My soul has officially left my body."

Wonwoo leans his cheek on his hand, flipping the page. "I know you have feelings for the musclehead, but can you get over yourself for three seconds?"

"Wow. Excuse me for having emotions," you grumble into your hands, flopping backwards into the plush beanbag chair with an undignified huff. "Remind me why I put up with you again?"

"My pretty face," Wonwoo recites by rote, the edges of his lips curling into a trademark smirk that made the characters around you swoon. "It's all the rage."

"Go back to brooding," you grumble, leaning forward again to scan the titles of his mountain of library books.

The library is an oasis of darkness: a cramped, shabby space nestled deep between the science shelves in the most remote corner of campus. Only a couple flickering lamps provide light, barely cutting through the densely packed bookshelves to reach the faded carpet. It’s impossible to spot the back rows from anywhere else in the library, which is exactly how you two like it. The deeper you sink into the stacks, the longer your ability to stay outside of the script lasts, giving you an easy break from being written into the same overused confrontations week after week.

This far from the spotlight of the heroine and the main characters, the university is nothing but a cheap backdrop and a cheap trope. No flashy love triangles or manufactured plot twists can find you here, no matter how brightly the script shines. Just stacks upon stacks of books, no endings necessary. It’s exactly what you need right now.

Wonwoo stares pointedly at your rumpled jacket and messy hair, his fingers absently playing with a ballpoint pen. "So are you going to sit there moping, or are you going to finally address the massive, tooth-rotting sexual tension hanging between us right now?"

You smack his arm hard. "Gross, dude. Not with Mingyu on the brain."

Wonwoo ignores the bruise already blooming on his bicep, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you done lamenting your tragic inability to seduce our token jock? You're crushing my study vibe with that kind of energy."

"Fu–"

"Don't curse in my sacred reading corner."

You close your mouth mid-curse, narrowing your eyes. "Fine, Shakespeare," you say, crossing your arms. "Remind me, why am I even talking to you about this?"

"Because you think I can actually fix it." His eyes flick up towards the dusty fluorescent lights, watching the grime-coated glass buzz with low electricity. After several seconds, his dark gaze shifts towards your face.

"Look," Wonwoo sighs, resting his elbows on top of his piles of reference books. "If there's anyone who understands this shitty situation, it's me. I know you two are dying to break free and bang each other against the nearest wall, but the Writer doesn't care. To her, our misery is hilarious, and she doesn't care what she has to tear apart or write-off to keep making us dance to her tune."

You stare at Wonwoo, his words cutting through the leftover haze of the morning's whiplash. The harsh reality of what Seungkwan had shown you at the Human Rewrite Agency flashes in your mind—the tragic, abandoned draft where you and Mingyu were torn apart by war. The Writer didn't care about your heartbreak then, and she certainly doesn't care now.

"She already tore us apart once," you whisper, the anger in your voice giving way to a hollow, echoing fear. "Seungkwan showed me an old draft. In another story, Mingyu and I were in love, and she just... left us to rot in a tragic ending because it wasn't pulling in enough views."

Wonwoo stops twirling his pen. His boredom completely evaporates, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. "Wait, seriously?"

"I read all of it." You fidget with your pearl ring, "We never even got a happy ending. And now I'm watching him be the main character again with someone that's not me and get his happy ending. What about me? What about my happy ending?"

He reaches out and squeezes your arm gently. "You will," he promises, and there's something softer and kinder than the Writer's edge in his words.

"I'm not so sure," you whisper. You have to keep swallowing the bitter lump that seems to have taken residence in your throat.

The heavy scent of old paper and dust does little to soothe the burning in your throat. Wonwoo’s hand is still a reassuring weight on your forearm, his usually detached eyes sharp with a quiet, protective anger.

Before he can offer another word of cynical comfort, the heavy wooden doors of the library’s back wing creak open.

Footsteps shatter the silence, heavy, hurried, and completely lacking the synchronized, rhythmic grace the Writer usually forced onto the male lead. A tall figure rounds the corner of the chemistry stacks, nearly tripping over a low-profile stool.

It’s Mingyu.

He has frantically shoved his thick, black-rimmed reading glasses back onto his face, though he’s still wearing the stupidly pristine varsity jacket from the cafe scene. His hair is a wild, unstyled nest from where he had clearly been ripping his hands through it in frustration. The moment his eyes lock onto you huddled in the beanbag chair, the rigid, arrogant mask of his character crumbles entirely.

"Y/N," he pants, stumbling into the narrow aisle. He drops to his knees right in front of your beanbag, not caring about the dust coating his expensive scripted jeans. "Y/N, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry." His large hands fly to cup your face, his palms warm and trembling violently against your cheeks. "I didn't mean it," he rushes out, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of the booming, confident cadence from the cafe. "The words…the Writer just slammed them into my throat. I tried to swallow them down, I swear to God I tried to choke on them, but the static was too loud. When I said those things to you... when I looked at you like that..." Tears of genuine, unadulterated rage well in his eyes, threatening to spill over his lashes. "I wanted to tear my own tongue out."

