summary: when you injure yourself two weeks before a showcase, dennis nurses you back to health.
pairings: dennis whitaker x ballerina!reader
cw/tags: mentions of a knee injury, x-rays, pain medications (advil). blisters. no use of y/n, use of pet names (bug, baby), established relationship, swearing. reader has hair long enough to be put in a nondescript updo. hurt/comfort and fluff!!! i am not a dancer so this is extremely vague but please enjoy :))
word count: 4.2k
masterlist
requested by @coldbrewspice thank u so much!!!
“You should get that checked out,” Your friend says, sitting on the floor beside you, stretching her legs out and leaning to one side. “I swear I heard something snap.”
“Nothing snapped,” You counter, still oscillating between massaging and trying to move your knee. “It feels fine now.”
Lie.
She raises an eyebrow, grimacing as she remembers the way your knee shifted when you came down from your jump, and how you had instantly walked off the floor, not even attempting to finish the choreography before sitting down.
“Well, luckily you basically have an ER at home,” She says, making you laugh a little. “Don’t keep dancing on it, seriously, you don’t wanna’ mess it up before the showcase.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna’ head home in a bit,” You agree.
You get back to yours and Dennis’ apartment sometime after nine, pushing the door open quietly, not sure if he’s already in bed or not. A few lamps are on in the living room, but Dennis is nowhere to be found, which means he doesn’t see you limp inside.
“Bug?”
His voice comes from the bedroom. You take a deep breath as you make your way over, poking your head into the doorway, smiling at the sight of him wrapped up under the covers.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” You ask, and he shakes his head.
“Wasn’t sleeping yet,” He says. “How was rehearsal?”
“Great,” You say, still not coming into the room, which makes him raise an eyebrow. You usually jump onto the bed when you get home after him (if he’s awake), throwing your body across his and laying there until you decide to get up and shower. “I’m starving though, are you going to bed soon?”
“Hopefully,” He says, sitting up so he can see you better. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You ask, subtly shifting more of your weight onto your uninjured leg, leaning against the doorframe for support.
“Why are you staying in the doorway?” He asks.
“I’m tired, not sure if I’ll ever get back up if I get in bed now,” You say, the excuse coming easily, worrying him being the last thing you want to do right now.
“Okay,” He says, hesitantly. “Why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll heat up your dinner?”
“You made me dinner?” You ask, smile obvious in your voice. He always makes you dinner when you’re at rehearsals late, but it still makes your brain feel fuzzy.
He nods, tossing the blanket aside, swinging his legs over and standing up.
“You don’t have to do that,” You say. “Stay in bed, please.”
“I don’t mind,” He says, pulling a crewneck over his bare torso, leaning in to kiss you as he walks by.
You wait for him to disappear into the kitchen before heading to the bathroom, jaw clenching harder with each step. You strip your tights and leotard off, tossing them into the laundry basket while the water heats up, carefully stepping into the shower. You rinse off quickly, then get out, wrapping your robe around yourself and moisturizing.
You suck up the pain for a minute as you walk into the kitchen, trying to appear as normal as possible, sitting at the island just as Dennis slides a plate over, handing you a fork.
“Thank you,” You say. He kisses your temple, hands falling onto your shoulders, massaging them lightly.
“Vic asked when she’d be seeing you again today,” He says. “I said we could do a movie night or something soon.”
You huff dramatically, leaning into him. “That would be so nice.”
He chuckles. “After the showcase, maybe?”
“Definitely after,” You say, bending your knee to lift your foot up onto the chair, completely forgetting about the injury for a second. You hiss, wincing, immediately straightening your leg back out. Dennis flinches, movements pausing for a second until he looks down towards your knee.
The swelling is obvious, making his eyes widen. He crouches down, gently grabbing your foot to keep you still.
He says your name softly, drawing it out a bit. “What happened?”
“I landed wrong, it’s fine, I just moved it too fast,” You say, trying to play it off. “I’ll ice it tonight, then it’ll be okay.”
“How bad does it hurt?” He asks.
“Like…right now?”
“Right now.”
“Not at all,” You say, despite the tiny amount of throbbing that rattles around the joint. “Mostly hurts when I walk on it.”
“Did you hear anything when you landed?” He questions. “A pop or a crunch?”
“No, I don’t think so,” You say. “Probably just over-extended it.”
He lifts his free hand up, looking towards you for permission, continuing when you give him a nod. He touches a few spots along your leg, taking note of when you wince or move away. He has you bend and straighten it a few times, slowly, frowning at your limited range of motion.
He stands back up. “If you came into PTMC like this I’d definitely order an x-ray.”
“Good thing I didn’t do that, then,” You tease. “I always have some kind of injury, Den, I’m okay.”
He nods, knowing that you know your body better than most people, and that you wouldn’t jeopardize making it worse with your show coming up so soon.
“Okay,” He says. “Let me set you up on the couch for a minute.”
He helps you into the living room, one arm propping you up and the other carrying your food. He sets you down, putting your legs straight out over the cushions, placing your dinner on your lap. He walks off for a minute, returning with an icepack, Advil, two kinds of tape, and antiseptic.
He puts the icepack on your knee, then gives you the painkillers and water. He sits down by your feet, rubbing some hand sanitizer in before starting to peel back the loose tape that’s covering your blisters. You watch him work, admiring how precise he is, cutting tiny strips and putting them in place with ease. He still isn’t entirely cool with the idea of you constantly having open wounds, but it doesn’t spark anxiety the way it did when you first started dating.
“You always do that better than me,” You say eventually, trying to lighten the mood, Dennis’ concern obvious by the way his eyebrows are knit together. “Thank you.”
He hums, still focused, putting another piece in place. “You’re a lot faster.”
“That’s true, this is taking fucking forever,” You say, making him laugh.
“I’m almost done,” He says. “Don’t want you to bleed through them right away.”
He finishes up a few minutes later, moving onto your knee, taking the icepack off and grabbing the athletic tape. You’re leaning against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed, not paying attention to what he’s doing anymore. He carries you to bed when he’s done, setting your alarm for you and making sure you have everything you need before climbing in beside you.
“Come get an x-ray before practice,” He says the next morning, watching you carefully test your leg out, placing increasing amounts of weight on it as you get ready for the day.
“I don’t have time,” You argue. “It feels better than last night.”
“You have an hour,” He says. “I’ll make it fast, promise.”
“What if people are dying?” You counter, zipping up your hoodie over your leotard.
He shrugs. “Nightshift’s still there. They won’t need me.”
You purse your lips, thinking about it for a second before nodding. “Okay, if it would make you feel better.”
He brings you in through the staff entrance, and you shrink into yourself, feeling guilty for bypassing the already very long line that’s forming in the waiting room. You don’t know the nightshift as well as the dayshift, but there are a few vaguely familiar faces around as he guides you into the department.
“You’re here early,” The red-haired nurse, who you assume is Lena, comments, peering at both of you over the counter. “You must be the ballerina girlfriend that he never stops talking about.”
You grin, glancing down at your outfit quickly. “What gave me away?”
“Right, uhm, this is Lena,” Dennis says, the tips of his ears bright red. “She’s the nightshift charge nurse.”
He tells Lena your name too, and she smiles at you. “Nice to meet you, hon. What’s going on?”
“She twisted her knee at rehearsal yesterday,” He explains. “I was hoping I could get her an x-ray before she dances on it again.”
“Oh, absolutely, not a problem,” She says. “Eight’s open, why don’t you take her there and I’ll send someone over?”
“Great, thanks, Lena,” He says, putting his arm back around you and showing you to the room. He helps you up onto the bed, and you narrow your eyes at him once you’re settled. “What?”
“You said it would be fast,” You say. “Getting a room doesn’t feel very fast.”
“Well, someone has to do an exam, then order the scans,” He says. “But from there it’ll take five minutes.”
“I need to be at the studio by eight.”
“And you will be.”
You fill out a registration form while you wait, and he eventually leaves you alone at six-fourty, needing to change into his scrubs and get his handover. He assures you again that it won’t be much longer, seeing how restless you’re getting, wanting to get to practice.
You shift on the bed, setting your uninjured leg on the ground, grabbing your other foot and raising it above your head without bending that knee. You hold it there for a minute, then you stretch farther, pointing and flexing your toes inside your slipper.
“Uh, what’s eight here for?” Cassie asks, tilting her head slightly, coffee in one hand and stethoscope in the other as she stands by the central desk. The curtain is only partially closed, letting her see half your body as you stretch, making her squint to make sure she’s not seeing things.
Parker looks up, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t think there was a patient in eight.”
“Well…there is,” Cassie says, and Parker moves so she can see into the room, her eyes going wide. “I think.”
Parker pulls up the chart on her tablet, reading the brief triage note and your name.
“Knee injury,” She says, which only makes the situation that much more confusing. “Doesn’t seem very injured to me.”
“Hey, Lena?” Cassie calls. “What’s the deal with eight?”
Victoria can’t help but look too, a small gasp falling from her lips when she sees you. “You haven’t met her yet?”
“Can’t say I have,” Parker says. “You know her?”
“Yeah, that’s Dennis’ girlfriend,” Victoria explains, saying your name. “She’s a ballerina.”
“Ah,” Parker says. “That explains…that.”
“She’s so cool,” Victoria adds. “Is she a patient?”
“Apparently.”
Parker passes the tablet to the medical student, who nods as she reads it. “I can do the work-up.”
“I don’t think she needs one,” Parker counters, just as Cassie returns from chatting with Lena.
“Whitaker says she needs an x-ray,” She relays, watching as your leg is finally lowered back to the ground. “Fibular head and patella tenderness, moderate swelling after twisting it yesterday.”
“Jesus, this is her on a bad day?” Parker asks.
“Is there a reason you’re all staring at eight?” Robby questions, coming up behind them, not actually looking towards the room yet as he gets oriented for the day. Parker vaguely gestures in your direction, and he follows the motion, looking just in time to see you fold forward, torso flush with your legs and arms wrapped around your calves. “Whitaker!”
Dennis, who’s adjusting his stethoscope as he comes out of the locker room, jumps a little. “Yeah?”
“What’s your girlfriend doing here?”
“Oh, she needs an x-ray,” He explains.
“Of…what?” Robby questions.
“Her knee,” Dennis says, slowly, seeing the precarious position you’ve put yourself in like it’s nothing. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s hurting her pretty bad.”
“I can do the work-up,” Victoria repeats.
“She’s your friend,” Robby argues. “McKay, can you…?”
“Yeah, definitely,” She says, setting her coffee down and walking over to you. You lift your head up when she knocks on the wall outside your room. “Hi, I’m Dr. McKay. You can call me Cassie.”
“Hi, sorry,” You say, unfolding yourself and standing back up, shuffling towards the bed. “I have rehearsal in half an hour, figured I’d make the most of my time.”
“Right, yeah, no worries,” She says. “You’re Dennis’ girlfriend?”
“Yeah, I am,” You say, then you say your name. She nods, repeating it as you crawl onto the bed, grimacing.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
You shrug. “I landed on it funny at practice yesterday and Dennis insisted I needed to get an x-ray, so.”
She laughs, nodding. “Yeah, I think he’s probably right.”
“How long will it take?” You ask, not wanting to be annoying, but you’re also well aware that rehearsal officially starts in an hour.
“Not long, I’ll do a quick exam and get them ordered, they haven’t gotten too backed up yet,” She says, pulling on a pair of gloves. “May I?”
The x-ray is done by seven-thirty, and Cassie pulls it up on her computer, knowing you won’t have time to wait for the radiologist to result it. Dennis can’t help but glance over, watching as she zooms in on a few spots, looking for tiny fractures.
“I think she’d be okay with you seeing it,” She says, not even having to look to know that he’s staring at the screen.
He exhales, nodding, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans over. “Osseous structures look intact.”
“Yeah, significant soft tissue swelling, though,” She adds. “Any chance she doesn’t go to practice today?”
Dennis laughs a little, shaking his head. “No, none.”
“You wanna’ let her know?”
“Sure, yeah,” He says, putting his tablet down and heading to your room. You’re sitting on the bed in a second position stretch, one arm raised delicately above your head as you tilt to one side, your head landing on your shin. “Hey, bug.”
You snap back up, placing both your hands on the mattress in front of you, smiling. “Hey, am I good to go?”
He nods. “Technically, yes. Nothing’s broken.”
“Thank fucking god,” You breathe, swinging your legs back together and getting to your feet. “Advil and ice it is.”
He grabs your arm, forcing you to slow down for a second. “Be careful on it, please.”
“I will,” You promise, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “Have a good shift, Denny.”
“Good luck at practice,” He says, looking around quickly before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”
The next few days follow a similar pattern, minus the ER trip. You wake up, test your knee as you get ready, then you go to dance. You mark lots, but you’re always in pain by the time you get home. Dennis stays up until you’re back, making sure you ice it while he replaces your bandages.
You come home on day five exhausted.
It’s almost eleven, and you were gone before Dennis woke up this morning, meaning you were there for at least twelve hours. He knows you’re not dancing the entire time, but that’s too long for you to be bearing weight on your knee.
“Hey,” You say, leaning back against the front door as you close it, face tight with pain.
“Hi,” He says, reaching for your bag, taking it and putting it on the floor. You slowly sit on the bench along the wall, carefully sliding your leg out, avoiding bending your knee more than necessary. You exhale, eyes screwing shut. He kneels in front of you, bracing your leg with one hand and sliding your slipper off with the other, then doing the same with your other foot. “Worse today?”
You shake your head too quickly. “No, not really.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Bug.”
“It’s just a little achier than before,” You say. “But I think it’ll be okay once it’s elevated.”
He helps you over to the couch, again, and you fall into routine. This time, while he’s bandaging your foot, he finally gathers the courage to say something.
“You’re pushing too hard,” He says, wiping disinfectant over a blister, making you flinch. “Sorry.”
You hum, grabbing a fistful of the throw blanket to distract yourself from the burning sensation. “I can’t take it any easier.”
“You could,” He counters, gently, knowing how reluctant you’ll be to take his advice here. You’ve been dancing your entire life, injured or not, so what does he know? “One day off would make a big difference.”
You don’t respond. He finishes up the bandages, taking hold of your ankles, squeezing them. He moves his hands up your calves, rubbing along your sore muscles with his thumbs. You take a deep breath, exhaling loudly, putting a hand on your forehead as you squint.
“I can’t just not dance,” You say, and he isn’t sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or him.
“I think one day would be okay,” He says, still gentle, not wanting to push you. “The odds of you injuring it further are pretty high, and that time it might be worse than a sprain.”
He’s teetering on the edge of boyfriend and doctor now, which makes you smile a bit.
“That’s your professional suggestion?” You ask. “One day off?”
He nods. “Yeah, just one.”
You inhale again. “Okay.”
While that’s instantly relieving, it also sparks worry in his chest. He bites his lower lip, gnawing on it for a moment.
“It hurts more than you’ve been letting on,” He says, not as a question. You shrug.
“Yeah, I mean, a bit,” You say. “It’s okay though, honestly.”
But he knows you. Better than anyone ever has.
“Baby,” He murmurs, the sweetness in his voice making your throat tighten. He carefully moves, sitting beside you, looking at you with both eyebrows raised. “How bad, scale of one to ten?”
You think for a second. “A four right now, maybe a six when I’m upright.”
He checks his watch, lifting the icepack off now that it’s been on for twenty minutes. He sets it on the coffee table, and you carefully shift, giving him some more room on the couch.
“You work tomorrow, right?” You ask, leaning your head against his shoulder once he’s settled beside you.
“Yeah, sorry,” He says. “I could ask Trinity if she could cover, then I can hangout with you.”
You shake your head. “No, I’ll be okay, thanks Denny.”
Dennis gets home the next night around eight, a trauma keeping him late. The apartment is quiet when he comes home, a few lamps on and soft music playing. He frowns, coming farther inside.
He’s expecting to see you marking the routine, but he’s shocked when you’re not doing anything of the sort. You’re sitting on the living room floor in a wide straddle, elbows on the floor with a book open in front of you.
“I just wanna’ finish this chapter,” You say, not even looking at him. He smiles, nodding, dropping his bag beside him.
“Okay,” He says, still smiling, bending down and planting a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll be back.”
You mumble something incoherent in response.
He takes a quick shower, and you’ve finished the chapter by the time he gets out, still sitting on the floor. You beam up at him, making his heart pound in his chest. He sits on the floor too, kissing your forehead, then your lips.
“Is it good?” He asks. You nod emphatically, delving into the most recent plot point. He bought you the book for your most recent birthday, and while you’ve never not enjoyed one he picked out for you, he always feels a twinge of pride when you get wrapped up in them. He listens intently as you talk, watching you with bright eyes and a soft smile.
His eyes trail to your knee once you’re seemingly done, but it’s covered by the sweatpants you’re wearing.
“How’s it feel?” He asks.
You shrug. “A bit better.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“You can say ‘I told you so’ if you want,” You add.
His face contorts with obvious confusion. “Why would I say that?”
“Because you were right,” You say. “I should’ve just taken the day off after I fucked it, it’d probably be almost healed if I had.”
“Maybe not,” He counters. “I’m just glad it’s feeling better, bug.”
A week and a half later you’re backstage, fully costumed with your pointe shoes laced up, doing a combination of marking your routine and stretching. You pull your phone out, the time reading six-oh-six, with no new text from Dennis. He sent you one earlier, wishing you luck and saying that he wished he could be there to watch. He had tried desperately to get someone to cover his shift, but it just hadn’t happened.
“Your boyfriend coming?” One of your friends asks.
“No, not tonight,” You say, a small smile on your face. “He couldn’t get the day off.”
“He can’t just leave early?” She asks, and you laugh.
“He barely gets to leave on time most days,” You counter. “Let alone early.”