Wonwoo slowly retracts his hand from your arm, leaning back into his own chair and crossing his arms. "Take a breath, muscle-head. You're going to trigger a 'jealous outburst' panel if you vibrate any harder."

Mingyu ignores him entirely, his thumbs gently wiping at the stray tear that has finally escaped your eye. "Please tell me you know it wasn't me, Y/N. After last night... after everything... I could never look at you and feel anything but..." He chokes on the word, his ears turning a bright, furious crimson, but he forces himself to look directly into your eyes. "I love you. The real you. I don't care what she writes on the page."

You look at his flushed face, the messy hair, the desperate, unscripted honesty bleeding through his every pore. The phantom sting of 'You disgust me' finally begins to dissolve, replaced by the grounding weight of the boy who belongs to you in the dark.

"I know, Gyu," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your smaller hands around his wrists. "I know it was the script. It just... it gets harder to separate the two when the Writer starts messing with our heads."

Mingyu leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, letting out a long, shuddering breath that fans across your lips. "We're going to break this comic," he swears fiercely against your skin. "I don't care if we have to glitch the entire university into a black screen. We are not letting her rewrite us."

Wonwoo lets out a sharp, rhythmic tapping sound as he collapses his heavy book shut. "If you two are done staging an unscripted melodrama in my designated hiding spot, we actually have a massive problem to deal with."

Mingyu doesn't pull away immediately, giving your hand one final, protective squeeze before shifting to sit cross-legged on the faded carpet. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his broad shoulders slouching into that familiar, un-jock-like posture that belonged strictly to the shadows. "What do you mean, Wonwoo? Besides the fact that the Writer almost turned my brain into mush this morning?"

"Think about it," Wonwoo says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "Y/N just found out from Seungkwan that the Writer has a history of abandoning entire universes when they don't get enough traction. She scraps characters. She leaves them to rot in tragic endings." His sharp eyes dart between the two of you. "Right now, the Writer is getting aggressive because we are making the plot unstable. If Mingyu keeps punching narration boxes and glitching out of scripted gym sessions, she’s not just going to keep pushing. She’s going to notice the narrative structure is broken. And what happens when a webtoon creator realizes their project is glitched beyond repair?"

The air in the narrow aisle suddenly feels incredibly cold.

"She deletes the file," you whisper, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your designer tweed skirt. "She scraps the comic and starts a new one."

"Exactly," Wonwoo points at you with his pen. "Except this time, we’re self-aware. If she hits delete, do we just wake up in a new story with our memories wiped, or do we fade into the white space permanently?"

Mingyu’s jaw sets, his gaze hardening as he looks up at the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. "So Seungkwan was right. We can't just blatantly refuse to play our roles. We have to walk the line. We act out the scenes, we take the stupid scripted dialogue, but we use the shadows to build something she can't touch." He reaches out, his massive palm covering yours entirely. "We play along just enough to keep the comic alive, while we figure out a way to break the fourth wall completely from the inside."

Before you can respond, a low, ominous vibration thrums through the soles of your feet. The library shelves seems to flicker, the titles on the spines blurring into illegible streaks of color for a fraction of a second.

A neon-pink glow begins to manifest near the ceiling of the aisle, pulsing like a dying star.

"Fuck," Wonwoo mutters, instantly scrambling to his feet and shoving his textbook into his bag. "Spoke too soon. Stage lights are coming up. Must be a heroine spotlight."

The pink glow intensifies, bathing the dusty library aisle in an artificial, sickly light that makes the air feel thick and pressurized. You, Mingyu, and Wonwoo scramble as the scene begins to materialize around you, the reality of the library walls warping like melting wax.

PANEL 1 — THE LIBRARY AISLE, SUDDENLY OVERFLOWING WITH SOFT, ROMANTIC FILTERING.

Lee Ara appears at the far end of the row, holding a stack of books and looking around with an expression of "lost and adorable" perfection. She catches sight of the three of you, her eyes widening in a scripted, dramatic reveal.

NARRATION: A quiet moment of study turns into a chance encounter, as Ara discovers the trio in their secret, brooding corner...

"Oh!" Ara exclaims, her voice unnaturally bright and rehearsed. "I didn't know you guys were all back here together!"

You feel the familiar, sickening lurch in your chest as the Writer takes hold of your internal monologue, turning your genuine affection for your friends into a sharp, jagged envy.

"Well, it's a library, Ara," you say, your voice dripping with an acid-tongued condescension that makes your skin crawl. "It’s supposed to be for studying, not for wandering around like a lost puppy looking for attention."

Ara’s lower lip trembles—the perfect, predictable response. Beside you, Mingyu stiffens, his fingers digging into his knees to keep from lunging toward her to apologize. His face, however, is forced into a mask of cold, dismissive indifference that mirrors your own.

"Y/N, leave her alone," Mingyu says, his voice flat and monotone, devoid of his usual warmth. "She’s just trying to find a quiet place to read."

"Oh, please," you roll your eyes, a gesture that feels heavy and robotic. "Don't tell me you're actually falling for the 'innocent, studious heroine' routine, Mingyu? We both know she couldn't tell the difference between a textbook and a magazine if her life depended on it."

Ara gasps, clutching the books to her chest as if you'd physically struck her. You want to scream, to reach out and tell her that you actually like her, that you’ve helped her study before, but your mouth is locked in its scripted cruelty.

"I... I really just wanted to return these," Ara whispers, her gaze darting to Mingyu for salvation.

NARRATION: The tension crackles as the hero steps forward to defend the maiden, his eyes burning with a sudden, intense fury.

Mingyu stands up, his movements stiff as he performs the role of the knight in shining armor. "I said, that's enough," he hisses, stepping directly into your personal space. "Go back to your little clique of sycophants and leave her out of your drama."

You meet his gaze, and for one desperate, fleeting second, the Writer's hold falters. In the depths of his eyes, you see the real Mingyu—the one who spent the night in your bed, the one who promised to protect you. He’s terrified for you, pleading with you to play along before the Writer notices the glitch and tries to delete you entirely.

You force a sharp, cold laugh, stepping back and brushing past him with deliberate, insulting intent. "You’re right, Mingyu," you snap, your voice echoing with a synthetic bitterness that makes your stomach churn. "I’m wasting my time here. It’s hard to have a conversation when the room is being occupied by, well, this." You gesture vaguely toward Ara with a hand that is shaking, though the narration box hovering above you works overtime to frame your tremor as a sign of haughty impatience.

PANEL 2 — MINGYU, ARA, AND YOU STARING EACH OTHER DOWN

Ara looks hurt, her lip wobbling just enough to satisfy the panel's requirements. Mingyu stands motionless, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The narration box pulses a violent shade of fuchsia, hungry for the conflict to escalate.

NARRATION: The villainess turns on her heel, her heart cold and empty, unaware that her cruel words have finally pushed the golden boy past his breaking point.

"Don't you dare walk away," Mingyu barks. He grabs your arm, his fingers dig into your skin, hard. "You think you’re so much better than everyone, don't you? Always plotting, always hiding."

You spin back around, your face arranging itself into a sneer that you despise, but your eyes meet his, and you transmit every ounce of your reality into that look. Play the game, you idiot. Just play the game.

"And what if I am?" you hiss, pulling your arm away with a sharp, calculated motion. "At least I know what I am, Mingyu. I know what I want. Do you?"

PANEL 3 — CLOSE UP ON MINGYU'S FACE

His expression is a masterpiece of conflicting emotions—the mask of the "angry lead" clashing with the raw, terrified honesty in his eyes. He looks like he’s trying to swallow a scream.

"You don't know a damn thing," Mingyu growls, but the cadence is off—strained and jagged. He steps closer, closing the distance until his chest brushes your shoulder. The smell of his laundry detergent—a scent that belongs to your apartment, not this scripted reality—wafts off him, a sharp reminder of the night before.

NARRATION: The air thickens with unspoken malice as the hero confronts the villainess, his heart firmly tethered to the heroine’s purity.

"Is that so?" you retort, your voice perfectly, hatefully smooth. You reach out, your fingers hovering over the lapel of his varsity jacket, tracing the embroidered school crest. "Because it looks to me like you're just playing house, Mingyu. Pretending this—" you gesture vaguely toward Ara, who is hovering in the background like a confused prop—"pretending this is your whole world."

Ara lets out a small, high-pitched noise of distress. "Mingyu, please... she's not worth it."

"See?" You tilt your head, a saccharine, patronizing smile plastered on your lips. "She's worried about your reputation. How noble."

PANEL 4 — WIDE SHOT: THE THREE OF YOU IN THE AISLE

The library shelves seem to press inward, the lighting turning a harsh, over-saturated studio white. Wonwoo is still sitting in the beanbag chair, his back turned, studiously ignoring the scene. He’s the only smart one here. He knows better than to break character when the narration is this aggressive.

Mingyu’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist again.

PANEL 5 — CLOSE-UP ON MINGYU’S GRIP.

His fingers wrap tightly around your wrist, executing the exact visual cue the script demands. But beneath the forced, white-knuckled aggression, you feel his thumb press twice against your pulse point—a quiet, unscripted reassurance meant only for you.

"You think you can just trample over everyone because of who your family is?" Mingyu barks, his voice laced with that booming, heroic resonance that makes your stomach turn. "You don't own this campus, Y/N. And you certainly don't own her."

The words sting, but Seungkwan's advice echoes in your mind: Do your part. Take the dialogue and try not to gag. You have to keep the plot moving, or the Writer will realize the file is glitched and scrap your entire universe.

PANEL 6 — PROFILE SHOT: YOU, LEANING IN.

Your body moves on autopilot, tilting your chin up with elegant, villainous haughtiness. You lean directly into his personal space, your nose inches from his varsity jacket, smelling the real-world scent of his laundry detergent beneath the fake studio lights. "Oh, is that a threat, Mingyu? Because you know how much I love it when you get all big and protective."