You take a deep breath, putting your phone away, trying to calm the nerves that have settled in your chest. You manage to drop your heart rate by a few points, but then you’re taking your place beside your fellow dancers in the wings, the lights dimming slightly as the performance is announced.
You shake your hands out, wringing them in front of you before you have to walk out, plastering a poised smile on and walking gracefully to your spot near centre stage. You shift into the starting position, eyes scanning the crowd quickly, your heart jumping in your throat again.
It doesn’t matter how many times you do this—this feeling is still fucking terrifying.
The audience cheers, and your eyes fall on a very familiar head of blonde curls in the front row. You have to stop your eyes from popping out of your head when you realize that it’s Dennis, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands, his eyes meeting yours. He’s already grinning despite the fact that you haven’t even started dancing yet, and you can’t help but smile a little wider, giddiness replacing the nerves.
Dennis’ eyes don’t leave you for the entire performance, watching every move like his life depends on it. He’s amazed by everything you do, each twirl and jump making his smile somehow grow even wider. He doesn’t hesitate to stand up the second you’re done, clapping and cheering loudly when you hit the final pose.
“That’s my girl!” He yells, the sound almost completely drowned out by the rest of the crowd, but you hear it. You duck slightly, heat rising on your neck and cheeks as you walk off.
You see him again once you’re changed, hair freed from the updo and slippers on. He’s leaning against the wall down the hallway outside of the dressing room, along with some of your teams partners and family. You would run to him if you felt like you could, but your feet and knee are aching, so you opt to just walk. He meets you halfway, a shocked laugh escaping when you throw your arms around him, jumping up and wrapping your legs over his hips, crossing your ankles around his back.
His free hand falls to the bottom of your thigh, effortlessly keeping you up.
“You were incredible,” He says, slowly putting you down, shifting his hand so it’s on your lower back. You grin, pressing your lips to his.
“You made it,” You murmur, fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of his neck
“Yeah, I think Santos felt bad for me,” He admits. “Or she got sick of my moping. She convinced Vic to help her cover my patients so I could get out of there.”
You laugh, leaning back, admiring the flowers that he’s holding. “Those for me?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” He says, passing them over. “Of course they are.”
“Thank you,” You say, taking them carefully. Dennis reaches for the bag that’s slung over your shoulder, taking it and putting it on his own. His badge is still clipped to his scrub pocket, his mostly unzipped hoodie not completely hiding it from view. You reach for it, plucking it off, smiling when you read the letters at the bottom. “I didn’t know you finally got the new one, Dr. Whitaker.”
He laughs softly, a hand coming up to the back of his neck, cheeks turning red. “Yeah, a few days ago.”
You exhale, putting it back where it was, nodding. “That’s fucking hot.”
His eyes go wide, his throat bobbing with an obvious gulp as he tries to recover from the comment, a slightly nervous chuckle coming from him.
“I, uhm, really?” He asks.
“Very.”
He’s about to continue the flirting, but he notices the way you shift off your injured leg, and he’s snapped back into reality.
“Come on,” He says, moving your bag out of his way and letting you lean on him. You wince after a few steps, and he doesn’t hesitate before bending slightly, sliding an arm under your legs and picking you up. You gasp, naturally putting your arms around his neck, and you can’t keep yourself from smiling the entire way to the car.
A/N - hi y'all!! happy thursday i hope ur all doing amazing and u look amazing wow im agog. i hope u all enjoyed this :) next week i start studying for finals (fml) so uploads from me will likely be pretty infrequent but ill be updating my 'this week' post as best as i can lol. okay bye love u mwah!
have been thinking about single dad!ghost and ballet teacher!reader a lot recently...
i think his favorite class days are the end of the month, when you and the tiny dancers perform whatever you've been working on for the last four weeks.
there's something as close to magic as ghost's ever seen about watching you wrap satin ribbons around your legs and test the box of your shoe while the little ballerinas titter amongst themselves. some anticipatory energy the swirls in his stomach and forces him to adjust how he's sitting to avoid being glared at by the mom on his left. ghost loves his daughter, truly he does, wouldn't have wrestled custody for her if he didn't, but he hasn't watched a single performance of hers. his eyes are always glued to you. glued to the sharp precise movements, the slice of your leg through the air, the perfect curve of your foot, the delicate curve of your fingers as you sway and wind with a flurry of tiny footsteps racing to follow you.
precise as a knife. he wants nothing more than to run a razor under those pretty pink ribbons, to slice each cleanly crossed intersection in two and saw the knot of your bow in half. he wants to find the seam of your tights and cut it. to drag his tongue behind the blade to catch any spare knicks of your pretty skin --though he knows he wouldn't cut you, too practiced, too precise, to ever dream of harming a hair on you.
he sticks around afterwards while you're taking off your shoes, looms over you with a practiced smile that he's never managed to get right, letting his little girl chatter away as his shadow engulfs you. you're too polite to say anything, too polite to pull away from your conversation with the kid to ask him to stop staring. perhaps even too scared to mention the way he licks his lips at your bare feet, the way his eyes track your movements with beaded efficiency, the way he holds his hand out just a second too long to be a polite offer of helping you up.
legs like scissors and a man willing to be cut if it means being between them.
summary. y/n finally lands her dream role for the biggest performance of her career but she doesn't realise that when ambition and love collide, the fallout is inevitable. the closer she gets to greatness, the more it consumes her and sunghoon is left to helplessly watch as the girl he loves slowly disappears. pairing. idol bf!sunghoon x ballerina!reader. mentions. established relationship, overworking, burnout, slight references to ed, y/n is a bit mean, crying, comfort, fluff. i don’t really know much about ballet in general or ballerinas so i hope any references here aren’t awkwardly wrong and i apologise beforehand :)
the first time y/n got the call, she genuinely thought she had heard wrong.
it had been one of those rehearsals that left every muscle in her body trembling. the kind where the studio mirrors had started to fog at the edges and the air smelled faintly of rosin and sweat mixed with perfume and the sharp, almost comforting scent of worn pointe shoes. her hair, once pinned into a neatly flawless bun that morning, had loosened into tiny wisps around her face, the damp strands clinging to the back of her neck.
she had packed everything away into her bag and was walking down the street to the bus stop, sipping on her water when her phone had buzzed in her pocket. she frowned, thinking about who could be calling her during work hours, yet her stomach dropped when she saw her artistic director’s name displayed on the screen.
immediately, a hundred thoughts hit her at once.
did i mess something up? was one of the lifts off? did they want to talk about mondays schedule? did i do something wrong in rehearsals?
her fingers suddenly felt clumsy as she answered with a breathless, steady “hello?”
the voice on the other end was familiar and professional, “hi y/n, are you somewhere you can talk?”
the question made her pulse spike. her heart began to pound against her ribs and for one terrifying second, genuine panic flashed through her and she didn’t know why - to her, she didn’t do anything wrong but what if there was something she didn’t realise she’d done? what if someone complained? what if-
“yes.” she said quickly, standing straighter in the half-empty street, “of course.”
there was a tiny pause. it wasn’t long but long enough for her mind to spiral. and then…
“we’d like you to lead the winter gala.”
for a moment, the words didn’t register. her lips parted in shock as everything around her completely blurred. someone nearby laughed, a bus hissed to a stop, a few cars drove by but it all felt far away. muted. like someone had shoved the entire city underwater.
y/n just stood there under the faint glow of the street lamp, staring blankly ahead with her phone clutched to her ear, “i’m sorry?”
her artistic director laughed softly, “you heard me. you’ve been cast as the principal lead.”
her breath caught. the lead. the lead. not second cast, not alternate, not the understudy, but the lead. the main role. the one everyone in the company had been pressuring themselves for, the role every dancer dreamed of.
the lead dancer of the winter gala.
it wasn’t just another performance on the company calendar, it was the performance. the biggest production of the entire season. the kind of show critics reviewed in full speeds, the kind people booked tickets for months in advance, the kind that had the entire world of ballet and dance watching. every year it sold out instantly as industry directors came, former principals came, even some celebrities.
and for dancers? it was everything. careers had been made from one standout winter gala performance. promotions, contracts, recognition, opportunities. for some, it was a role that changed everything.
and it just been given to her. she didn’t even know what to feel.
“oh my god.”
her words were barely above a whisper and her director smiled on the other end, trying to hold back her own happiness. her tone softened, “you’ve earned this, y/n. i’ll send your schedule over in a bit. rehearsals begin monday. congratulations and see you soon.”
the line clicked dead but y/n stayed frozen on the pavement. people moved around her, the bus at the stop pulled away, cold wind brushed through her hair but she couldn’t move.
and then she laughed. a breathless, shaky laugh that turned into tears immediately. her hand flew to her mouth as the shock instantly turned into excitement, happiness, her heart racing with relief. she’d been chosen, out of maybe a hundred participants, maybe even a few more give or take - yet out of all that talent, all those different dancers, all those different personalities and styles of dancing… they had picked her.
“oh my god.” she whispered again. her tears were slipping down her cheeks by now.
and without even thinking, she opened her phone again and went to call the first person she needed to tell. the only person who would be the proudest, the most happiest for her.
he picked up on the second ring.
“hey pretty.” sunghoon’s voice came through warm and a little breathless. there was noise in the background: laughter, voices, the squeak of trainers on wooden floor. he was at dance practice.
“you done? wait- one second.” his voice shifted slightly like he was moving away from the others, the music and voices getting quieter as he sighed and took a seat on the couch, “okay, what’s up? are you all done because i have about an hour left and i’ll meet you at home. did you miss me that bad, huh?”
even through tears, a breathless laugh escaped her.
“hoon.”
the second he heard her voice crack, sunghoon straightened up.
“hey.” his tone instantly hardened, “what happened?”
she swallowed, trying not to cry harder at the soft concern in his tone, “i got it.”
it was silent for a second on his end as his brows furrowed and then- “wha- the gala?”
she nodded frantically as if he could see her. her lips trembled, her tears practically drying against her skin under the cold breeze and she sniffled, entirely in happiness.
“the lead.”
there was another beat of silence, one filled with anticipation and silent shock. and then, instantly, there was absolute chaos as sunghoon practically screamed “NO WAY.” his voice shot up so fast she had to pull the phone slightly from her ear.
in the background, she could hear the conversation die down before someone, it sounded like jay, screamed back, “what happened?!”
another voice, definitely jungwon, also asked, “why are you yelling?”
sunghoon didn't even answer as he grinned from ear to ear, clutching his phone as if that could bring her closer to him, as if it could give her all the hugs and comfort he wanted to give in that moment, “baby, you seriously got it?”
“yes!” she laughed through her tears and he laughed along, tiny breathless gasps, “oh my god. i knew it- i knew it!”
there were more muffled voices in the background, some faint footsteps before she heard jake, now standing a little closer, “did she get it?”
sunghoon, with absolutely zero intention of being subtle, practically yelled back, “she got the lead role!”
and almost immediately, there was a chorus of loud reactions, loud cheers filled with happiness and clapping and encouraging words as all of his members congratulated her through the phone. y/n couldn't stop smiling, her cheeks hurt and she had to move to the side of the street, hoping no one could hear the loud screams coming from her phone.
she thanked all of them before her boyfriend came back on the line, his voice calmer now but still glowing with pride, “baby....” the way he said it made her heart ache, “i'm so proud of you.”
her eyes filled with tears again, “hoon…”
“no, actually,” he continued, and now there was that playful teasing slipping back into his hoarse voice, “i need everyone to know i was right.”
“oh my god-”
in the background, jake called out, “he literally wouldn't shut up about it!”
sunghoon ignored him and focused completely on her. his lips still displayed that wide grin, his eyes twinkling with endless pride, love and joy, “you owe me.”
“for what?”
“for being your personal well-wisher.”
she laughed into her hand, wiping away her tears, “is that so?”
he hummed, “yeah, i expect celebratory kisses and food- oh, and we have to go out for drinks and ice cream.”
“you're unbelievable.”
“no, you're unbelievable.” he said dramatically, “lead of the winter gala? that's my girl.”
y/n's heart squeezed and his voice softened, “seriously, y/n. you worked so hard for this, you deserve it.”
he knew. of course he did. he knew every late night, every rehearsal, every time she came home slightly limping with her knees hurting. he knew every time she doubted herself, every tear she shed after her audition when she thought she did bad.
she still couldn’t believe it, she couldn't process it but hearing him saying it made it feel a lot more real.
“i can't wait to see you tonight.” he murmured, almost dreamily, and she chuckled softly.
“i'm heading home right now.”
“good, because i'm celebrating you properly.”
“with what?”
there was a tiny pause, a breath, and then mock seriousness: “i don't know yet, but it'll involve food and me being incredibly clingy.”
that made her laugh again because he was so perfect. this whole moment was perfect. the cold around her suddenly didn't feel as sharp anymore, the city suddenly seemed softer and as she finally stepped onto the bus with a smile she couldn't contain and a heart heavy with joy, she knew that everything was about to change.
she just didn't know it would begin to take pieces of her with it.
•••
for the first three weeks, it was almost beautiful.
not easy - nothing is ever easy - but beautiful in a way ambition could sometimes look from the outside.
y/n had always been disciplined, that was one of the first things that sunghoon had fallen in love with. it wasn't just the effortless elegance she carried or the way her body seemed to bend to music even when she wasn't dancing in the studio - it was the quiet determination beneath it, the way she committed herself fully to anything she loved.
when she danced, she danced. when she loved, she loved just as fiercely.
so as soon as she'd left for her first schedule that monday after she got the role with an excited smile on her face and his kisses all over her cheeks, sunghoon had expected the longer rehearsals, the packed timetable, the endless practice sessions. he expected stress and exhaustion but with that calm determination and drive to succeed.
what he hadn't expected was to watch the girl he loved slowly begin to disappear inside it.
at first, it started small. she woke up earlier than usual. she used to wake up at 6, and then it turned to 5, then 4:30. he would wake to the faint vibration of her alarm and the quiet rustle of sheets beside him, blinking blearily into the dim blue light of dawn. he'd find her already sitting at the edge of the bed, meticulously wrapping her ankles and putting her hair into a bun.
“baby... what time is it?” he had mumbled one time, voice thick with sleep.
y/n glanced over her shoulder, her smile tired but just as soft when she noticed his fluffy hair and roaming eyes, “go back to sleep.”
he rubbed at his half-closed eyes and pushed up onto one elbow, “you’re leaving already?”
“i want to get some solo practice in before group rehearsal.”
sunghoon frowned, “but it's barely morning.”
she laughed but it was hollow, a sound that didn't reach her eyes, “that's kind of the point.”
she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, ran her hand over his hair briefly and she was gone before the sun had even fully risen.
nights became worse. dinner at 8pm turned into 10, then midnight, then sometimes it never happened at all. the apartment lights no longer went off when they used to, the routine of eating dinner together had become such a rarity, he barely expected it to happen anymore. sometimes, sunghoon would sit on the couch, pretending to watch something on his laptop but his eyes would instinctively flick to the time in the corner, ticking impossibly louder day by day.
12:47am.
1:00am.
1:15am.
and then, finally, the familiar beep of the door unlocking would be heard through the otherwise silent apartment. relief hit him in waves whenever she finally came home and then it would twist into anxiety whenever he saw her. she looked worse every night. paler. quieter. a little more sunken around the eyes. a little less like the girl who had cried in his arms from happiness when she got the role.
a little less like the girl who adored ballet with her entire heart.
one night, y/n came home at nearly two in the morning. the apartment was dark except for the warm glow of the lamp beside the couch. he was half-asleep, tired from his own day of interviews but was still determined to wait for her to come home, to see if she was okay.
y/n stepped inside so quietly it was almost as if she'd hoped he would be asleep. her shoulders sagged beneath her coat, her bag weighing one shoulder down as her pointe shoes half-hung out of the open zipper.
she looked exhausted- no, beyond exhausted.
like someone had wrung every last bit of her energy out of her.
“it’s 1:45.”
her hand stilled midway to taking her coat off. she stood there for a second, just breathing.
“i know.”
“you said rehearsals ended at ten.” his voice stayed calm amongst his worry that was almost impossible to miss nowadays.
“we stayed late.” y/n began walking to the kitchen without meeting his eyes, dropping her bag by the door.
“for three and a half hours?”
“i needed more time.”
sunghoon stood up and as she crossed the room, he saw it. the tiny wince when she put weight on her ankle. it was small, maybe almost invisible to anyone who didn't pay much attention - but not to sunghoon. he noticed everything about her, no matter how small it may seem, and his stomach immediately dropped as his eyes travelled back up her body like he was checking for any other injuries.
“did you eat?”
silence.
she opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle and her silence was answer enough for him.
“…i had coffee.”
sunghoon stared at her in disbelief, “coffee?”
“it's just for now.”
“y/n.” his voice grew lower, heavy.
“it's fine.” she leaned back against the counter, eyes closing briefly, her shoulders slumping forward in exhaustion beyond reason.
“no, it's not.”
her eyes snapped open fully then as the frustration flared through the fog of fatigue like something igniting beneath too-thin skin, “you don't understand.”
the words landed wrong immediately. not loud or dramatic. just heavy. like something dropped between them that couldn't be taken back. he knew this wasn't her talking, it was the tiredness, the weakness, the stress that had been plaguing her for weeks. sunghoon went still but it wasn’t anger that crossed his face - it was something quieter, something a little unsettling.
he looked disappointed.
“i’m sorry-” y/n breathed out too quickly, already shaking her head as if that could physically undo it. her numb fingers pressed to her temple like she could massage the tension out of her own thoughts, “i didn't mean that- i just-”
“no.” his voice cut through and he stepped forward slowly, gently, “tell me what i'm not understanding.”
that made her stop, really stop, because he wasn't arguing back, he wasn't escalating, he was just asking. and that somehow made it worse - his calmness.
her shoulders sagged under the constant tension and her body almost collapsed forward, like her bones couldn't hold her up anymore. she clutched the edge of the counter as she rasped out, “this is the biggest performance of my career. of my whole life.”