Ara lets out a soft, scripted gasp in the background, her doe eyes wide with predictable horror.

PANEL 7 — EXTRA WIDE: THE LIBRARY AISLE GLITCHES.

A violent wave of neon-pink static ripples through the air, causing the wooden bookshelves to warp and blur like melting digital wax. The Writer is pushing back, furious at the underlying friction of your true feelings breaking through the rigid script.

NARRATION: Fed up with her pathetic, desperate games, the golden boy casts her aside, completely severing the toxic ties of their childhood...

Mingyu’s arm jerks violently under the Writer's command. He is forced to throw your hand back, but as the invisible strings yank his muscles, he fights the momentum, letting go with a desperate gentleness that completely contradicts the narration's harsh script. A tiny spark of pink electricity pops between your palms as your fingers slip apart.

"Let's go, Ara," Mingyu mutters. His voice is heavy, carrying a deep, real-world exhaustion that the text bubbles try to disguise as righteous anger. He turns on his heel, guiding a trembling Ara out of the dimly lit aisle and back toward the safety of the main campus floor.

You watch as he leaves, sinking to the floor with a sick sense of relief when the footsteps fade. This scene is over. At least for now.

PANEL 1 — WIDE SHOT: THE CAMPUS BALLROOM

A massive banner overhead reads: ANNUAL CARAT U FOUNDER’S DAY GALA. Students are scurrying around carrying towers of pastel boxes, flower arrangements, and expensive silk ribbons. The lighting is an aggressive, over-saturated pink.

NARRATION: As the highly anticipated Founder’s Day Gala approaches, the campus is alive with romantic tension and sparkling anticipation...

PANEL 2 — CLOSE UP ON YOU.

You're leaning against a wall, elegantly dressed in a long form fitting gown, the slit climbing scandalously high. Your arms are crossed, but your fingers are restlessly spinning the pearl ring on your hand.

“A gala,” you whisper under your breath, your eyes tracking a floating pink narration box hovering near a pile of stage props. “Of course there's a gala. Because what's a cheap rom-com without a dramatic ballroom confrontation?”

The narration box twitches, sending a tiny jolt of pink static through the air.

NARRATION: ...and our scheming villainess can already smell the sweet scent of a perfectly orchestrated sabotage.

“Keep dreaming, you neon eyesore,” you mutter, stepping into the shadow of a large marble pillar to get out of the spotlight before your mouth is hijacked again.

The physical toll of the library scene from yesterday still lingers like a deep bruise. Every time you or Mingyu fight the invisible puppet strings, the static gets louder, threatening to tear the fabric of your reality apart at the seams.

Mingyu approaches you, completely in his "on-page" element, wearing a tailored navy suit that highlights his broad shoulders, his dark hair slicked back perfectly. But as he steps into the shade of the pillar next to you, his posture slumps into a familiar, exhausted slouch.

"Tell me you brought snacks," Mingyu mumbles, the booming confidence of his male-lead voice dropping into a tired, rough-around-the-edges whisper. "The Writer made me carry three ice sculptures across the plaza for the Gala committee. My hands are literally numb."

You can't help but smile, your fingers instantly reaching out to catch his cold hands. "No snacks, Gyu. Just a whole lot of scripted doom." You nod toward the hovering pink narration box. "It’s already setting me up to ruin the Gala."

Mingyu squeezes your hands, his dark eyes softening behind his invisible programming. "We play along just enough to keep the file from being deleted, remember? We take the dialogue. But the moment the panel freezes..." He leans down, his forehead briefly resting against yours, sending a wave of genuine warmth through the freezing morning air. "The shadows are ours."

The room is a sickeningly opulent display of crystal chandeliers, cascading white roses, and soft pastel lighting. Couples are gliding across the dance floor in perfect, symmetrical harmony.

NARRATION: The night of nights! Under the shimmering chandeliers of the Founder's Gala, destiny takes the floor...

PANEL 3 — CLOSE UP ON ARA.

She is wearing a massive, glitter-drenched ballgown that looks completely impossible to walk in. She stands near the punch bowl, looking beautifully overwhelmed.

PANEL 4 — YOU STEP INTO THE FRAME.

Your body suddenly locks into a rigid, elegant posture. Your lips curl into a poisonous, calculating smirk as the Writer violently takes the reins of your jaw.

"Oh, Ara," your mouth chimes out, dripping with venomous condescension. "Did you dress up as a literal disco ball tonight, or are you just trying to ensure the security guards can track you when you inevitably spill punch on yourself?"

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, your mind screams, but your face remains a mask of flawless, aristocratic cruelty.

Ara flinches, her doe eyes instantly welling with tears. "Y/N... I just wanted to dress up for the school..."

PANEL 5 — MINGYU INTERVENES.

Mingyu strides into the panel, his chest puffed out, stepping directly between you and Ara. His jaw is clenched so tightly a vein pulses at his temple. The real Mingyu trying to fight the static screaming in his brain.

"That's enough, Y/N," Mingyu barks, his scripted voice booming with cold, righteous anger. "Your family's money can't buy a single drop of the grace Ara has in her pinky finger. Leave her alone, or I'll personally have security throw you out."

The words sting like a physical slap, but beneath the table line, where the panel cuts off, Mingyu’s hand blindly reaches out, his thumb pressing twice against your thigh in the dark, the quiet, unscripted code you shared in the library. I'm here. I love you.

"We'll see who gets thrown out, Mingyu," your character drawls, tilting your head to flash him a haughty, mocking wink before turning on your heel.

PANEL 6 — EXTRA WIDE: THE BALLROOM LIGHTS SUDDENLY FLICKER.

A violent, jagged wave of neon-pink static rips through the chandeliers. The crystal ornaments warp into pixelated blocks, and a low, digital hum vibrates through the floorboards. The Writer is panicking; the underlying friction of your true feelings is destabilizing the scene.

NARRATION: Driven to the edge by the villainess's relentless malice, the golden boy sweeps the pure maiden into a dramatic waltz, completely erasing the shadow of his past...

The moment the imaginary camera shifts to focus on Mingyu and Ara's waltz, you make your way to the back rooms. You collapse against the backstage vanity mirror, gasping for air as you clutch your stomach, trembling from the sheer emotional whiplash. The door clicks open, and Wonwoo slips inside, his bowtie completely undone, carrying a pair of flat sneakers and a stolen plate of pastries.

"The chandeliers almost turned into literal missing-texture blocks out there," Wonwoo says flatly, tossing the sneakers at your feet. "You and the muscle-head are vibrating at a frequency that's going to get us all format-clipped."

"I know," you whisper, wiping a genuine tear of frustration from your eye. "But we kept the scene moving. We gave her the confrontation she wanted."

The door bursts open again. Mingyu stumbles in, completely out of breath. He doesn't say a word; he just strides across the room, drops to his knees, and buries his face in your lap, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like a vice.

"I hated it," he chokes out, his voice rough and stripped of all comic-book arrogance. "I hated every word."

You run your fingers through his messy, unstyled hair, leaning down to press a soft, fierce kiss against his crown. "Shadows," you whisper, and his arms tighten, his nails digging into the skin of your back with a desperate urgency. "In the shadows, it's just us."

"Okay lovebirds." Wonwoo places the plate of food on top of the vanity and quickly turns to leave. "Enjoy the physical expressions of love or whatever. I'll keep an eye out on things outside."

You gently scratch your fingers across Mingyu's scalp. "Gyu, get something in your stomach," you gently urge. "You're gonna be numb again if you don't eat."

"I hate this stupid webcomic," Mingyu mumbles, his nose buried in the satin of your gown.

"I hate this stupid story just as much," you mutter. "But hey, at least we're trapped together." You pick up a macaron off the plate and offer it to him. He obediently lifts his head and takes a bite, chewing while his arms are still stubbornly clamped around your waist.

"Marry me when all this is over," Mingyu says in his rough-around-the-edges delivery, only halfway kidding as he wraps his mouth around the dessert.

You laugh. "Why me? Why not the bubbly protagonist who's guaranteed to give you a happy ending?"

"Baby," Mingyu chuckles, resting his chin on your knee, his big, earnest eyes staring up at you. "You and I already know what the ending looks like."

"And what's that?" you ask, absentmindedly twisting the ring around your finger.

"This," Mingyu whispers, sitting upright and pulling you into his lap to steal a kiss, his lips sweetly smiling against your mouth. "This and everything else that comes with it."

"Yeah? And what does everything else consist of? Inquiring minds want to know," you say with a playful quirk of your eyebrow.

Mingyu slides his hand down from your shoulder to the soft curve of your hip, "Hmm...in bed. The shower. In our actual homes. Everywhere. Everyday."

"Anywhere, huh?"

Mingyu smiles again, warm and perfect and unafraid. "Anywhere. Anytime."

"And if I said right now?" you whisper.

His fingers tangle in your hair. "Baby," he teases, nipping at your lower lip. "Right here?" Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, unfiltered register that the Writer never let the audience hear. "With Wonwoo playing look-out outside, and the entire digital universe vibrating like a faulty circuit board?"

"Especially right now," you breathed, your fingers hooking into the lapel of his tailored navy suit jacket, tugging it off his broad shoulders. "Because every time she forces you to tell me I disgust you out there, I need a reminder of what the truth feels like in here."

Mingyu drops to his knees on the floor, his fingers sliding along the slit of your long, tailored gown. "And what does the truth feel like, love?" he whispered, kissing the side of your knee through the fabric.

"It feels like this," you manage, moving his hand up higher under the shimmering satin. "Here..." you gently guided the tip of his fingers where you needed them. "Like this, Gyu."

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans, his warm breath against your skin. "You drive me crazy every damn time."