“i know.”
“then you know why i have to do this.”
“yeah, i know why you have to do this.” sunghoon said immediately, shaking his head once. he moved a step closer again, not crowding her but closing the space she was trying to disappear into, and his voice softened into a gentle plead, “that doesn't mean you have to destroy yourself for it.”
she laughed - small, broken, full of disbelief at his words as if what he was saying was entirely non-negotiable, “destroy myself?”
she looked up at him properly then, eyes sharp and gone was the girl who would understand his reasons, who would never try to argue with him but instead work things out calmly and peacefully. now, her new life seemed to curl at her throat and dig its thorns into her heart, poking right at his place in there, “sunghoon... there are girls in that studio who would kill for this part.”
his jaw tightened slightly, “and?”
that caught her off guard.
“and if i slip even once, they'll give the spot to someone else. you need to understand that.”
he didn't reply after that, he didn't know how to. he just stared at her for a long moment with the quiet recognition that this had become something he didn't know how to fix.
“i'll be fine once it's over.” she said dismissively, staring at the floor for a second too long and he didn't know who she was convincing... herself or him?
“it’s temporary. it's just until the performance.” she said it like a promise, like a shield, like something she had started saying so often she no longer questioned it. but to sunghoon, it wasn't reassurance anymore - it was a pattern. a warning he had started to dread.
because it had shown up at 3am when he found her sitting on the bathroom floor with ice pressed to her swollen ankles, eyes unfocused as she whispered it like a mantra.
i'll be fine once it's over.
it had shown up the next night when he opened the fridge and found the untouched takeout she had promised she'd eat, now cold and forgotten. it was from her favourite place... but she hadn't even noticed the logo on the boxes, too tired to even stand.
i'll be fine once it's over.
it had shown up again when he found her asleep at the dining table with her cheek pressed against the wood. her laptop was open in front of her, playing one of her rehearsal videos with a tiny section of notes for improvements and his stomach seemed to sink even more when he saw how long the list was - as if all this work wasn't already draining the life out of her.
i'll be fine once it's over.
each time, he believed her a little less.
and each time she whispered those words, he felt a little more helpless.
•••
a month later, it was no longer stress.
that's what sunghoon called it in the beginning because stress was normal, expected. he felt it as well when he had an important performance coming up. anyone given the principal role in the winter gala would be under pressure, and he tried to remind himself of that everytime he woke to an empty bed before sunrise or sat awake long past midnight waiting for her to come home.
but this had become something else entirely.
it was sharper now. more consuming. more concerning. something had wrapped itself around y/n so tightly that there was barely anything of her left outside of it. her entire world had narrowed down to rehearsals, counts, corrections, and the constant fear of falling behind. it’s like everything else around her had begun to disappear.
from the outside, the performance still looked beautiful and that's what was cruel about it: the elegance of it all. the discipline. the grace. the way she still moved like poetry.
it reminded sunghoon of something delicate, something made to be admired from afar - like a crown folded from paper: beautiful in shape, precise in design.
but paper was still paper.
no matter how carefully it was folded, how perfectly it held its shape, it only took the smallest amount of pressure for it to bend. one drop of water. one careless hand. one fracture. and suddenly, the whole thing came apart.
that's what this had started to feel like.
y/n wore the role like a crown - the lead ballerina of the winter gala, the most coveted performance of the season, the title everyone in the company wanted, the one dancers spent years dreaming about. on her, it looked effortless, beautiful... but up close, sunghoon could see what no one else did: the edges of that paper was beginning to crease and there were tiny strains in the folds.
y/n stopped replying to messages. her groupchat with her friends had remained unread, disappearing beneath a flood of company notifications and timing reminders, completely going silent on her end. when sunghoon mentioned it once, gently asking if she'd talked to anyone or might want to go for a girls day, she'd only shaken her head and muttered something about being too busy.
soon, she stopped going out fully unless it was absolutely necessary. no more coffee runs, no more going to cute cafés, no more meeting with friends, no more dates.
even when she was home, she wasn't really there. the apartment no longer felt lived in, and instead, felt like an extension of the studio. the dining table was occupied with dressing choices, choreography notes, CDs of past performances she had been expected to watch and study and half-empty coffee cups which sunghoon had taken upon himself to wash and put away. ice packs permanently occupied the freezer. pain relief gel sat uncapped on the bathroom counter. pointe shoes lay abandoned near the sofa or beneath the coffee table like she barely had any time to remove them before going to do something else.
rest was no longer something she chose.
it was something her body forced on her.
on one of the few evenings sunghoon had finished practice earlier than usual, he came home expecting silence. maybe he could take a nap before getting ready to go to the gym, maybe he could convince his girlfriend one more time to eat a proper meal and not just coffee or random snacks.
the hallway outside their front door was quiet. he punched in the code, their anniversary date, and for a brief moment, he let himself hope. maybe she had finally listened to him. maybe tonight he'd find her curled up in bed, asleep beneath the duvet with her hair in that crazy loose array that made him chuckle. he pictured the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the way she would clutch his pillow when he wasn't there with her, and something softened in his chest.
but the moment he stepped inside, that hope disappeared.
music drifted down the hallway. soft strings of a controlled melody. his heart sank instantly.
it was the same piece of the same section of the performance she'd been working on for weeks now - the melody was so deeply engraved in both of their minds that sometimes sunghoon could hear it playing in his own head when he went for his own dance practices. it was practically the soundtrack of their apartment now.
still, some part of him hoped he was wrong. maybe she just left it playing by accident, maybe she was in the shower, maybe-
he turned the corner and stopped completely.
y/n was in the middle of the room, still in her practice clothes. her pink wrap top clung faintly to her skin, damp with sweat and the black tights she'd left in that morning were still dusted with fine white powder from the studio floor. her hair was pulled back into such a tight slickback it looked painful - every part of herself wound so tightly that one slip would've made the whole thing unravel.
sunghoon's eyes ran over her body in that concerning way they always did. she had one leg propped up against the arm of the couch, her body folded into an intense stretch so deep it made something in his chest curl.
it looked like punishment.
her breathing was uneven, thin shoulders rising and falling too fast, too strained, and when his gaze dropped lower, his lips curled into a worried snarl.
her hands were shaking. not even slightly, they were actually trembling. visible, uncontrollable tremors ran through her fingers and wrists as she forced herself deeper into the stretch. and the way she kept going, still ignoring every signal her body was giving her to stop, it made him frustrated.
“seriously?” the word came out before he could even stop himself, the pure disbelief evident in his tone.
y/n didn't even look up as she spoke, “i need to keep my lines clean.”
sunghoon just stared at her. he genuinely couldn't believe what he was seeing, “you need to sit down.”
her exhale was sharp and irritated, “hoon, please.”
“no.” his voice was clipped, firm, final. it changed the atmosphere instantly, almost slicing through the soft music and fragile patience that had been holding this together for weeks.
for the first time, she actually stopped. she lifted her head, actually made eye contact with him and the sight of her nearly broke him. she looked pale. far too pale to the point she looked ill. sweat dampened the loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck, dark shadows bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes, deep enough that even her makeup couldn't fully hide it.
then his eyes dropped lower. his breath caught.
her toes were bruised. deep purple marks bloomed over and even beneath the skin, swollen and angry, the kind of bruising that should've had her off her feet days ago. her hands were still trembling, her skin was practically pulling at her ribcage and her collarbones were so prominent they looked like they might snap if she breathed too heavy.
“y/n... baby, you're not okay.” he was almost on the verge of tears.
“i am.” her reply was too quick, too rehearsed.
“no, you're not.”
immediately, her arms folded over her chest as if she was defending herself on instinct.
“i don't need another lecture, sunghoon.”
he blinked at her, slightly caught off-guard, “a lecture? you think this is a lecture?”
“what else is it?”
a bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it, “it's me being worried about you. it’s-”
“i told you i can handle it.”
“no, you're not handling it. you're not handling anything.”
his words sounded strict and that clipped tone landed wrong in her chest. she knew he was right. deep down, she knew what she was doing was wrong, it was unhealthy and completely unlike her, but the discipline and ambition had gone so out of hand she didn't know how to grasp at it anymore.
her chest rose sharply and her expression twisted into one of frustration, fear, all of it simmering to the surface, “you don’t get it.”
there's that sentence again.
something in him snaps, decisively, “then explain it to me.” his voice lowered to that deep, controlled tone, the kind of calm that only came when he was trying very hard not to shout angrily, “because from where i'm standing , it looks like you're killing yourself for a company that would replace you in a second.”
her breath caught. hurt seemed to flash over her face, mixed with fear, but anger took over just as instantly, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“then tell me.”
he stepped closer, “tell me why you haven't slept properly in weeks. tell me why i keep finding food you haven't touched. tell me why you can't even stand on that ankle right now.”
her face creased and suddenly, something cruel inside her seemed to split open; her dignity, or perhaps the self-care and love she had long forgotten about. her jaw tightened and she clenched her nails into her palm.
“because i have to be perfect!” the words tore out of her, raw and shaking, like they'd been clawing at her ribs for weeks, “because if i'm not, then someone else takes the spot!”
the room fell silent. her breathing came faster now, almost frantic, chest rising and falling too quickly. tears glossed over her eyes but they didn't fall, instead, they made her look more frantic. more desperate.
“i've dreamed about this all my life, sunghoon. i’ve worked so hard to get to where i am today.”
“i know.” he said quietly.
but she shook her head so fast it almost looked violent, “no, you don’t.” her voice cracked, then sharpened, “you have no idea what it's like in that studio.”
“do you really think i don't understand pressure, y/n?” he wasn't being defensive, he was just as tired - deeply, heartbreakingly tired - and seeing the love in his eyes when he looked at her, seeing the worry and concern for her should've been the moment she stopped.
instead, it only made something uglier rise inside her.
“this is different.”
“how?”
she laughed, humourless and completely bitter, “because, as a dancer, you should know what this feels like.” he went completely still and she continued with a voice trembling with emotion and something more intense, “you stay late for practices too, you have important performances you need to do extra work for. you know what it’s like until your body gives out, so why are you acting like what i’m doing is insane?”
sunghoon's fists clenched by his sides because in a way, she was right, he did know. he knew what pressure felt like, he knew what it meant to chase perfection until it hollowed you out, he knew what it was like to be watched, judged, corrected. but this? this had gotten so out of hand that even with all of that understanding, he no longer knew how to reach her.
“y/n…” he said softly, warm eyes pleading as his brows furrowed, “i do know what that feels like but...”
“no!” her voice rose so suddenly, it startled both of them, “you don't know because you already made it. you already debuted. you're already in a group, your place is already secure.”
“what?”
“if you make one mistake on stage, they cover for you. the others will step in, the cameras move away and it’ll be edited out. the performance keeps going.” her own words seemed to echo back at her, completely cruel, coming from something ugly and terrifying that had made its way into her mind, into her heart.
sunghoon stood there stunned. it hurt, of course it did, especially coming from her. she could see it flash in his dark eyes, she could see it in the way his brows furrowed just a bit more and the love in his eyes started to wither.
but she was too far gone and too consumed by the adrenaline and panic to stop.
“ballet doesn’t work like that. if i mess up one turn, one landing, one count- that’s it. i’m off the performance. and that’s just for rehearsals, never mind the real thing.” her voice cracked and the tears finally spilled over, “there are girls in that studio waiting for me to fail. there will be girls in line that day to immediately take over if i do something wrong. you don’t know what it’s like to have people waiting on your downfall every freaking second!”
he’d gone so quiet that it would’ve hurt less if he just shouted back. but his silence stabbed at her too because she knew, she knew he understood, of course he did - ever since he was young, he’s had cameras watching him, people training him, correcting him, criticising him. he knew fear. he knew what it was like to feel replaceable. he knew what it was like to overwork yourself.
but this wasn’t about that anymore. this was her fear speaking, dressed up as cruelty and she was taking it out on him.
when sunghoon finally spoke, his voice was hollow, “you really think i don't know what that feels like?”
the question was gently yielding but it landed like a slap. y/n's breath caught. for a second, she softened at his hurt tone but that weakness vanished just as quickly as it came.
“this is different.” she said again, weaker this time.
“right.” his shoulders sagged and his eyes softened, “maybe i don't know what it's like to dance in your company, but i do know what it looks like when someone i love is destroying herself and calling it discipline.”
now that should've stopped her. it should've. but there was nothing left in her capable of slowing down.
“well, i'm sorry i can't prioritise you right now.”
that seemed to crack everything between them.
all the hurtful words, all the worried glances, all the comforting caresses after hard rehearsals - all of it gone with just a few frantic words. sunghoon nodded and pursed his lips like the air had been slowly knocked out of him. there was no misunderstanding and that’s what hurt him - it hurt him that even after everything, she thought he just wanted her attention, as if he was dismissing all her hard work just because they hadn’t had a proper conversation in a while.
for the first time in weeks, he genuinely looked wounded.
her face paled in realisation, “hoon- i didn't mean-”
“no, i heard you.” he reached for his jacket, “do whatever you want.”
“sunghoon-”
“if this performance matters more than your health, more than us... then i can't stop you.”
and then he was walking toward the door.
“you’re leaving?” panic finally broke through the frustrated haze she was in just seconds ago.
“i don't want to say something i'll regret.”
as a dancer, as a performer, he knew what it meant to bleed for perfection. but as her boyfriend, as her lover, as her best friend, as someone who's seen her grow into the person she was now, he had no idea how to save her from herself.
the door clicked shut behind and the sound echoed in the apartment like something irreversible. y/n stood frozen, shaky eyes staring at the door. she stayed there for a second, then another, hoping- wishing- begging for him to run back in so that she could apologise.
but he didn't.
her knees gave out. she sank to the floor as her breath shook violently in her chest and her feeble fingers clutched at her top, right over her heart like it could've fallen out any second. her music still played in the background. still moving. still counting. still demanding. even when she couldn't anymore.
for the first time in weeks, the apartment was silent in a way that truly hurt.
and that's when she realised that somewhere between chasing perfection and running from failure, she had started losing him too.
•••
the next morning, y/n woke up with a strange heaviness in her chest.
her 6am alarm vibrated beside her and after turning it off, she remained still under the covers, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the last remnants of sleep. her memory of last night came back all at once: the argument, her harsh voice, the look on sunghoon’s face when her words landed, the sound of the door closing behind him.
her eyes opened slowly to the pale grey light filtering through the curtains, the bedroom being washed in the quiet blue of the early morning. her body ached in ways that had become so familiar she barely registered them anymore, her shoulders tight and sore as her calves practically throbbed from yesterday’s rehearsal.
without thinking, her hand moved across the mattress to the space beside her. his space.
she was met with cold sheets and an untouched pillow. her breath caught. he never came back. that thought hit her harder than she expected it to and something painful tightened beneath her ribs as she stared at the empty space. maybe he had gone to the dorm after leaving. maybe one of the members had convinced him to stay over.
or maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to come home.
that possibility hurt the most. she swallowed hard and blinked against the sting gathering behind her tired eyes. for a second, she just wanted to stay there, the curl up in the sheets and hug his pillow as she slept but the thought barely had time to form before reality came crashing back in.
two weeks. she only had two more weeks until the winter gala.
so she dragged herself up as the words blared in her mind like an alarm; quick shower, skincare, hair tied up, tights, wrap top, warm-up layers. it was almost mechanical, as though her body knew the sequence better than her mind did. by the time she stepped out into the hallway, mind already drifting to what she had to practice today, she froze as she came to the living room.
it was dim. the curtains were still drawn against early light, and her eyes then travelled to the couch.
sunghoon.
he was curled awkwardly, still in the clothes from last night. his hoodie was half-zipped, one arm tucked underneath his head in what clearly had been an attempt to make himself comfortable, though the angle of his neck looked painfully wrong. one of the throw blankets had slipped halfway down his legs, leaving him barely covered.
she stared at him. he had come home. at some point in the night, after she’d fallen asleep, he came home.
but he didn’t come back to her and that realisation hit like a physical blow to her heart - he’d been here the entire time and still the space between them had never felt wider. her heart clenched. he must’ve been so uncomfortable, the couch being too short for his long legs, and yet he’d still chosen that over their bed.
over being beside her.
because of what she said. because she’d pushed him so far that even coming home didn’t mean coming back to her.
guilt washed over her immediately. slowly, carefully, she moved closer. up close, he looked exhausted, his lashes seated softly against his cheeks, his breathing slow and steady. he looked peaceful for the first time in weeks, too peaceful for her to ruin.
god, she missed him. she missed being close enough to look at him properly, she missed spending mornings tangled with him in the sheets, missed the easy touches and the soft kisses and the warm hugs that once filled every part of their life together. these past few weeks had turned them into strangers sharing the same space - they’d pass eachother in the doorway, eat at different times, sleep on different schedules, barely touch, barely speak.
and now, seeing him here, something tender and heartbreaking unfurled inside her. she crouched beside the couch and gently, she let her hand reach out and slide into his hair. it was soft, warm beneath her touch as she smoothed the dark strands back from his forehead. the simple familiarity of it nearly undid her. her touch was featherlight and hesitant as if she was afraid she no longer had the right to touch him at all.
his breathing shifted but he didn’t wake up.
leaning down, she pressed the softest kiss to his cheek.