You gasp when he pushes your dress up higher, lips dragging across your skin as his mouth makes a path to where you needed him most. "Gyu..." you shudder out his name, your hands gripping his soft hair tightly, encouraging him closer.

"Every day," he rasped. "For as long as this webtoon runs and even after, Y/N, I'll make you feel like this. Love or not, script or not, I'm yours. Got it?."

"Got it. Understood," you murmur, tugging on the ends of his hair again. Mingyu's teeth nip at the flesh of your inner thigh, the light sting sending a jolt of heat up through your core. "Now stop teasing me, please," you whisper. "Show me what that talented tongue does. Show me."

Mingyu obeys, dragging your silky black underwear down and then placing an open-mouthed, hungry kiss where you want him the most, the flat of his tongue tasting you eagerly, the low groan from his throat making your breath catch.

"Mingyu," you moan, feeling him lift one of your legs, settling it over his broad shoulder.

His teeth scrape lightly on the bundle of nerves, your mouth dropping open, a high, wanton sigh escaping your lips as he dips a finger, sliding in gently. You tug again at the strands of his soft hair, desperately rocking against his face, and you can feel him smile.

"More, baby, please," you begged, lost in how good it felt. You wanted to make you lose yourself, forget about the damn story and the Writer and Ara and everything.

Mingyu slides a second finger into you, curving them at the precise angle that he knows drives you crazy, and you start to see stars, your spine arching, mouth forming a silent moan. He goes faster, deeper, his mouth devouring every inch, and he fucks you perfectly with his fingers until you feel nothing but euphoria.

"Please," you beg, your fingers grasping his hair roughly, tugging insistently. Mingyu leans in again, his tongue curling against your clit, and your thighs quake as the heat pools in your lower belly and then snaps in a wave. You come against his mouth with a hoarse, barely-muted cry, the feeling rippling through you, eyes rolling to the ceiling, mouth open in ecstasy. "Oh god. Yes!" you gasp as Mingyu slows his pace, sliding his fingers out and sucking the tip of his fingers clean, licking his lips, because fuck it, Mingyu can have dessert twice if he wants.

"Jesus," he breathes as your mind blanks momentarily from the intensity of your climax. He wraps his arm around your waist again, tugging you even closer. He rests his head against your belly, fingers curling possessively around your hip. "Baby, do you feel better now?"

You smirk, holding him close, gently raking your fingers through his silky locks, inhaling sharply. "As if I could feel bad with a tongue like yours working magic down there."

"It's not just my tongue, sweetheart," Mingyu teased. "There's this, too." He looks down at his very prominent erection that you could see straining against his perfectly tailored pants and wiggles his eyebrows.

"Hmm...now how did that get there," you smirk, sliding the tip of your finger along his bottom lip. "You have an extra, extra appendage. Gyu."

"I always carry it with me wherever I go," he says, getting up to his feet again, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist. "Just in case my girlfriend needs a reminder that her boyfriend loves her."

You lean up to press your mouth against his, kissing him passionately, humming softly into it. "Always." you murmured before cupping his cheeks and smiling up at him. "Now, show me what your extra, extra appendage does. Gyu. Please."

Before he can reach for his belt, Wonwoo knocks on the door, yelling, "Hey lovebirds, the narration box is zooming around, looking for one of you. Chop-chop! This isn't the time."

You untangled your arms from around him, smoothing a hand down his jaw and giving it a tender pat, grinning. "Let's save that for later."

He grabs the back of your head and gives you another searing kiss before growling, "To be continued, sweetheart."

"Love you," you smiled, linking your hand into his as you head back to the ballroom to face your fated moment again.

Mingyu looks over his shoulder, lips forming the same words silently, "I love you, too, baby."

PANEL 1 — MEDIUM SHOT: THE BALLROOM THRESHOLD.

The studio lights hitting the edge of the door frame are an aggressive, glittering gold. The air pressure changes instantly as the heavy oak door opens. The heavy scent of rain and soap from the backstage floor evaporates, replaced by the suffocating smell of expensive champagne and rosewater.

Your posture snaps straight like a steel rod being bent back into place. Your hand slips from Mingyu's warm grip just a millisecond before the invisible camera lens pans over to find you.

NARRATION: Driven by bitter resentment, the disgraced queen returns to the floor, her eyes searching for the perfect weapon to mend her broken pride...

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," you whisper out of the very side of your mouth, the real you desperately trying to warn the boy beside you before your vocal cords lock up completely.

Mingyu’s jaw hitches. His eyes flash with that terrifying, real-world panic, but his body is already turning away from you, his shoulders broadening into the stiff, unnatural stance of the defensive male lead. "Do it. Just make it look real so she doesn't freeze the canvas."

PANEL 2 — CLOSE UP ON YOU.

Your face twists into a flawless, venomous sneer that feels entirely alien on your skin.

"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the living," your voice chimes out, loud enough to turn heads near the VIP lounges. "Did you finally finish playing white knight, Mingyu, or is your little charity case still crying in the restroom?"

Ara is standing just past the fountain, clutching a silk shawl. Her eyes go wide, perfectly timed tears gathering right on her lower lashes.