“i’m sorry.” y/n whispered as her fingers lingered in his hair for one final moment before she forced herself to stand. she let him sleep because for once, he looked rested. because she loved him too much to wake him.
and as she slipped out of the apartment with tiny tears fluttering at her waterline, the room fell silent once more. a few seconds passed before sunghoon’s eyes opened - he felt all of it, the kiss, the apology whispered against his skin, her nimble fingers in his hair. his heart ached, still as raw as it had been the night before, as he stared up at the ceiling.
he was still hurt. god, it hurt so much to be this apart from her.
but the tenderness of her touch stayed with him long after she already left.
•••
the studio felt wrong when she stepped in.
usually it would be alive with movement as different dancers arrived with coffee cups in their hands and bags over their shoulders, the distant sound of piano scales coming from one of the practice rooms, the soft tap of pointe shoes against the corridor as some people warmed up or hurried from one studio to the next.
today, that rhythm felt off. the building wasn’t silent, literally, but the usual bustle of it felt off.
it was quiet and that quiet made her skin prickle.
the atmosphere shifted as soon as she opened the door to one of the larger performance rooms. there was a subtle pause in conversations as most people turned toward her, and then whispers started - not loud but enough to echo against the high ceilings and enough for her to feel instantly confused and anxious.
one of the girls near the far mirror glanced at her and then leaned to the dancer beside her, whispering something behind the rim of her bottle. y/n watched the other girl smirk, eyes trailing back to her. another pair by the barre exchanged a look that felt too pointed, too judgemental. someone laughed under their breath. someone tying their shoes stopped just to stare at y/n walking in.
she tightened her grip on her bag as a cold unease began to creep up her spine. what the hell was happening this morning? her gaze moved across the room as her steps faltered a bit - she waited for something familiar, someone to smile or wave or complain about the schedule as always.
instead, she found pity. disappointment. distance.
before she could even set her bag down, one of the performance assistants approached her from the corner of the room. y/n straightened up when she saw how composed her expression was, how serious she looked.
“y/n, the manager wants to see you.”
the words landed strangely.
“what?”
the assistant gave her a small, unreadable smile.
“in his office.”
her heart gave a sudden, sickening drop. without another word, she turned and walked back out into the hallway, the whispers behind her getting louder now that she wasn’t looking at them. each step toward the office felt wrong, too slow, too loud. the corridor stretched endlessly in front of her, the framed posters from past galas and performances lining the walls like ghosts.
her eyes caught briefly at the principal lead from last years gala, the girl’s glossy lips stretched into a smile in front of a gold-embossed poster, poised beneath the lights in a crown of silver and crystal.
this year, that was supposed to be her.
by the time she reached the office door, her hand had gone cold around the handle. she knocked once and took a deep breath when the voice on the other side muttered a simple “come in.”
the door clicked shut behind her as she walked into the faint smell of coffee and paper. the performance manager sat at his desk, posture immaculate, hands folded neatly in front of him. his expression was unreadable in the way only authority figures seemed to master - carefully neutral, almost detached. it made dread bloom in her chest violently and she didn’t know why.
“y/n! please, take a seat.” he said with a polite smile, offering her the seat on the other side of his large oak desk.
she walked over but didn’t have it in her to sit down, her legs were practically shaking with nerves.
“what’s wrong?” her voice came out shakier than she expected.
for a second, he said nothing. he folded his hands more tighter, and looked at her with a kind of professional calm that made her want to be sick.
“we’ve been reviewing your performance in recent rehearsals, and the practice show that took place last week.”
her heartbeat stumbled. then began pounding. hard.
“what about it?” the words barely made it out, her eyes never leaving his as if she was worried she wouldn’t hear him properly if she looked away.
he paused. a pause that stretched too long, too heavy, too deliberate, like he was allowing the silence to do some of the damage for him. y/n stood frozen, her knuckles paling with how tight she gripped the strap of her bag. her pulse thudded so loudly in her ears that for a moment it was the only sound in the room.
and then he said it.
the exact thing she was dreading.
“we’ve decided to recast the principal role.”
for a second, it didn’t make sense. the words hung in the air, clean and sharp, yet somehow it was impossible for her to understand. it was as if the language itself failed her, as if the sentence was spoken in a voice she recognised but in a meaning her mind refused to accept.
recast.
principal role.
those words repeated in her head again and again, broken fragments stripped of context.
recast the principal role.
“…what?” her lips parted. she could only stare at him like she was waiting for him to correct himself, to laugh and tell her it was a joke or a prank or a misunderstanding, or some weird mistake in scheduling or casting for another role. she blinked at him blankly, and whatever light she had in her eyes slowly started to fade, “..what do you mean?”
“your performance quality has declined.”
“no.” the word left her before she could stop it, chest tightening to suddenly that it hurt. her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, refusing to move, “no, it hasn’t.”
the man lowered his gaze to an open file on his desk. he was looking at paper, at notes, at typed-up observations and rehearsal reports like he was reading numbers from a spreadsheet instead of dismantling everything she spent her entire life building.
“the choreographers have reported that you’ve missed multiple cues in recent rehearsals.” he said evenly, “your stamina has visibly worsened and your physical consistency has become unreliable.”
each word was a blade to her heart.
missed cues.
stamina.
unreliable.
suddenly, everything came rushing back to her like a flicker of memories - the sleepless nights, the mornings she left before sunghoon was even awake, the dinner left untouched, the cold sting of ice packs against her swollen feet, the purple bruises blooming all over her legs. the palpable hurt in sunghoon’s eyes whenever she declined even having a meal with him. every sacrifice, everytime she neglected him, every piece of herself she’d stripped away in pursuit of perfection for this role.
“i can fix it.” the words tumbled out, panic rising in her chest, “i just need a little more time. there’s still a week left, i can stay later, i’ll redo every section if i have t-”
“y/n.”
“no, please!” she cut in, stepping closer to the desk, “please, just give me one more rehearsal, one more full run-through. i can prove it to you- i know i’ve been off, i know that, but i can fix it! i’ve come too far-”
her hands were shaking now, “please don’t do this. please.”
“the decision has already been made.”
that was it.
that was the moment everything inside her shattered as the finality in his voice left no room for argument, no crack for hope to slip through. her stomach dropped so violently she had to brace one hand against the edge of the chair to steady herself.
“no…” she whispered, barely audible, tears brimming her eyes, “no, you can’t do this.”
for the first time since walking into the office, the careful mask she’d been holding together began to fracture.
“you can’t do this- i gave everything for this.”
still, he looked at her with maddening calm, “we’re concerned for your condition, y/n. we need someone stable.”
“what?”
stable. she could’ve laughed. as if she were unstable, as if she had become the problem, as if the pressure and the scrutiny and the impossible standards and constant threats of replacement hadn’t somehow turned her into her own failure. as if they hadn’t built the very fear that consumed her.
“you are physically declining.” another blow straight to her heart, “we don’t know how much longer your body can sustain this pace. your ankle is clearly compromised, your stamina has dropped and you’ve been pushing through visible exhaustion. some of the girls have reported to seen bruises all over you. we can’t risk putting you on stage in this condition.”
then, a lot quieter, he added, “we’re sorry. you can take as much time as you need to rest your ankle.”
sorry. that word felt insulting. that entire sentence felt insulting.
“don’t do that..” she shook her head harshly, her tears now freely falling down her cheeks, “don’t act sorry after pushing me this hard. i did everything you asked…” she sniffled and her throat constricted but she swallowed past the lump, swallowed past the heartbreak and kept going, “i did every late night, every correction, i watched the videos again and again. i ruined myself for this!”
“we never asked you to destroy your health.”
“of course. you only ever made it clear that if i messed up, even a little, someone else would take it! i tried to avoid that!” she bitterly laughed, “i pushed myself for you. for this company.”
silence. he said nothing. he didn’t even deny her words and somehow that’s what broke her the most. because he knew what dancers went through to get this role, he knew the behind the scenes of the role and how physically demanding and mentally straining it can get, yet he didn’t say anything at the time.
he kept quiet and now… just as she’s so close to the finish line, he wants to act. he’d casted her because of her talent and personality and elegance, he’d watched her ruin herself, he’d watched her get attacked, get judged, get overworked and now he’d decided to cut her off?
that’s when she realised that all the pain and fear, everything she’d done to make herself untouchable, trying to build a crown so flawless no one could touch her - none of it had been enough. she’d let her ambition consume her so much that she lost herself in the process and that had been her ultimate downfall.
she turned and left without another word.
she had nothing else to say and she knew that if she stayed another second, she was certain she’d fall apart right there on the floor.
and she refused to let him see that too.
•••
she barely made it out the building.
the posters she blindly rushed past now felt like cruel reminders, the rehearsal rooms felt far too distant and the familiar music playing throughout almost made her sick. by the time she pushed through the side exit of the performance hall and stumbled into the narrow street beside it, the cold morning air hit her like a slap.
her lungs tightened so violently that she genuinely thought she might collapse right there against the brick wall. her breaths came in shallow, sharp pulls, too fast to steady herself, too thin to fill her lungs properly. her vision swam, hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her phone.
she was on the verge of a panic attack and there was only one person she wanted to call. only one person her heart reached for on instinct no matter what happened, no matter how chaotic things had gotten between them. whenever something hurt this badly and the word seemed to crack beneath her feet, she always ran to him.
sunghoon answered on the second ring.
“y/n?”
his voice was all she needed for the tears to spill harder. not graceful, quiet tears but sobs that had her knees weakening and her body lowering to the curb. they were humiliating. broken. heartbreaking.
“h-hoon..”
sunghoon immediately stood straighter from where he was leaned against the kitchen counter with his protein shake. his heart rate spiked as soon as her shrilling cries came through his speaker.
“y/n. what happened?”
she pressed a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to steady herself, “i- i can’t-”
“baby, where are you?”
the endearment in his tone nearly destroyed what little composure she had left.
“i’m at the performance hall.” she sniffled, looking up at the clear sky to make her tears stop, “side s-street.”
“i’m coming.” he said with no hesitation. no anger. no reminder of last night. no pause. just a reminder that he would always be there wherever and whenever she needed him. she doesn’t know if he declined the call or if it was all her movement but her phone went limp in her hand as she curled into herself on the edge of the empty street.
she tightened her coat around her as if it could somehow hold her together. the cold seeped through the fabric of her tights but she barely felt it - every thought in her mind was spiralling.
recast. unstable. unhealthy.
to someone else, this might’ve seemed dramatic - it was just a role, just one show in a long career that she still had ahead of her. she was only twenty-three, more roles like this would come, right? maybe from the outside it could be dismissed as something temporary, someone she would eventually move on from, and she knew she would. she knew she’d get over it but it still hurt.
it had been everything to her, so of course, letting it slip through her fingers because of her own decline hurt.
it was a moment she was supposed to prove herself. losing it didn’t feel like just losing a random role, it felt like losing the future she’d been reaching for with both hands. that’s why the panic felt consuming and why the air around her seemed so thin.
sunghoon arrived less than fifteen minutes later.
his hair was messy as if he’d just ran out the door without thinking to fix it. he was in a hoodie and sweatpants, clearly rushed, and yet in that moment, to her, he had never looked more beautiful.
the second she saw him, whatever fragile composure she was clinging to shattered completely. she reached for him before he even fully crouched down - it was instinct, pure and desperate. her hands flew to the front of his hoodie and sunghoon dropped down in front of her so quickly his knees hit the pavement. both his hands came up to cup her face, warm palms a stark contrast to her freezing skin.
“hey.” he said softly, eyes scanning her with worry, “hey, look at me.”
she tried. she really did but the moment she looked at him properly, the tears came harder.
“they cut me off.” she hiccupped, “hoon, th-they took the role.”
something quick and sharp flickered across his face. hurt. anger. disbelief. his jaw tightened as the words settled in and a cold fury rose so fast it almost startled him. they took it away? after everything? he couldn’t believe it. after watching as she slowly wore herself down until there was almost nothing left of her, they’d simply taken it away?
a part of him wanted to march straight into that building and demand how they could possibly justify this. how they could watch someone reach the absolute edge of the cliff and then punish them for breaking under the weight of it.
but then she made this small, broken sound in the back of her throat, and all that anger instantly simmered.
her. she came first.
always.
his entire body softened as he pulled her forward into his chest, “baby, it’s okay- hey.” one hand slid to the back of her head while the other began to rubbing slow, soothing circles over her back, “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”
her fingers desperately twisted into his hoodie and she clutched him so tightly it almost hurt, like some part of her was terrified that if she let go, he might disappear from her life too. sunghoon could feel every tremble, every shaky breath, every whine, every fractured exhale and his chest tightened so painfully. he lowered his face, pressing a kiss to her hair, then to her temple, his hand never stopping its gentle movement on her back.
“i’m sorry. i’m so- sorry, hoon.”
sunghoon pulled back just a tiny bit to look at her properly, his palm now cupping the side of her face, “what?”
“i was horrible to you. i said awful things and hurt you when you were only trying to h-help me.” she forced out through the river of tears, “i was so scared and i took it out on you.”
his heart ached, not just from hearing her say this but from how devastated she looked. he brushed damp strands of her hair back and his thumb gently wiped beneath her eyes.
“angel.” he called, “look at me.”
she didn’t, still sputtering out mumbles into his chest, shaky fingers tightening even more, “i didn’t mean it- god, i s-swear i didn’t. i’m so proud of you and how far you’ve come, i don’t know what was wrong with me-”
“baby.”
“you’re the strongest person i know and i’m so happy for all of your achievements. i-i was an idiot and i was stupid and you were still being nice- fuck- h-hoon…” her breath cracked and sunghoon pressed his palms into her cheeks, pulling her up to look at him.
“y/n.” his eyes bore into her teary ones, “my love. listen to me… i’m sorry too.”
her brows pulled together with confusion as he let out a slow breath, “i shouldn’t have walked out last night. i shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“no, don’t say that.” she immediately shook her head, “you did nothing wrong. you were worried for me out of love and i was too far gone to see it.”
something in him cracked a little at those words. he leaned forward and pressed a long, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips staying there for a moment longer than necessary. he could feel his own eyes prickling with tears but he held back, stayed strong because she needed comfort right now, because he didn’t want to distress her any further.
“you were hurting.”
“i still hurt you.”
his arms tightened around her and for a few minutes, neither of them said anything. he simply just held her with all the tightness of an embrace they hadn’t had for months. sunghoon grounded her with every gentle pass of his hand, every kiss to her hair, her eyes, her temple, her cheek. small, tender touches as if he could kiss all her pain away.
then, very lowly, she mumbled, “you didn’t come to bed last night.”
he crumbled at her sad tone, “i did. you looked deep in sleep, i didn’t want to disturb you.”
she looked up at him from his chest, “you could never disturb me.”
“i didn’t know if you wanted space or were still mad at me.”
she pouted at that, tears fluttering at her eyes yet again, “i was never mad at you in the first place.” then she tucked herself back into his chest, “no matter what happens, please always come back to me. i missed you. i don’t like sleeping without you.”
at that, he smiled faintly and kissed her hair for the nth time, “noted.”
eventually, once her tears had dried up and her heavy breaths had softened into calm ones, he carefully helped her into the passenger seat of his car, which she sank into with exhausted relief. sunghoon didn’t start the car straight away. instead, he reached over and took her hand, threading their fingers together and giving it a reassuring squeeze, all while he quietly asked, “what do you want to do next?”
she took a breath before answering, “they said i should rest for my ankle.”
his expression tightened - of course now they wanted to talk about rest.
he looked at her for a long moment, his gaze caring and endearing before telling her they were going to get it checked properly. there was no room for argument in the softness of his voice so y/n didn’t argue - she knew it was long overdue. so she squeezed his hand, let him kiss her fingers as he drove her straight to the hospital.
it was like a silent reminder that he was there.
even after the fragile paper crown shed built for herself finally crumpled in her hands, there was something almost unbearably comforting knowing that he would always be there.
•••
2 months later
healing no longer looked like collapse.
it no longer looked like shaking hands or tears mixing with the flow of the shower. it had become something less visible, something peaceful. healing, y/n learned, was rarely dramatic. it was made up of ordinary moments that didn’t seem important until she looked back and realised what they had carried her through.
her healing process included slow mornings wrapped in hoodies that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and sunghoon, curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket and her favourite tea. it was sunlight spilling across the apartment in long, golden rectangles while she sat on the rug, reading a new novel she’d come across. some days she managed it, some days the words blurred and she ended up staring at the same page for twenty minutes.
the living room had gradually filled with evidence of all the evidence.
a sketchbook lay on the coffee table, its pages filled with half-finished pencil drawings and soft sludges of colour, a small paint set sat by the window with brushes soaking in a jar because she kept forgetting to clean them properly. one of her friends had forced a book into her hands. one day, her friend had gifted her a whole basket full of yarn and a crochet kit in the hopes of helping her find a new hobby.
sunghoon noticed all of it.
he saw the way she moved at a calmer pace, the way she started opening the curtains in the mornings again, the way loud laughter echoed in the apartment. she tried to remember who she was when ballet hadn’t taken over, she tried to exist without constantly feeling like she had to earn her own worth.
her ankle healed three weeks after that day he’d taken her to the hospital. the swelling went down and the bruises gradually faded and by the end of the month, there was almost no viable sign that it had ever been as bad as it was. but sunghoon knew that some injuries didn’t live in places anyone could see - sometimes he’d find her by the kitchen counter, one hand against the edge as she moved through familiar ballet positions with quiet instinct while waiting for her coffee to brew.
just a slow rise or a careful angle of her arm, a measured extension. nothing strenuous or reckless. just her muscles moving through memory.
her body still remembered what her heart was still trying to forgive. he never interrupted.
instead, sunghoon would lean quietly against the doorway and watch with a twinkle of awe in his eyes - no worry or fear for her health. he’d stare with something soft, something bittersweet, because there was sadness, yes, but there was also peace beginning to take root.
a week after she’d been dismissed, the winter gala took place.
the whole week, sunghoon had been prepared to distract her. he half-planned dinner reservations, maybe a late night drive across the city to cheer her up, maybe a movie marathon if she wanted to stay inside. it had only been a week and he wanted to do anything to keep her from seeing the stage that should’ve been hers.
but when he carefully suggested going out, y/n only looked up from the sofa and smiled.