"Y/N, please," Ara stammers, her script forcing her to sound small and defenseless. "Why do you have to be so cruel?"

"Because someone has to keep this campus realistic, sweetie," your mouth sneers, your hand lifting to dismissively wave her away. "This entire event is high society. You look like you stumbled in from a local thrift bazaar."

PANEL 3 — MINGYU STEPS IN, FURIOUS.

Mingyu plants himself right in your path. The sheer size of his scripted frame blocks out the light, casting a long shadow across your designer gown.

"I told you to watch your mouth, Y/N," he roars, the text bubble cutting sharply across the top of the panel. He grabs your wrist, his grip visually harsh, mimicking the exact toxic trope the Writer loves.

But against the hidden skin of your inner wrist, his thumb presses down firmly twice. I've got you. Hold on.

"Ara belongs here more than you ever will," Mingyu snarls, his eyes burning with an artificial fury. "Get out of our sight before I show you exactly how meaningless your family's influence is to me."

PANEL 4 — EXTRA WIDE SHOT: THE COMIC GLITCHES.

The entire ballroom floor shudders. The edges of the panel begin to fray, the pristine marble texture dissolving into digital white space for a terrifying, split second. The neon-pink narration box hovers directly between your faces, vibrating violently as if it can taste the immense friction of your true feelings tearing at the script.

NARRATION: With one final, devastating rejection, the golden boy completely shatters the villainess's illusions, leaving her utterly—

The text suddenly halts. The glowing pink letters begin to scramble into nonsensical digital noise.

Error 404: Narrative Flow Disrupted.

"What the..." Wonwoo’s voice cuts through the static from the edge of the frame. He isn't supposed to speak in this panel, but he’s standing near the punch bowl, his reading glasses on, staring up at the ceiling as the digital sky of the webtoon begins to crack like glass.

"Mingyu," you gasp, and this time, it’s your voice. The puppet strings have gone completely slack. Your wrist is free.

The entire student body—the faceless extras, the track team, even Ara—freezes mid-motion, their expressions locked into rigid, unblinking stasis. The music stops dead.

PANEL 5 — THE SHADOWS EXPAND.

Mingyu doesn't hesitate. The second the script breaks, he grabs your hand for real, pulling you toward the edge of the collapsing ballroom floor where the white space is actively swallowing the pastel decorations.

"The Writer lost control," Mingyu pants, his varsity jacket instantly vanishing, replaced by his oversized, threadbare hoodie as reality completely destabilizes. "Wonwoo! Move!"

"Way ahead of you, muscle-head," Wonwoo grunts, sprinting past the frozen, statue-like form of Ara and diving straight into the expanding darkness of the unwritten pages.

You look back one last time as the neon-pink narration box shatters into a million harmless, glittering shards. The clichéd university, the forced love triangles, the malicious dialogues—they are all dissolving into blank canvas.

"We did it," you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs as Mingyu pulls you flush against his chest in the pitch-black safety of the void. "We actually broke the plot."

Mingyu looks down at you, his glasses sliding down his nose, a brilliant, lopsided, unscripted smile taking over his face.

"I told you," he whispers, his lips finding yours in the quiet, absolute freedom of the white space. "Everywhere. Anytime. From now on, we write our own story."

An endless, blindingly pristine field of pure white extends in every direction. There are no walls, no floors, and no horizons. Floating randomly in the distance are discarded sketches of coffee cups, fragmented lines of dialogue bubbles, and half-rendered cherry blossom petals frozen mid-air.

You and Mingyu are sitting cross-legged on the nonexistent floor, your hands still tightly intertwined. A few feet away, Wonwoo is lying flat on his back, using a stack of unwritten text boxes as a makeshift pillow.

"So," Wonwoo says, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. "We successfully glitched the file into a total system crash. Congratulations, team. We are officially unemployed."

"Shut up, Wonwoo," you laugh, leaning your head against Mingyu's shoulder. The sheer relief of not having a script forced into your throat is intoxicating. Your jaw doesn't ache. Your smile doesn't feel like a weapon. You are just you.

"He's right, though," Mingyu murmurs, his large fingers gently tracing the knuckles of your hand. He looks down at you through his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes completely soft and grounded. "The Writer is definitely trying to reboot the program right now. I can feel the static humming in the back of my neck. It’s faint, but it’s there."

The pristine white space beneath your feet vibrates violently. A jagged line of neon-pink code tears through the emptiness, splitting the void right down the middle like a glowing neon scar. The faint hum at the back of Mingyu’s neck suddenly turns into an aggressive, crackling roar of static.

"She's rebooting," Wonwoo barks, his calm demeanor snapping instantly. He scrambles off his stack of text boxes as the tear in the white space began to flicker wildly. "The backup save is initializing! If that code closes around us, we’re going right back to the chandeliers and the damn waltz!"

"Not happening," Mingyu growls. He doesn’t wait for the script to claim his muscles. He lunges forward, throwing his massive arm around your waist and scooping you up against his chest, his other hand locking firmly onto Wonwoo’s jacket. "Hold on!"

The white space around you begins to warp, trying to force the textures of the Founder's Gala back into existence. For a terrifying fraction of a second, the tailored gown manifests over your skin, and the phantom smell of rosewater fills your nose. Your jaw begins to stiffen, a scripted, arrogant laugh bubbling up in your throat.

No. You won't say it. You bite your lip until the taste of iron breaks the illusion.

With a roaring effort, Mingyu throws all three of you forward, diving headfirst into the flickering, dark tear in the canvas just as a massive, neon-pink command prompt filled the sky:

RESTORING CORRUPTED FILE: VOLUME 4_FINAL.

You plummet through the darkness, the sensation of falling giving way to a sudden, hard impact against a surprisingly plush carpet.

"Oof—muscle-head, get your knee out of my ribs," Wonwoo groans from somewhere beneath a pile of limbs.

"Sorry, sorry!" Mingyu pants, frantically scrambling up and immediately pulling you to your feet. He cups your face, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "Y/N! Are you back? Are you you?"

You blink, shaking the last remnants of the pink static from your head. You look down. You’re wearing your favorite oversized hoodie and a pair of worn-out sweatpants. Your face is entirely yours. Your jaw is loose, completely free of the Writer’s venomous strings.

"I'm here," you breathe, throwing your arms around his neck. "I'm entirely here."

"Ahem." A polite, cheerful throat-clearing cuts through your frantic breathing. You turn your head to see Boo Seungkwan leaning over a sleek mahogany desk, a mug of hot coffee in his hand and a brilliant, knowing smirk on his face. Behind him, Joshua and Vernon are frantically typing on glowing, transparent keyboards, routing lines of blue code away from a localized server. "Right on time, Union Team," Seungkwan cheers, setting his mug down. "We just intercepted your data packets before the Writer's backup save could overwrite your awareness nodes. Welcome to the permanent grid of the Human Rewrite Agency."

Wonwoo stands up, dusting off his pants and pushing his glasses up his nose. "So we're safe? The file can't reach us here?"

"The Writer thinks your characters were permanently corrupted and deleted from the save file," Vernon chimes in without looking up from his screen. "She's currently drawing a new villainess with a bob cut and a generic mean-girl backstory to replace you in her rewrite for Volume 4. You three are officially off the registry."

A profound, breathtaking silence settles over you. Off the registry. No more floating narration boxes. No more forced backhanded compliments. No more watching the love of your life play a role meant for someone else.

Mingyu lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his massive frame shaking with pure relief. "We did it," he whispers against your skin, his hands gripping the fabric of your hoodie as if he still couldn't believe you wouldn't vanish into a panel shift. "We actually did it, baby."

You comb your fingers through his messy, unstyled hair, looking over his shoulder at the vast, bustling network of the shadows. In the distance, characters from a dozen different genres are laughing, drinking at a local bar, and writing their own unscripted lives.

"Yeah, we did," you murmur, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across your face as you leaned up to press your lips against his. "Now, come on, Gyu. I believe you promised me a very specific, completely unscripted continuation to a certain conversation backstage."

Mingyu pulls back, his crimson ears perfectly matching the brilliant, lopsided, boyish grin that belongs entirely to you. "Anywhere," he promises, his eyes deep and full of a quiet, everlasting warmth. "Anytime."

"But first, you'll need to find a new home here and meet other self-aware characters," Joshua pipes up, "You can always make this place a new home and help others like you, but—"

Seungkwan swats Joshua's arm, a huge smile on his face. "What Joshua is trying to say," Seungkwan proclaimed, "is you can stay here at HRA with us."

"There's more to the HRA than this building," Vernon speaks up. "There is a whole world you can discover."

You take the information with open arms. It may be unfamiliar, and maybe you'll have to rewrite an entirely new existence, but with Mingyu at your side, there's no fear in taking a step forward with confidence. With his fingers intertwined with yours, it feels like there's nothing the two of you can't do.

"Alright. Where do we go from here?" Mingyu asks as if he can read your mind.

"That is the million won question," You joke. Mingyu snickers, knowing what you mean. You can't afford a million won, that's what is hilarious about it. You still feel like living here for free and meeting new characters might be something you like. Not because you have to, because it is actually exciting.

Maybe things are starting to look up? You just hope The Writer has more drama planned. Maybe they'll go on hiatus and the world will shift towards an existence you want.

There is something freeing about being a character without a script. It takes more energy than living your life following the order of a Writer, but you're less miserable, and you think Mingyu agrees because even with his usual distaste for exercise and work, his smile is brighter.

Mingyu swings your hand in his grasp playfully, his shoulders less slouched and he stands taller. "What next then?"

"What next? You tell me," You challenge playfully. "After all, you are my male lead. You were written with great ideas, weren't you?"

Mingyu tilts his head and lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, the sound reverberates in your ear. "Yea, maybe. We have the rest of forever to find out, don't we?"