“i think i want to watch it.”
he stared at her, raising his brows, “you sure?”
she nodded, steady, “i’m sure.”
so they did. the tv cast soft light across the living room as the performance began, the familiar theatre appearing on the screen in polished greys, silvers and crystals. y/n sat tucked into the corner of the couch, her still-healing ankle resting comfortably across sunghoon’s lap after he’d just massaged in the cooling gel and wrapped it warmly.
he looked at her more than the tv.
she was smiling a genuine smile. there was a bit of grief in it, yes, but it no longer consumed her. when the new lead came on screen, she tilted her head slightly, observing the movement with the specificity of someone who knew every count.
“they changed that transition.” she murmured softly.
sunghoon glanced at the screen but had absolutely no clue what she was referring to. he kept raking his eyes back to her - there was no bitterness in her gaze, only quit observation and pride for the new woman presenting the lead. there was a kind of detached fondness.
when it had ended, she clapped softly, then leaned back into the cushions and exhaled, “it was beautiful.”
sunghoon pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her hand and she squeezed back gently. it hurt, he knew, he could tell by the faint tears lining her waterline, but he knew she wouldn’t let that hurt consume her.
•••
currently, y/n sat on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
the city had begun to settle into the slow part of the evening that always felt a little cinematic. sunghoon had cleared the dinner dishes away as y/n quietly curled into her favourite corner of the couch, half-watching something on her screen an half-listening to the gentle sounds of sunghoon moving around the kitchen.
she barely looked up at first when he approached, expecting him to sit beside her like he always did. but when she lifted her gaze, there was a certain look in his eyes that made her pause - soft, unreadable and boyishly secretive.
she narrowed her eyes in amused suspicion, “what?”
his lips curved, “get your coat.”
“that sounds ominous.”
“it’s a surprise.” he chuckled, “trust me.”
“the last time you said to trust you, i ended up trying tteokbokki so spicy i cried.”
sunghoon let out a breathy laugh, “you survived.”
“barely.”
“just get your coat, woman.” he rolled his eyes as he went to put his own shoes on and y/n chuckled to herself, still following after him. by the time they were in the car, she had already turned fully in her seat to face him, arms folded, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“where are we going?”
“you’ll see.”
she scoffed, “that’s not an answer.”
“it’s the only thing you’re getting.”
y/n leaned back with a quiet huff, but it didn’t last long because within seconds, she was eyeing him again, gaze flicking between his face and the road ahead.
“why are we going so late?” she tried again in hopes that her sweet, curious tone could get something out of him, “it’s like… what, almost ten?”
“mhmmm.”
“hoon.”
he hummed again, far too calm for someone basically being interrogated.
“and what’s in the bag?” she added on, subtly pointing to the backpack he’d grabbed from their bedroom and shoved in the backseat.
he shrugged, mumbling “stuff.”
“stuff?” she mimicked, “you’re so annoying.”
that earned her a quiet smile from him - one that tugged at the corner of his mouth at her stubborn attempts to get an answer. he interlocked his fingers with hers in her lap, trying to soften the teasing dismissal as he brought their hands up to his lips.
“just wait.”
“you know i hate surprises.”
“you’ll like this one.” he kissed her hand, “i hope.”
y/n sighed, dramatic but not entirely serious, sinking back into her seat. she turned to watch the city pass by instead, though every now and then her gaze flickered back to him in curiosity. the rest of the drive passed like that: with y/n asking him in different ways, him dodging just as easily until eventually she just gave up with a tiny smile and decided to play some music instead.
when the car finally slowed and turned to a stop in a familiar area, y/n straightened in her seat.
“hoon.” he parked without answering, unbuckling and reaching for the backpack in the back. she followed his actions, momentarily paused, “…why are we at the hybe building?”
“come on.”
“what-”
he was already walking to her side to open the door before she could argue any further. his hand found hers and despite the confusion, she let him lead her inside. the building was a little quieter than it usually was, the late hour leaving most of it still and dim, but they still passed the occasional staff member or trainee who offered polite nods upon seeing sunghoon.
y/n’s footsteps echoed softly down the dark carpeted hallways as he led her to the elevator, taking her three floors underground, “you’re seriously not going to tell me why we’re here?”
sunghoon still shook his head, “almost there.”
they took a turn down a corridor she barely even recognised, descending towards one of the underground practice stages reserved for performance rehearsals. the air felt different here - it was a lot cooler, quieter, the kind of space with high ceilings and sound echoing off the walls. when they stopped infront of some double doors, sunghoon finally let go of her hand just enough to push them open.
the room beyond was dim, lit by only a few low, amber stage lights that cast a warm glow across the polished floor. the space was extremely wide, empty and still - it felt a little scary if she was being honest. she stepped inside with slow, careful steps and sunghoon followed behind her as she eyed the huge stage at the front.
“wha- sunghoon, what are we doing here?”
she turned to see him holding out the backpack. the look on his face was solemn and it was honestly causing a spark of anxiety to crawl up her spine.
“i booked this room for an hour. for you.”
“why?”
he took a small breath, “i know you worked really hard for the gala. and i know… it didn’t turn out the way it should have.”
she frowned at the sincerity in his tone as he continued, “but you put everything into that performance. even if things were a little rough along the way, you still wanted this and you worked so hard for it. it’s just… i wanted at least one person to see it all. to see what you created.”
her throat tightened at that. sunghoon zipped open the bag and y/n's eyes dropped to what he pulled out: her performance outfit, the same one she chose herself with pretty crystals and sequins embedded into the fabric, the one she had hung up in her wardrobe in special wrapping to keep it clean and fresh for the big day. she raised her brows in surprise and then he pulled out her pointe shoes.
for a second, she couldn't speak.
her fingers hovered over the items and she lifted the shoes, the familiar satin ribbons brushing against her skin. it felt like something she had buried suddenly placed back into her hands, not as something painful - but as something hers again.
“sunghoon…”
he offered her a comforting, hopeful smile, “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
she shook her head quickly, emotion catching in her throat, “no! i-i want to.”
“yeah?”
she smiled, eyes twinkling beneath the faint sheen of tears, “yeah- yeah, i want to.”
sunghoon smiled too, happy, and stepped back slightly, “i’ll set up the music.”
she disappeared briefly to change, her hand trembling and her head spinning at the thoughtfulness of his gesture - it felt like being given back a piece of herself she thought she’d lost. he always knew exactly how to help her when she needed it the most.
when she returned back a few minutes later, the room felt even quieter now. sunghoon sat in the first row of chairs, right in the centre, where his view of her was perfect. the music was ready, the lights dimmed just enough to wrap the space in a tender, white glow.
when she stepped into the centre of the floor, he stilled completely. she stood there for a few moments, letting the silence settle around her, letting herself remember the months of practice rehearsals and hours of dancing she'd put into this sequence.
then the music began.
she moved slowly at first, each step deliberate and careful - as if reacquainting herself with something deeply familiar yet newly fragile. the solo part came calmly and her body immediately adjusted, her now healed ankle making everything feel much lighter and her moves feeling a lot easier. as the music carried on, her body remembered the feeling - not the pressure or the fear but the endearment in her moves.
the way her dancing spoke for her. the way her body could tell a story no one else could.
the choreography she spent months learning and perfecting unfolded piece by piece, her lines clean, her turns controlled, her balance steady despite everything. there was an elegance to it that felt untouched by the chaos of the past months - it was soft, but strong. fragile but unbroken.
to sunghoon, y/n looked unreal.
she looked like something carved out of light and shadow. she looked like a perfect angel, swiping across the dancefloor. she moved in perfect harmony with the music, each turn, each kick, each graceful twirl carried resilience and something quiet and healing. there was no desperation now, no frantic edge of wanting to be perfect. she was just dancing the same way she'd always done. she was dancing the same way she'd learnt and always been passionate about.
and it was the most beautiful he had ever seen her.
as the piece built, her movements grew more intense, more powerful, each step grounded in something deeper than technique. sunghoon couldn't rip his eyes away from her even if he tried. he was completely captivated, like if he blinked he might miss something. he already knew what the performance looked like, having watched it with her in their living room, curled up on the sofa as the stage version played out on screen.
back then, he'd found himself quietly replacing the dancer with her in his mind. he imagined y/n at the centre of it all, he imagined her surrounded her by the backup dancers and the lights and the props, shining like some sort of precious star.
but this... this was different.
there was a rawness to it now, something unfiltered that no stage production could replicate. the original had been fuller, grander with all the dancers and elaborate movement - but what she was doing here, alone, carried a weight that made his chest tighten. it was just her. no distractions, no embellishments, and that made it even more beautiful.
she was the sole focus, just like she always had been.
especially in his eyes.
when the final note faded, the room fell into silence once more.
y/ns breath came in sharp, quick breaths, a faint flush across her cheeks and her eyes bright. sunghoon instantly stood up and started clapping - loud, completely genuine, insanely proud. the sound echoed through the empty space, breaking the stillness in the best way possible. y/n let out a breathless laugh, and shook her head as she stepped back. it genuinely felt like a huge amount of tension had been lifted off her shoulders.
he didn't stop clapping until he reached the stage. he was pulling himself up onto the platform, instantly closing the distance between them in seconds. his arms wrapped around her tightly and he lifted her off the ground in the momentum of it.
“okay, okay-” y/n giggled into his shoulder, slightly out of breath as she held onto him, “you’re being dramatic, baby. let me go-”
“am not.” sunghoon mumbled into her shoulder, though his grip didn’t loosen. he set her back down but his hands lingered at her waist, like he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. his dark eyes searched her face, still a little awestruck, still carrying the disbelief of how good she was.
“you were…” he exhaled, shaking his head like words weren’t enough, “i don’t even know how to describe it. i’ve seen your dance so many times but that- that felt like something else.”
“yeah?” y/n’s sweet smile faltered just a little, but not from sadness. she looked down briefly, then back at him, her features gentler now, “i’m happy that i got to perform this and… i’m grateful i even had the opportunity to learn it in the first place.”
there was no pressure or lingering panic in her tone. just something steady, something quietly whole. sunghoon's hands cradled her cheeks in his palms, thumbs softly brushing her cheekbones as he looked at her with so much love, so much adoration.
“it always was yours.”
“mm, maybe.” she murmured, “but atleast this time… i actually got to finish it.”
“good.” he leaned in to kiss her temple, “because i wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
y/n smiled at his words before leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. it wasn't just affection, it was gratitude - for his patience, for his unwavering support, for staying even when she hadn't made it easy for him to. her hands settled against his arms, steadying herself as she kissed him a little deeper, pouring everything she couldn't quite put into words in that moment.
somehow, it didn’t feel like it was stolen from her anymore.
she had finally performed it.
for the one person she wanted there. the one person who earned the right to see it - not just the final, polished version, but everything that came and went before that too. it might not have happened the way she planned or dreamed, but it had found its way back to her.
through him. through honesty and quiet affection, and that felt more deserved than anything she’d lost.
special treatment. (TOXIC!SIMON x BALLERINA!READER)
she races home to simon to find him in one of his moods, sipping whiskey on her sofa.
he's giving her silent treatment because he can see how happy she is, and he knows that means she didn't mess up once - not even in her mind.
could he have shown up to see her perform the same routine she's been doing for an entire month? absolutely. but he didn't because he hoped it would hurt her feelings.
it didn't, though, because he has been there before, and she doesn't expect him to be there in attendance every night.
tossing her bag to the ground, letting her hair down, she's climbing onto his lap.
he's tense beneath her, staring into her soul behind the mask, wondering who she thinks she is coming on to him like this when he's put on such a display of avoidance.
her eyes are almost watery, eyebrows kitted as she tugs the mask off him entirely.
he's so stunned that he's speechless. hand tightening around the glass. lips almost parting.
she's staring into his eyes, though her gaze has a hint of fear in it. 'you put this on when you wanna be mean, but what about me, huh? when do i get to be mean?'
his shock is wearing off and blazing into amusement. he's biting back a smirk. nothing surprises this man, but it seems she found a way to.
she's putting it on, stripping off her perfectly tailored outfit. his mouth is watering at the sight of her wearing the most symbolic thing about him. he growls. wrapping his mouth around her sensitive chest. 'bloody hell.'
she moans, shudders, fingers tugging at the back of his neck. heat rising in her belly. 'si,' she croaks.
he's grabbing her ass, pushing her down harder against him. tongue running across her other nipple. she tastes so fucking delicious he can't imagine ever tasting anyone else. toxic as he is, he's never once even considered cheating. sometimes he even refuses to hold the door for women who aren't his ballerina girl.
she's grinding on him softly, making a mess of his dark jeans, clit rubbing on the underside of the head of his clothed cock. his head falling back as she moans for him in soft whimpers, sounding like she might actually cry from the pleasure.
she's wrapping her hands around his throat the same way he does to her. 'you're cruel, simon riley, but i can't imagine my life without you in it.'
⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
⤷ word count — 19k
⤷ based on this request by 🍓 anon
⤷ permanent taglist — open !
⤷ a/n — finally here it is ! i loved writing this so, so much—i hope you guys fall for it the way i did. there’s definitely a second part coming, so don’t forget to pace yourselves, loves 🤍
⤷ warnings — college au, guitarist!jay, ballerina!reader, college!jay, college!reader, college!enhypen, band!enhypen, slow burn, strangers to lovers trope, soft!jay, emotionally constipated!jay (but he’s trying), late-night cat hunt (we love doobu), subtle mutual pining, jay is in denial (maybe), reader is confused (definitely), domestic undertones, accidental vulnerability, soft tension, unspoken feelings, kpop demon hunters reference, fluff
✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as a ballet major with a bleeding heart and a cat that bites, you’ve learned to keep your world simple: dance, stretch, cry a little, repeat. you don’t do rumors, don’t do games, and you definitely don’t do campus heartthrobs with guitars and god complexes. so when a blurry photo and one harmless conversation spark a wildfire of dating rumors between you and park jongseong—guitarist, campus enigma, known for broken amps and colder stares. except, he’s nothing like they say. or, where he plays like the world’s his stage, but you're the only thing that makes him nervous.
The practice room was warm. Not hot, exactly—just the kind of warm that stuck to your skin, that lingered in your collarbones and made your bangs cling annoyingly to your forehead.
You stood in front of the mirror wall, catching your breath, fixing the satin skirt tied loosely around your waist.
Your black cropped shirt had already slid down one shoulder, exposing the strap of your leotard underneath. You didn’t bother fixing it.
Your focus was elsewhere—mostly on your discomfort, and the silent scream your thighs were making from doing that god-awful développé combo three times in a row.
“Hey,” Kazuha called softly from the side, wiping her neck with a towel as she approached you, “you okay?”
You nodded, lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Yeah. Just… not my usual skirt,” you muttered, glancing down.
Kazuha tilted her head. “I noticed. It’s shorter than usual.”
You gave a dry laugh, fingers tugging lightly at the tie. “Yeah, it’s my old one. From high school. My usual skirt’s in the laundry and I forgot to grab it this morning, so I’m surviving with this thing.”
Your reflection blinked back at you from the mirror—sweaty, flushed, still catching your breath. Your ponytail was coming loose and you were already sure your tights were rolling at the waist.
You turned slightly to the side and tugged the skirt again, voice flat. “This is what I get for being too lazy to do laundry.”
Kazuha laughed, leaning back on the barre. “It’s kinda cute, though. Retro. You look like you're in a throwback recital.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway.
Getting into Decelis University hadn’t been easy. The performing arts department—especially the dance conservatory—was known across the country for its prestige and high expectations. Hundreds auditioned every year. Not all made it past the first round.
You did.
On your first try.
Full-ride scholarship. Competitive record. Trophies and tears to back it all up.
People said you made it look easy, like you were meant to be there. But it wasn’t ease—it was effort. It was years of calluses, missed parties, bleeding toes, and sacrifice. You didn’t just want to dance. You needed to.
Kazuha tossed her towel on the bench, pulling her leg up on the barre to stretch. “You staying late again tonight?”
You nodded, eyes fixed on your reflection again. “Yeah. I have to perfect the solo for finals. My second rotation’s on Friday.”
“You know,” she grinned, “you say that like you’re not already one of the top students here.”
You shrugged. “Perfection’s the bare minimum.”
Kazuha blinked at you like you were insane, but she didn’t push it. She knew you well enough by now.
The speaker clicked as the next song loaded, soft classical strings filling the room again. You took a breath, stepped forward, and let your body move—not perfectly, not effortlessly, but honestly.
Your feet kissed the marley floor with a quiet grace, arms extending with purpose as you lost yourself to the swell of the violins.
You didn't think, didn't worry—this was the part where everything else slipped away. Just you, the music, and the ache in your chest that only dance could reach.
Just as Kazuha stepped forward to join you in the center, the door handle jiggled behind you.
You both froze mid-pose.
Then—knock knock knock.
Sharp. Persistent. Not polite.
You blinked at Kazuha, who mirrored your confusion, and as you turned toward the door, you caught a chaotic shuffle of movement behind the foggy glass panel.
“What the hell—” you muttered, already walking over as Kazuha crossed the room to pause the music.
Three heads crammed into the glass at once, pushing and jostling to get a peek inside, like some low-budget Scooby-Doo skit come to life. Behind them, more bodies shuffled around, some holding instruments.
You squinted. One had a guitar case strapped to his back. Another was holding drumsticks. Someone in the back had an amp cord looped around his neck like a scarf.
Kazuha tilted her head. “Are we being… robbed? By a band?”
You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms across your chest. “Who even lets them in here?”
The glass panel fogged slightly from the nose of someone pressing into it a little too eagerly.
You sighed, took a few steps forward, and called out—loudly enough to be heard through the semi-soundproof barrier, “Do you need something, or are you just here for a group peep show?”
That did the trick.
The door burst open like someone forgot subtlety existed. Seven guys came tumbling in, all trying to talk at once, their words tangling into a mess of “wait—no you ask—dude, she’s literally glaring—” while you stood, unamused, watching the circus unfold.
Kazuha blinked, frozen in place like her brain short-circuited at the sheer volume of testosterone in the room.
The boy with dyed blonde hair lit up like a switch. “Kazuha!”
Her head whipped around at the sound of her name, and when she caught sight of the voice—tall, bleach-haired, grinning like a kid—her face softened instantly.
“Oh, Ni-ki,” she said with a small laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s you.”
You blinked.
Wait. Ni-ki?
As in—her cousin Ni-ki?
The one who, according to Kazuha, played bass ‘like he was born doing it’ and could barely stay out of trouble for longer than a week?
The dots connected in your head like a quiet click—that was the cousin who hung out with some band. That was the chaos she warned you about when she said don’t mind the noise if you hear it down the hallway.
“Wait,” you said slowly, glancing between her and the group of rowdy boys trying to look innocent while still blocking half the studio entrance. “This is your cousin?”
“Yup,” Kazuha replied, already looking more amused than confused. “And that—” she gestured loosely toward the rest of them, “—is his band, I’m guessing.”
“You’re guessing?” you deadpanned. “They walked in here like they were about to headline Coachella.”
The boy in the front—tall, dark eyes, jet-black hair pulled back under a hoodie—finally stepped forward, less loud than the others, but still undeniably present. A black guitar case hung across his back, the strap slung casually over one shoulder like it belonged there, like he belonged here.
He wasn’t smiling.
He looked at you, at the studio, at your sweat-damp shirt and worn-out ballet shoes, and then back at you.
He raised a brow.
And then he said, “Is this the part where we pretend to be sorry for barging in?”
Your arms stayed crossed, lips twitching. “That depends. Is this the part where you explain why you’re here like this is a battle of the bands?”
Kazuha snorted. Ni-ki cackled.
The guy with another guitar case nudged the hoodie boy with his elbow. “Jay, say something normal, you’re scaring them.”
You raised an eyebrow.
The rest of the room seemed to pause, some failing to hide their grins while others tried very hard not to look like they were watching a drama unfold.
The so-called Jay hadn’t looked away from you once—dark eyes unreadable, the weight of his stare almost intrusive if it didn’t feel so curious.
You refused to break eye contact. If he was testing you, he’d have to try harder.
Kazuha stood quietly beside you, arms lightly crossed over her chest now, the tension in her jaw suggesting she was just waiting for someone to say something stupid so she could comment.
Finally, someone near the door cleared his throat—a polite, practiced sound that immediately drew your attention. The boy who stepped forward looked nothing like the storm standing across from you.
He was shorter than Jay, cleaner cut, dressed neatly in a dark crewneck and jeans. He smiled, dimples flashing as he extended a hand toward you.
“Hi,” he said with a slight bow, voice warm and measured. “I’m Yang Jungwon. Sorry to barge in all of a sudden. I know it’s unexpected, but…”
He reached into his back pocket and unfolded a neatly creased slip of paper, holding it up for you to see.
“It says here on the permit that we were assigned this studio for band practice at 7:30 PM,” he added carefully, his smile faltering just slightly. “And, uh… well…”
His voice trailed off as you took the paper from him, your eyes skimming over the familiar university header. You read the fine print, squinting at the date and time listed in the middle of the page.
Your jaw tightened.
It was 7:32 PM.
You looked up. Right on cue, another boy—tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly pretty—piped up from behind Ni-ki, his tone light and almost too casual.
“Well, it is 7:30,” he said, shrugging one shoulder, an easy grin on his face. “Technically.”
You gave him a flat look. He smiled wider, clearly not sorry.
“I’m Lee Heeseung,” he added, a little sheepishly this time, like that would soften the blow.
“Oh,” you said dryly, crossing your arms. “So your plan was to just burst in and interrupt mid-combo because you had a slip of paper and a sense of entitlement?”
Heeseung winced, looking to Ni-ki for backup, who was definitely not paying attention—too busy playing with the hem of his oversized jacket while whispering something to Kazuha.
Jay finally blinked, his voice low and slow as he spoke for the first time. “No one said it was a good plan.”
Your eyes flicked to him again, sharp. He still hadn’t moved from where he stood—hoodie half-zipped, guitar case slung over one shoulder, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked bored. Or tired. Or both.
“And you’re Jay?” you asked, tone unimpressed.
His head tilted slightly. “Unfortunately.”
You gave him a look. He held it again.
“God,” Kazuha muttered under her breath beside you, “do you two want a chair so you can keep eye-fighting in comfort?”
Jungwon, ever the peacemaker, gently stepped between you again, holding up his hands.
“Look, I think the admin office made a mistake. We’re not trying to kick you out or anything. We just… really need a place to rehearse tonight. Our usual room’s under maintenance.”
You glanced at the clock near the mirror.
Your solo practice was supposed to end at 7:30, but you usually stayed longer—everyone knew that. No one ever came after you. No one dared.
Until now.
You inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
“Fine,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “Give us five minutes to cool down and grab our stuff. You guys can have it after.”
Heeseung threw a little fist bump in the air, whispering a triumphant “yes” under his breath.
Without another word, the group finally started moving—some quieter than others—as they drifted further into the practice room. You and Kazuha stepped aside instinctively, watching as they began unloading.
The boy with the second guitar case unclipped it and set it gently on the floor. Jungwon followed him, coiling a few amp cords neatly, while someone near the door nearly dropped a whole keyboard with a loud thud.
You flinched.
Your jaw tensed. "Seriously?"
“Sorry!” the boy called out quickly, already scrambling to fix it.
Ni-ki ducked around him and pushed the door open again, holding it wide with his foot as another boy wheeled in a full drum kit like this was a full-blown arena setup and not just a shared university room.
“Careful with that, I tuned the snare this morning!” Jungwon scolded, and Ni-ki just huffed dramatically but helped anyway.
Across the room, someone handed Heeseung a mic stand like it was a sword and he was about to lead them into battle. You watched with a quiet sigh as chaos began blooming in your sacred space.
Beside you, Kazuha chuckled under her breath.
You nudged her shoulder with your bag. “Your cousin’s just as hardheaded as you, you know that?”
She laughed softly, looping her sweatshirt over her arm. “I know. I’m sorry. It runs in the family.”
You knelt down to grab your ballet flats, towel already half-hanging from your tote, when a shadow fell across your line of sight.
You looked up.
It was the same boy who had nearly dropped the keyboard earlier. He was standing in front of you now, hands clasped in front of him, an almost apologetic smile stretched wide across his face.
His hair was cropped short, brushing just above his brows. His eyes practically sparkled.
“Hi,” he said brightly, almost like he meant it. “I’m Sunoo. I—uh—just wanted to say I’m really sorry about earlier.”
You blinked. He had that kind of smile that felt like it came with its own lighting—warm, unguarded, maybe a little too charming for your own good.
You stood, slipping your shoes into your bag. “It’s not that big of a deal,” you said lightly, waving a hand as if to brush it off.
Still, he bowed slightly, earnestness in every movement. “Still. I apologize. Jay usually isn’t that…”
He hesitated, searching for a polite word.
You offered, “Intense?”
He laughed. “Yeah. That. Or dramatic. Or socially incapable, depending on the day.”
You let out a small, unwilling laugh. Damn him and his infectious energy.
Behind him, the tall boy who had helped Ni-ki drag the drum set in let out a sigh as he leaned against the mirror wall, arms crossed.
“Yeah, seriously,” he said, brushing hair away from his forehead. “We don’t usually come in here, and we didn’t mean to crash your rehearsal or anything.”
You turned to him, a little caught off guard by his voice—deep, smooth, kind of casual in a way that made you think he wasn’t used to saying sorry out loud.
“Oh—yeah, I’m Sunghoon,” he said quickly, standing up straighter. “I play bass. In the band. That’s here. Right now.”
You raised an eyebrow at his awkward phrasing. He ran a hand through his hair, chuckling under his breath.
“Sorry. That came out weird.”
Before you could respond, Ni-ki—who’d reappeared from behind the keyboard stand—elbowed Sunghoon in the ribs with a mischievous grin and said, “You mean I’m the better bass player.”
Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. He just deadpanned, “Ni-ki, shut the fuck up.”
“You say that now,” Ni-ki replied, holding up a guitar clip like it was a trophy. “But when I go solo and top the charts, don’t come crying.”
Kazuha laughed, grabbing your arm gently as she looped hers through yours. “Okay, that’s our cue. We should go before my cousin starts making powerpoints about why he deserves a bass solo.”
Ni-ki beamed. “You’d watch it, admit it.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said flatly, already tugging you toward the door.
Despite Ni-ki being the only one actually saying goodbye, a soft chorus of murmured goodnights and lazy waves followed behind you—Jungwon giving you a polite nod, Sunoo offering a sparkly smile, and Heeseung shooting a goofy two-finger salute like this was some kind of after-school special.
You glanced back once, just briefly—only to find Jay still watching you.
Still standing near the mic stand, still quiet, expression unreadable.
There was no smirk, no apology. Just stillness. Like he was memorizing something, but didn’t want to show it.
The door shut with a soft click behind you.
The hallway outside was colder—empty, quiet, the lights humming faintly above your head. Your footsteps echoed against the tiled floor, and Kazuha’s arm still looped around yours like second nature.
You sighed as you leaned into her slightly, the ache in your shoulders finally catching up to you.
“My God,” you muttered, pressing a palm to your forehead. “Your cousin’s band is weird.”
Kazuha laughed, eyes crinkling as she bumped your hip with hers. “I told you they were rowdy. You just didn’t believe me.”
“I thought you meant, like… normal band rowdy. Tattoos. Bad rehearsal schedules. Not actual sitcom-level weird.”
“Oh, that is their normal,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You let out a soft scoff, nudging her with your shoulder. “You say that like you hang out with them.”
“I don’t,” Kazuha said quickly, laughing. “Not really. I mean, I’ve never actually seen them practice or perform—Ni-ki just never shuts up about them.”
You hummed in response, the sound quiet between your steps as the two of you walked in sync down the empty corridor. Your shoes squeaked faintly against the tile, the overhead lights casting soft shadows on the tiled floor.
Now that the noise and tension of the room had faded behind you, your body started to relax, step by step.
Kazuha glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “But like… I have heard they’re popular or something?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Popular how?”
“Like… actually good,” she said, lifting her hands a little as if that explained everything.
“Ni-ki said they’ve won the university’s Battle of the Bands for the last few years. Every time. So now they automatically get a slot in all the school events—like festivals, College Week, charity nights…”
You slowed your steps, head tilting slightly. “Wait,” you said, frowning. “You mean… those guys are the ones that perform after us during College Week?”
She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”
You furrowed your brows, trying to remember. You knew College Week. Your dance troupe always had one of the final performances. But you never stayed long enough to watch what came after.
By then, you were usually backstage, catching your breath, fixing your makeup, or already halfway home with sore feet and sore everything else.
“Huh,” you muttered. “Weird. I’ve never actually heard them before. Like—properly.”
Kazuha hummed in agreement beside you as the two of you turned left at the corner, heading toward the student entrance.
“They’re good,” she said casually. “From what I’ve heard. Ni-ki plays me demos sometimes when I sleep over and pretend to be asleep.”
You looked at her. “That’s creepy.”
She snorted. “He puts his phone under my pillow. He calls it subliminal promotion.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing lightly down the hall.
The two of you finally spotted the main exit doors at the far end of the building, glowing under the fluorescent lights like a way out of chaos.
Kazuha reached forward to push one open, and the second the glass door swung wide, a rush of cold night air swept in—sharp and biting, cutting through the warmth clinging to your skin from practice.
You shivered, instinctively hugging your arms over your chest. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stepping outside. “I forgot to bring my leg warmers again.”
The sky had already deepened into a soft navy, stars just barely peeking out beyond the clouds. The faint buzz of field lights nearby hummed in the distance, illuminating the quiet path that cut across campus toward the dormitories.
Kazuha slipped her arm back through yours. “You’re always forgetting those.”
“I was in a rush!” you said defensively. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on staying that long. Or dealing with an entire band.”
“I’d say that’s your own fault for being talented and dedicated,” she teased, bumping your hip lightly.
You groaned, breath fogging in the air. “Wanna crash at my dorm tonight?”
Kazuha perked up immediately, turning to you with eyes bright. “Wait—are you gonna cook curry?”
You narrowed your eyes at her, lips twitching. “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope,” she grinned, not even a second of hesitation.
She tightened her hold on your arm and tugged you faster down the pavement.
“Come on, let’s stop by the convenience store near the dorms first! You need something warm. Let’s get you that fancy black tea you like—what’s it called again? The one that smells like actual flowers and money?”
You rolled your eyes, but let her pull you anyway, the weight of her excitement warming you more than your sweatshirt did.
“It’s not that fancy,” you mumbled. “It just doesn’t taste like cardboard.”
Kazuha snorted. “Mm, cardboard tea. A classic.”
Your steps fell in sync again, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes as the golden glow of the dorms and the soft neon flicker of the convenience store came into view.
“Do we need anything else?” you asked absentmindedly, your voice quiet against the wind.
“Just curry cubes,” she said, already scanning the store shelves from outside. “And maybe a pack of Pocky if you’re feeling soft.”
You huffed a laugh. “I’m not feeling soft.”
“You will be,” she grinned, tugging open the door. The bell jingled.
The lock clicked softly as you turned the key, Kazuha hovering patiently behind you with her arms full of grocery bags and her cheeks pink from the walk.
You pushed the door open with your shoulder, and the familiar scent of soft linen, citrus cleaner, and a little bit of cat greeted you instantly.
The moment the door cracked open—a little white blur padded across the wooden floor, tail high and curling like a question mark.
You lit up. “Hi, Doobu! Mommy’s home,” you cooed, immediately crouching down to scoop her up.
She let out a pleased trill, practically melting into your arms like she’d been waiting all day for this moment. Her fur was as soft as ever—warm and fluffy and slightly dramatic as she pressed her face to your chin and gave a little snuffly sigh.
“God, clingy,” you mumbled affectionately, rubbing your cheek against hers as her tail flicked lazily behind her.
Kazuha stepped in behind you, carefully closing the door with her foot as she dropped the plastic bags down on the small table beside the TV.
“For a school dorm, you’re living kinda luxurious,” she muttered, glancing around.
She wasn’t wrong.
Your dorm was unusually spacious—one of the perks of applying early and having ‘scholarship kid who needs personal space for daily injury recovery’ written in your file.
There was a small kitchenette in the corner, a two-seater couch against the wall, fairy lights strung up along your bookshelf, and a thick pink carpet you refused to get rid of even though Doobu had shed all over it.
Speaking of—
Doobu sniffed at your shirt suspiciously.
“Yeah, I know,” you said, following her nose with a fond eye roll. “I had to deal with weird boys today.”
Doobu gave a grumpy-sounding purr, like she understood exactly what that meant.
Kazuha came to your side, reaching out to scratch behind Doobu’s ears. “I don’t know what you feed her, seriously,” she said with a shake of her head. “She’s so chonky.”
You laughed. “Cat food, duh.”
Doobu meowed again like she agreed, batting her paw gently at your necklace before giving a little yawn and curling closer into your arms. Her soft belly pressed against your forearm like a warm pillow.
Kazuha leaned her head on your shoulder. “Okay, I vote we wash our faces, put on something fluffy, and start on curry.”
You tilted your head. “You mean I start on curry.”
She gave you an angelic look. “Well, someone’s gotta entertain the cat.”
You both giggled, shoulders bumping gently, the warmth of home already settling around you like a blanket.
Not long after, you’d changed into your fluffiest oversized tee and tied your hair into a messy bun, steam from the rice cooker wafting through your dorm.
Kazuha sat cross-legged at the small dining nook peeling open packets of curry mix like she’d done it a hundred times.
Doobu, in the meantime, had circled your feet three times before flopping dramatically onto her back like she owned the floor.
Fifteen minutes and one mini kitchen disaster later, you were perched on your bed with a steaming bowl of curry and rice, your legs stretched out under a throw blanket.
Kazuha sat beside you, her own bowl balanced on her lap, a green clay facemask smeared evenly across her cheeks—yours was a little more chaotic, mostly because she insisted on artistic freedom when applying it on you.
The TV played softly in the background, some K-drama with way too many dramatic hallway scenes and brooding men in trench coats. You weren’t even fully following the plot anymore, just laughing when Kazuha made commentary.
“Oh my God,” she said, mouth full of rice, “he’s literally been staring at her for five minutes. Say something, you dramatic coat rack.”
You snorted. “He’s trying to speak with his eyes, Zuha. Let him suffer in silence.”
“Okay Shakespeare, relax.”
You giggled again, leaning back on your hands as you spooned more curry into your mouth, warmth blooming in your stomach.
Doobu had settled into her cat bed just under your bunk, tail flicking occasionally as she napped peacefully, her belly rising and falling in the soft golden glow of your fairy lights.
Just as you reached for your water, your phone buzzed loudly on your bedside table.
Both of you froze at the sound cutting through the moment, your ringtone echoing awkwardly in the room like it didn’t belong.
Kazuha paused the drama with her chopsticks still in hand. “Who is it?”
You glanced at the screen, brow lifting. “Unknown number.”
She hummed. “Might be important.”
You sighed, putting your bowl on the side table and swiping to answer as you leaned back against your headboard. “Hello?”
“Hey, um—sorry—hi! Is this Jeong (Y/N)?” the voice asked, polite and just slightly breathless. “This is Jungwon. From earlier.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“…How’d you get my number?”
There was a pause on the line, followed by the distinct sound of Ni-ki laughing in the background.
“Oh—I, uh—sorry! I came from Student Affairs with Ni-ki and Jay just now,” Jungwon explained quickly, clearly flustered. “Ni-ki was trying to reach Kazuha but apparently—uh…”
“She blocked him,” you finished flatly, glancing at Kazuha.
She didn’t even flinch. “Deserved. He replaced my healing playlist with Mongolian throat singing.”
You blinked. “…That’s so specific.”
She shrugged. “It was an experience.”
Back on the phone, Jungwon stammered, “Y-Yeah, well, I’m only calling because, uh—not me, technically—Jay gave me his phone to call you.”
You blinked again, this time slower.
Your fingers tensed a little around the device. “Jay?”
“Mhm,” Jungwon said sheepishly. “I mean—it’s his phone number, not mine. But, like, he told me to—um—just give him the phone. Give—give me a sec—”
You heard more shuffling, the soft thud of something being handed over, and then a low, familiar voice spoke next.
“Hey.”
You sat up straighter without meaning to.
Jay’s voice was smooth. A little quiet. Just like earlier. But something about hearing it now—soft and direct, in your private space—made your stomach flutter once.
“This is kind of last-minute,” he continued, “but our practice room’s under construction. There’s water damage and they’re doing renovations.”
You blinked. “Okay…”
He sounded mildly annoyed now, like it physically pained him to say the next part.
“It’ll be down for at least two weeks,” he muttered. “And apparently we need to share your room. The studio, I mean. Starting tomorrow.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed.
You blinked at the wall.
“…You’re calling to tell me that we’re gonna be stuck together for two weeks?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jay said, voice dry.
“Wow. You sound thrilled.”
“I’m always thrilled,” he deadpanned.
You pulled the phone away from your ear slightly and looked at Kazuha.
She was already wide-eyed. “What? What’d he say?”
You pressed the phone back. “Why do you guys even need to use the studio again?”
There was a pause. A beat.
Then Jay said, quieter this time, “Because we have a performance soon. A big one. We need the space.”
You exhaled through your nose, head tilting back against the wooden headboard, your eyes focused on the ceiling as a long silence stretched between you. The line didn’t hang up. He didn’t say more.
Neither did you.
There was a pause. Then—
“Seven onwards,” Jay replied, tone steady.
You closed your eyes for a beat, pressing your lips together. That meant long nights. Tired legs. Sharing mirrors. Sharing space.
“Okay,” you murmured. “Got it.”
Another pause. Faint static hummed between your ears. And then—
“…Thanks.”
The line went dead before you could say anything else.
You lowered your phone slowly, setting it on the nightstand beside your lamp, and let out a low cough—half irritation, half disbelief—as you mumbled under your breath:
“Rude.”
Kazuha was still staring at you, her bowl long forgotten, chopsticks perched against the rim like they’d been abandoned mid-bite.
“Well?” she prompted, peeling the now-dry mask from her cheek. “What did they want?”
You leaned back against the headboard again, letting your legs stretch out in front of you as Doobu gave a tiny sneeze from her bed below.
“They need the studio,” you muttered.
Kazuha blinked. “Again?”
“For two more weeks.” You rubbed your temple. “Apparently their practice room’s under construction or whatever. Water damage.”
She blinked again, expression unreadable. Then she shrugged. “Well… that’s not that bad.”
You whipped your head toward her. “You weren’t the one being stared down by Hoodie McBrooding in the middle of rehearsal.”
She snorted. “I was there. He wasn’t that scary.”
“He looked at me like I insulted his guitar.”
“Maybe you did.”
You threw a pillow at her, making her laugh as she ducked and caught it mid-air.
“I’m just saying,” she said with a grin, fluffing the pillow behind her, “if they’re really sharing the space, this might actually be kind of fun.”
“Fun is not the word I’d use,” you muttered, eyeing your phone like it might ring again.
Kazuha leaned back beside you, slipping her feet under your blanket. “Mm. I give it three days before someone flirts with you.”
You blinked. “Why would you say that?”
She grinned. “Because I know men. And I know your face.”
You groaned, pulling your blanket up over your head. Doobu meowed from below, clearly siding with Kazuha.
It was six in the morning when you blinked awake to the weight of soft fur pressed against your arm.
The bed wasn’t empty—Doobu was curled into a fluffy comma by your side, tail twitching as if to say how dare you even think about moving right now.
You reached over to gently run your hand down her back, your fingers brushing the warmth of her little body as she gave a contented little sigh in her sleep.
Your phone buzzed.
You squinted against the sudden brightness as you grabbed it, groaning as your dry eyes adjusted. The first thing on your screen was a message from Kazuha.
zuha [6:00 A.M.]: left at 5am to get ready, good luck waking up loser 💗
You scoffed under your breath, thumbs already typing a grumpy reply before tossing the phone aside. Still, you sighed and sat up, letting your legs dangle off the side of the bed.
You stretched slowly, your spine cracking, and rubbed the sleep from your eyes as Doobu rolled onto her back like a little queen.
“Be good today,” you murmured as you leaned down and gave her a kiss on the head. She purred, obviously pleased.
You padded into the bathroom, letting the warm spray of the shower melt away the heaviness from your limbs. Afterward, you tied your hair up, added a little makeup—just some blush and gloss and eyeliner to hide how tired you felt.
You pulled on a soft white ruffled blouse, tucked it into a pair of pale jeans, and layered a white jacket over it. Warm enough to fight the cold, but still light enough to move in.
You looked at yourself in the mirror and smiled faintly.
You kissed Doobu goodbye at the door, her round eyes blinking sleepily up at you from her cat bed.
“Don’t start a coup while I’m gone.”
She meowed like she made no promises.
The walk to campus was quiet.
The sky was still tinted pale gray, the kind that hinted at the rising sun behind soft clouds. Your boots clicked softly on the pavement as the cold air kissed your cheeks, your breath visible in soft puffs.
You moved slowly, soaking it in. The silence. The morning stillness. The kind of peace that only existed before the world woke up.
Until footsteps joined yours.
At first, you thought it was coincidence. But they fell in sync with yours too easily, too closely. Your shoulder barely brushed against fabric—black fabric.
You turned slightly, just enough to see the hem of a long, inky button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a silver watch glinting at the wrist. Black jeans. Clean loafers. And a guitar case slung casually over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Jay.
You raised a brow. “…Stalking me already?”
He didn’t look at you, but you saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I live across the quad. You just happen to be slow.”
You blinked. “Not slow. Calm. It’s called appreciating the morning.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s cold. That’s all I’m appreciating.”
You gave him a look, then returned your gaze to the path ahead. “Nice fit, though.”
That made him pause for half a second. Then he glanced down at his shirt like he forgot he was even wearing it. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
You caught a glimpse of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the calm in his eyes, the way his hair was still slightly tousled from the wind.
Admittedly, the man had taste.
“Didn’t think black-on-black was a thing before sunrise,” you said dryly.
Jay glanced sideways. “You’re wearing white like you’re in a coffee commercial.”
You choked. “Excuse me?”
“All white, floating around in a dreamscape,” he deadpanned, eyes still forward. “All you need is a cup and a wind machine.”
You couldn’t help it—you let out a laugh, the sound cracking through the crisp air.
Jay didn’t say anything, but you saw the faintest quirk at the edge of his lips again. Like he was trying really hard not to smile.
“…You’re weird,” you mumbled, glancing at him again.
“Takes one to know one,” he replied.
You scoffed, raising a brow in mock offense as your eyes flicked toward him.
“Wow,” you muttered, hands deep in your jacket pockets. “Coming for my entire personality before sunrise. That’s bold.”
Jay only shrugged, unbothered, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smirk. “You started it.”
The two of you fell into silence again—not the uncomfortable kind, but the type that sat easily between two people who didn’t know each other well enough to fill it, and maybe didn’t mind that.
Your eyes trailed over the field as you passed it, where a few student athletes were already stretching, setting up cones and goalposts. You watched as one of them kicked a ball lazily toward the net.
“You play bass like Ni-ki and Sunghoon?” you asked suddenly, keeping your gaze forward.
Jay shook his head once. “No. Electric guitar.”
You nodded, quietly filing it away in the drawer of things you weren’t sure why you wanted to remember.
He didn’t offer more, but you didn’t really mind. You were content with the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the wind playing with the strands of your hair that had come loose. The cold nipped at your cheeks, leaving them pink, but you liked the sting—it kept you awake.
A soft rustle came from your side, and you noticed Jay glancing at you again.
He wasn’t subtle about it. Not really.
He looked at your hair where it swayed against your shoulder, at the faint shimmer of your highlighter catching the morning light, at the soft pink ribbon that dangled from your tote bag—a leftover from the ballet shoes you had shoved inside before leaving.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look away either. Not until you caught him.
You turned slightly, brows raised, your mouth tugging upward at one side. “Staring’s kind of rude, you know.”
Jay blinked, deadpan. “You have glitter on your cheek.”
You blinked back, lifting your hand to swipe at your face. “Do I?”
He watched you try, then sighed and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of tissues. Wordlessly, he offered you one.
You took it with a quiet thanks, dabbing carefully.
“Better?” you asked.
Jay looked at you, slower this time. “Yeah.”
Another moment passed before you tilted your head toward him. “So what’s the big performance all about?”
He looked back at you, one brow lifting slightly. “Don’t we have College Week?”
You blinked. Froze. Then groaned like something hit you physically.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “I totally forgot about that.”
Jay actually laughed—soft, deep, amused under his breath. “You perform every year, don’t you?”
“I mean, yeah, but I don’t remember until like, the week before,” you grumbled. “Last year I sprained my toe trying to cram the choreography into three days.”
Jay’s eyes widened. “That’s possible?”
“Apparently,” you said, exasperated. “My teacher still makes fun of me for it.”
A beat passed.
“…You’re kind of dramatic,” Jay said.
“You’re one to talk. You wear black button-ups at dawn.”
Jay gave you a look, but you caught the way the corners of his lips pulled upward.
The gates to the building appeared ahead of you, golden light just beginning to slip past the horizon behind it. You exhaled, watching your breath cloud in the air.
Jay suddenly spoke, quieter this time. “You looked like you liked the morning.”
You turned to him, a little startled by the softness in his tone.
“I do,” you replied, voice matching his. “It’s quiet.”
He nodded. “You look like you belong in it.”
That made you pause.
You didn’t have time to respond—Jay pulled the heavy glass door open for you and gestured subtly for you to go ahead. His face was unreadable, that same practiced neutral he always wore, but the soft pink dusting the tips of his ears gave him away.
“Thanks,” you murmured, stepping inside.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied simply, the door shutting softly behind the two of you as the cold gave way to polished floors and tall ceilings.
You both fell into step again, your footsteps echoing slightly as you walked side by side down the long hallway of Decelis’ east wing. The building was quiet this early in the morning—some classrooms still locked, lights flickering to life one by one, janitors mopping in the distance.
Jay glanced over at you. “What’s your first class?”
You blinked, glancing down at your schedule in your head. “Oh. Arts. I think we’re covering expressionist pieces this week.”
He hummed, nodding. “Makes sense. You… kind of give that vibe.”
You squinted at him. “What vibe?”
He looked straight ahead. “You know. All poetic and floaty and stuff.”
You snorted. “Wow. So insightful.”
Jay smirked, just barely. “I try.”
“And you?”
“Business math,” he replied, as if the weight of the world rested on those two cursed words.
You groaned instantly. “Ugh. Math.”
Jay turned to you, brow lifting. “You don’t like it?”
“Hate it,” you declared with no hesitation. “With a burning passion. I think numbers were invented just to make me cry.”
That made him laugh under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”
“You look emo right now. Don’t talk to me about dramatic.”
You saw the corners of his lips twitch again, his eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
And then—just like that—you came to a stop.
You glanced at the plaque beside the door:
ROOM 1B-04
ART HISTORY – PROF. CHOI
“Well,” you said, adjusting your tote bag higher on your shoulder. “This is me.”
Jay looked up at the sign and nodded once. “Art history. Got it.”
You looked up at him, lips quirking into a soft smile. “Try not to die in math.”
“No promises,” he said with a small shrug.
You hesitated just a second longer. “Bye, Jay.”
He gave you a small wave—fingers lifted, the gesture almost lazy, but his eyes lingered for a beat too long. “Later.”
The door clicked shut behind you as you entered, and Jay stood there for a second, just looking at the nameplate again.
Then—without a word—he turned and walked all the way back down the same hallway the two of you had just come from. He passed the entryway, the glass doors you came in from, then turned toward the elevators at the far side of the west wing.
When he stepped inside, he hit the button for the third floor.
Business math wasn’t even remotely on the way.
And yet he walked you the whole time anyway.
Now, alone in the elevator, Jay leaned back against the cool wall, head tilting up as he let out a long breath.
‘It was just a nice gesture’, he told himself.
Nothing big. Nothing deep. Just something to make up for being—well. Kind of an asshole last night.
He shook his head once, jaw tightening at the thought. He’d been tired, irritated, and none of that was an excuse—but still. You didn’t deserve that.
You didn’t even react the way most people did. No sarcasm, no petty comeback, no wide-eyed awe or annoying flirtation. You just went silent at him. Met him exactly where he was.
Yeah. Had to make up for it. That’s all.
The elevator chimed softly.
The third floor was just starting to wake up—some lights flickering on, the coffee machine across the hall hissing in the break room, students murmuring half-asleep greetings as they passed. Jay walked down the long corridor, muscle memory carrying him as he reached the classroom near the end of the hallway.
He pushed the door open with one hand.
“Yo,” came Jake’s voice from across the room, already lounging with a pen in his mouth. “You’re a few minutes late.”
Jay didn’t even glance at the clock. “Yeah. I was busy.”
Jake raised a brow, his smirk a little too knowing. “With what?”
Jay walked past him, slinging his guitar case off his shoulder and leaning it carefully against the chair next to his. “Just busy,” he said simply, voice flat as he pulled his seat out.
Jay didn’t respond, only exhaled through his nose, resting his arms on the desk.
Jake didn’t press any further.
It was only after the classroom started to fill in around them—students trickling in one by one, the professor still nowhere in sight—that Jay reached into the pocket of his pants.
He pulled out his phone, screen lighting up with a soft glow.
He opened his contacts and stopped at the one number Jungwon had dialed last night to call you.
Just a random string of digits. No name. No photo.
He hesitated, then tapped edit.
Then paused. His eyes flicked to your tote bag again in his mind, to the soft pink ribbon hanging out like a little flag.
He typed in your name slowly, deliberately—
(Y/N) 🎀
Jay stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the corner of his mouth to lift—barely there, just the ghost of a smile.
Then he hit save.
And tucked the phone away like it meant nothing.
Even though, deep down, he knew it already meant a little too much.
It was just past one in the afternoon, and you were quite literally seconds away from collapsing into your desk.
The sun filtered lazily through the windows of the arts building, golden and too tempting, especially when paired with the drone of your professor’s voice at the front of the room.
“…and if we consider the range of motion relative to the joint axis, then the flexibility of the hamstring significantly affects the body’s—”
You drowned her out halfway through.
Kinesiology. Again.
God, how many times do we have to talk about hamstrings?
Your cheek rested on your fist, elbow propped on your desk, lips pursed in a subtle pout as your professor continued with the enthusiasm of someone who had never seen the sun in her life.
“Now, these handouts,” she said, finally changing the slide on the screen behind her. “Please read them thoroughly—we’ll be applying this next week during assessments. Pass them around.”
You barely resisted the urge to groan. The stack of papers was passed to the row in front of you, then to you. You took one, handed it back without a glance, and immediately began packing up the moment the bell rang.
Your bag hit your shoulder with a soft thump, the only thing more desperate than your escape being the dramatic sigh you let out as you pushed through the doors and stepped into the hallway.
The cafeteria was already buzzing when you got there. Somehow still not flooded—yet. You weaved between groups of students chatting loudly, trays clinking, the smell of coffee and fried chicken lingering in the air.
You spotted a seat by one of the tall windows—sunlight spilling across the table like it was calling your name.
You made a beeline for it and dropped into the chair with a soft huff, letting your shoulders relax for the first time all day.
Pulling out your laptop and your phone, you set them both down and opened your notifications—only to be met with a string of messages from your group chat with your friends.
zuha [1:14 P.M.]: guys i can’t make it to lunch TT i have to finish two portfolios before 3
chaewon [1:14 P.M.]: same! i’ve got a crit w/ my prof in 20 minutes
yunjin [1:14 P.M.]: i’m dying in editing class bye
manchae [1:15 P.M.]: pls save me
kkura [1:15 P.M.]: sorry baby i’ll treat you to strawberry milk later
You sighed, thumbs tapping out a quick reply.
you [1:15 P.M.]: okay study well :( don’t forget to eat!!
You turned off your phone, placing it face-down on the table, and opened your laptop with a soft click. A sea of reports blinked back at you—deadlines lining the corners of your screen like silent threats.
You pulled one up, adjusted your seating, and leaned in to start typing, the warmth of the sun kissing your cheek as your fingers danced across the keyboard.
The ambient chatter faded into soft background noise—until a shadow crossed over your screen.
You paused, blinking, then glanced down—familiar shoes coming into view. Black loafers. Paired with dark jeans cuffed slightly at the ankle. And then—
“Is this seat taken?” a familiar voice asked, low and smooth.
You tilted your head up, eyes meeting a very Jay-like expression: blank, almost bored, but eyes just a bit too focused on you to match the rest of his face.
He wasn’t carrying his guitar today. Just a laptop tucked under his arm and his phone in hand. Minimal, neat. The sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt were still rolled up to his elbows.
Jay nodded once and sat down across from you, sliding into the chair with quiet ease. He placed his laptop on the table, phone on top of it. His eyes flicked over to your trayless setup.
“You’re not with Kazuha?” he asked, voice lower than it needed to be—like the question was just for you.
You sighed, slumping slightly in your chair. “Nope. All my friends bailed on me for deadlines.”
Jay’s head tilted slightly to the side. “But you’re here. In the cafeteria. And…” he glanced at your table, “you’re not eating anything.”
You let out a short laugh, soft and almost embarrassed. “I’ll eat in a few. I was gonna finish something first.”
Jay said nothing for a second. Then stood up, brushing invisible lint off his shirt. “What do you want?”
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
He looked down at you, dark eyes steady. “To eat. You said you’re not eating yet. So what do you want?”
“I—Jay, you don’t have to—” You frowned a little, sitting up straighter.
Jay clicked his tongue lightly, cutting you off. “Come on. What do you want?” His voice was gentle, but it left no room for arguing.
And god—he was tall. Standing there with the sun lighting up the ends of his hair, shirt slightly wrinkled from his classes, his height felt… kind of overwhelming. You sighed, giving in.
“Fine,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your lashes. “Anything. I’m not picky.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
You pursed your lips, thinking. “…Banana milk. And maybe tonkatsu with curry if they still have some.”
He nodded. “Any allergies?”
You shook your head. “None.”
Jay gave the smallest smile—so quick you almost missed it—and turned around to head toward the food stalls.
You watched him go, unable to stop your gaze from lingering on the clean lines of his back, the careful way he walked, the way he held his phone in one hand and checked something on it like he was making sure he got your order right.
The heat was crawling up your cheeks before you even realized it, blooming just under your skin and warming your ears.
You looked away, exhaling through your nose as you tapped your keyboard blindly, pretending to be busy—even though your fingers weren’t even on the right keys anymore.
But, your eyes found him again.
Jay stood by the food stall, head tilted slightly down as he tapped on his phone with one hand, the other holding the receipt.
He said something to the lady behind the counter—voice too soft for you to hear from this distance—and you saw her nod and begin plating the orders.
Your gaze wandered—he stood so casually, weight resting on one leg, hair slightly mussed from the wind earlier. There was a quiet patience to him, one that surprised you more than it should have.
You sighed softly, more to yourself than anything, muttering under your breath as you leaned forward, “I could’ve bought my own food…”
Still, you didn’t move. Just watched. And when he finally turned and walked back toward you—two trays balanced carefully in his hands—your heart had the audacity to skip.
He placed them down with quiet precision, yours sliding just in front of you as the scent of warm curry hit your nose.
You blinked. “Thanks.”
Jay gave the tiniest smile, barely there. “No problem.” And he sat back down like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You glanced at the tray. Banana milk, tonkatsu, steaming white rice with curry just the way you liked it. You didn’t even remember saying half the details.
He pushed a set of utensils toward you without a word, and you blinked again, heart fluttering at the small gesture.
“Thanks… again,” you murmured, accepting them as you pushed your electronics aside.
Jay did the same, nudging his laptop farther away as he grabbed his chopsticks and cracked them apart with a soft snap.
There was a moment of comfortable silence. Just the two of you and the hum of the cafeteria around you.
You fiddled with your banana milk straw for a second before asking, “Where’s your band? Thought they’d be glued to you.”
Jay took a sip of his miso soup, looking unbothered.
“They’re all busy. Practice. Class. Jungwon’s chasing down a professor. Ni-ki’s retaking a test he didn’t study for. Heeseung’s probably asleep somewhere.”
You laughed. “Sunoo?”
“Also probably asleep.”
You shook your head, smiling. “I didn’t know you did lunch like this.”
Jay didn’t look up as he stirred his curry around gently with his spoon. “I don’t,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Oh.”
That one word fell from your lips heavier than intended—softer, a little too laced with disappointment. Your smile faltered just a bit, a quiet frown forming before you could stop it.
But then Jay set his spoon down, the quiet clink of metal against tray pulling your eyes back to his. “But,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet yours, “I love curry.”
You blinked again, confused, but then—
“And you,” he continued, voice calm but not cold, “need to eat.”
Your breath caught, just for a second.
Jay was staring at you—not in a way that felt overbearing or cocky, but in a way that looked like he was trying to read you.
Not just the expression on your face, but the space behind your eyes, like there were answers only you could give. His gaze was steady, thoughtful, just the faintest softness lingering in the corners.
You stared back, lips parting slightly. You weren’t used to this side of him—not the aloof reputation, not the guitar-slinging campus enigma that everyone whispered about. No, this was something else entirely.
You smiled, quiet and warm. “Thank you, Jay. Really.”
His lips twitched into a small smile as he nodded once. “No problem.”
He went back to his food like it was no big deal, but your heart felt anything but calm.
You tried to do the same, digging into your curry with a distracted hum, before glancing back at him. “So… how much do I owe you—?”
“No,” he said instantly, cutting you off.
You blinked. “What?”
“No,” he repeated, tone firm but not unkind.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “But I want to—”
Jay gave you a look—before he reached across the table, plucked your unopened banana milk off your tray like it was his, and silently started unwrapping the straw.
You stared as he poked the straw through the foil with surgical precision, then slid the drink back in front of you without a word.
“…Still,” you mumbled, fingers wrapping around the bottle.
Jay met your eyes. “And I said no. You’re not paying me for any of the meals you’ll be eating when you’re with me.”
That made you pause.
Your hand froze mid-air. Your brain might’ve, too.
“…When I’m with you?” you repeated, voice a little more breathless than you meant it to be.
Jay’s lips curled into the tiniest smirk. It wasn’t smug—it was playful. Mischievous. The kind of smirk someone wears when they know exactly what they’re doing to you.
“Depends,” he said, eyes flicking from your drink to your face. “Are you planning to eat lunch alone again tomorrow?”
You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to say yes, maybe to say something clever—but all that came out was a short laugh and a shake of your head.
“I guess that depends,” you echoed back, your grin growing.
He raised a brow, a subtle challenge.
“On whether you’re showing up with curry again,” you teased, sipping your banana milk.
Jay chuckled under his breath, low and smooth. “Then I guess I’ve got my answer.”
You tried to focus on eating after that, really—you tried—but something about the warmth on your cheeks and the smug little tilt of his mouth had you poking at your rice with more enthusiasm than coordination.
Still, you managed a few bites, asking him casual things between sips of banana milk.
“So… when did you start playing guitar?”
“Middle school,” he replied, chewing thoughtfully. “My dad had one lying around. Got curious.”
“Is it hard?” you asked, chin resting lightly on your palm.
He raised a brow. “Compared to what?”
“Ballet.”
He scoffed a quiet laugh, like it was the most ridiculous comparison he’d heard all day. “Hard to say. You make ballet look easy.”
You blinked, heart hiccuping a little. “…You’ve seen me dance?”
“Once,” he said with a little shrug, lifting his tray. “Before I scared the shit out of you in your studio.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Right.”
Jay smirked faintly, standing. “Mhmm.”
Before you could pick up your own tray, he was already reaching for it—wordless, fluid, like it was second nature. You moved to stop him.
“Jay—”
“Nope.” He cut you off smoothly, stacking both trays before walking off without looking back.
You sighed, lips twitching upward as you shook your head.
When he returned, he checked the sleek black watch on his wrist, lips tugging down a little. “Come on. We both have one more class this afternoon.”
You blinked, glancing at your laptop. “Already?”
Jay nodded, and just as you started packing up your things, he reached out a hand toward you. You looked at it, confused.
“…What?”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned over, hand brushing against your side as he effortlessly plucked your bag from the seat beside you.
You blinked. “Hey—”
“I’ve got it,” he said, tucking his own laptop under one arm and slinging your bag over the other.
You reached out again to take it back, but he shot you a look—stern, brow raised like a tired parent dealing with a particularly stubborn child.
You huffed. “You’re annoying.”
He chuckled. “You’re welcome.”
Grumbling under your breath, you fell into step beside him as he pushed open the cafeteria doors for you. “So… where’s your next class?”
You sighed dramatically. “Second floor. Art theory.”
Jay nodded. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”
You side-eyed him. “Why are you suddenly so nice to me?”
He smirked, not bothering to look at you. “Maybe I just like carrying your stuff.”
You rolled your eyes, walking a little faster to hide the way your smile grew too wide.
The studio lights cast long shadows over the polished floor, the mirrored walls reflecting every movement with brutal honesty.
You and Kazuha were the only ones left—again. Yunjin had dropped by earlier, but a project pulled her away, leaving you and Kazuha stuck in the studio running Swan Lake for the nth time that week.
You landed on your toes with a little huff, arms curved above your head as you wobbled slightly. “I didn’t even wanna be the White Swan, like come on, give me a break.”
Kazuha looked up from her own stretch, raising an unimpressed brow. “Stop acting like you didn’t fight blood and bone to audition.”
You groaned, flopping back down onto the floor and stretching your legs out in front of you. “Okay, fine. I do want it. But the work is slowly killing me.”
She laughed as she sat beside you, pulling her foot up into a butterfly stretch. “That part’s valid.”
You sighed, leaned back on your hands, and casually added, “Oh, by the way, Jay treated me to lunch earlier.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Kazuha stopped mid-stretch, twisting to look at you so fast you thought she might’ve pulled something. “What?”
You blinked at her, deadpan. “What?”
“What?” she repeated, louder, eyes wide. “Park Jongseong, rock band Jay, treated you to lunch?”
You shrugged, rolling your neck as you moved into another stretch.
“Yeah. We bumped into each other this morning. He walked me to class, then sat with me during lunch ‘cause you all were busy.”
Kazuha stared at you like you’d just said you got proposed to. “Girl—what the fuck? You let that man walk you to class and feed you?”
You rolled your eyes and stood up, brushing your hands over your thighs to shake off the lingering ache.
The hem of your skirt settled lightly against your legs as you turned toward her with a half-annoyed, half-exasperated look. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” she said, stepping forward dramatically, finger pointed, “is that Jay doesn’t just do that. He barely talks to people unless it’s his band. Even Ni-ki was surprised he agreed to this whole studio arrangement.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “I mean… he’s not that bad, Zuha. He just did it ‘cause he was eating alone, too.”
Kazuha looked at you flatly. “Yeah. And I’m Korean.”
You squinted. “But you aren’t.”
“Exactly,” she huffed, walking back to the speaker as she tapped the screen and said, “Shut up and get into position.”
You stifled a laugh, fixing the ribbon on your skirt and stepping slowly toward the center of the room. The soft opening chords of Swan Lake echoed through the studio, and almost instinctively, your entire body shifted.
Your breathing slowed, arms lifting in delicate arcs as your chin tilted slightly upward.
Light from the windows caught the sheen of sweat on your collarbones, the glow on your cheekbones, and the pale shimmer of your satin skirt.
You moved like you were born from the music itself—weightless, barely touching the ground.
Kazuha couldn’t help but smile, her gaze soft and proud as she leaned her hip against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely. “Yeah, (Y/N)’s made to play the White Swan.”
But just as you bent into the first arabesque, a loud bang sounded on the studio door.
Kazuha groaned and immediately pressed pause. “What now—”
You blinked out of your daze, lowering your arms with a frustrated sigh. You padded toward the door, soft steps echoing faintly across the floor as you pulled it open—
And were greeted with a tuft of blonde hair and the brightest grin you’d seen all day.
“Hi there,” Ni-ki said cheerfully, pushing a rolling cart in front of him that carried half of Jungwon’s drumset. His own bass was slung over his back, dangerously close to sliding off.
Behind him, the rest of the band stood loosely huddled with various instruments in hand—Jungwon with his sticks poking out from his tote, Sunghoon balancing his amp like it weighed nothing, and Sunoo waving excitedly.
“Delivery boys,” Heeseung deadpanned with a mock bow.
You blinked. “You’re early.”
“We came straight from class,” Jungwon said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder as he stepped around Ni-ki. “Didn’t want to waste time.”
“You guys could’ve texted,” Kazuha called from inside.
Kazuha threw him a pointed look. “I told you, deserved.”
Ni-ki dramatically clutched his chest. “I’m literally your family.”
“I said what I said.”
You shook your head fondly as the group started filing in like they owned the place, all noise and energy and guitar straps.
Ni-ki rolled the cart in with zero regard for studio etiquette, and Jake was already dragging an extension cord from the corner like he’d done it a hundred times.
You stepped aside quickly, flattening yourself against the door as Heeseung strode in next, his mic stand folded neatly under one arm and the actual mic dangling precariously from his other hand. He shot you a polite, small smile as he passed.
“Thanks,” he murmured, careful not to bump into you.
Then came Sunghoon, carrying his bass like it was a part of him, the strap slung lazily over one shoulder. He gave you a nod as he maneuvered around Ni-ki’s still-parked cart.
Jay entered last.
His black button-up was slightly unbuttoned now, revealing a sliver of skin that caught the light just enough to make your throat dry.
The strap of his guitar bag sat snug across his chest as he adjusted it, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. He glanced at you and offered a soft, “Hey.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the acknowledgment, but quickly recovered. “Hey,” you replied, stepping back to let him through.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the studio seemed to hum alive with the sounds of their set-up—clinks of metal stands, low murmurs of discussion, and the occasional curse word when Ni-ki nearly dropped part of the drum kit.
Sunoo had gravitated toward Kazuha in the corner, the two chatting animatedly as she tied her hair up again.
“Woah—really? Swan Lake?” Sunoo’s voice carried easily over the sound of Heeseung testing his mic.
Kazuha glanced up at him, her face bright with amusement. “Yeah. Me and (Y/N).”
Sunoo’s eyes widened. “Wait—you’re both in it? That’s… that’s huge, isn’t it? Like, I swear even people who don’t care about ballet know that one.”
Kazuha smirked as she crossed her arms. “She’s playing the White Swan.” She tilted her head toward you with a subtle grin.
Sunoo’s gaze shot to you so fast you froze mid-step. “The White Swan? That’s the big part, right? The main girl?”
You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of Jay adjusting his amp a few feet away. “I mean… yeah, but it’s not really finished yet, so—”
“Still,” Sunoo cut in, his grin infectious. “That’s insane. You’ve got to invite us when it’s done. I wanna see it.”
You blinked, surprised at his genuine excitement. “Uh… sure?”
“Promise?”
“I—uh, yeah. Promise.”
“Good.” Sunoo’s smile widened, almost mischievous now as he added, “Jay would wanna see it too, right?”
You caught Jay’s eyes flick up briefly from where he was adjusting his guitar strap. He didn’t say anything, but there was the faintest quirk of his lips before he looked back down.
You cleared your throat softly, heat creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears as you turned on your heel, walking back to where Kazuha and Sunoo were crouched over a tangled mess of speaker wires.
Sunoo shot you a knowing grin the second your shadow fell over them, his eyes sparkling mischievously like he’d caught the tail end of something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Need a hand?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the slight edge of nervousness betrayed you.
Sunoo smirked wider. “We’re good here. But you seem… flustered. Everything okay?”
Kazuha, bless her, didn’t even look up. “Leave her alone, Sunoo.”
You barely had time to respond before Ni-ki came bounding over, rolling his bass strap into his hand. His dyed blonde hair fell into his eyes as he grinned down at you, full of mischief like he was ready to stir up trouble.
“So,” he started, rocking back on his heels, “are you and Kazuha staying to watch? It’s gonna get loud in here, but I promise it’s worth it.”
You blinked up at him, caught a little off guard by his enthusiasm.
“Oh—well, I’m not really sure. We might have to run through some choreography again,” you admitted, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your skirt as you glanced at Kazuha for backup.
“We’ll stay,” Kazuha said simply, already settling herself cross-legged by the speakers like she was setting up for a full private concert.
“Oh,” you murmured, caught between protesting and following her lead. “I guess we’re staying then.”
Ni-ki’s grin widened. “Good. You’ll love it.”
And maybe you were imagining it, but when you caught movement in the mirror across the room, you realized Jay wasn’t watching his reflection like the others.
No—his eyes were on you.
He knelt by his amp, one knee pressed to the hardwood, black button-up sleeves rolled messily up his forearms as he plugged the cable into his guitar.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, but every now and then, his gaze flicked up—not to the tuning pegs, not to his bandmates, but to you. Like he couldn’t help himself.
You froze for half a second under the weight of it, lips parting slightly, feeling every bit like a bunny caught in headlights as Ni-ki kept rambling about their setlist.
Jay’s expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in the tilt of his head, the faint crease of his brows, the way his eyes followed your movements even as he reached for the volume knob.
You weren’t sure what to make of it. But it made your chest feel too tight for comfort.
You padded quietly across the wooden floor, the sound of your ballet flats muffled against the worn panels.
Kazuha glanced up at you as you settled beside her, tucking your legs neatly under you. She offered a small smile, the kind that said she noticed the pink lingering on your ears but wasn’t about to say a word about it—not yet anyway.
Your gaze drifted back to the seven boys scattered across the studio. They were lost in their element, voices low but urgent as they muttered among themselves, hands moving quickly as they adjusted knobs, checked wires, and tested mics.
Jungwon stood near the drum set, leaning slightly on a cymbal stand as he gestured toward Sunghoon’s bass. “You’re a little flat on the E string, try tuning up just a hair.”
Sunghoon gave a small nod, fingers turning the tuning peg with practiced precision as he strummed lightly. “Got it. How’s that?”
Heeseung, crouched with his mic in one hand, grinned. “Better. Jungwon’s ears never fail.”
Jake, who was sitting cross-legged by the amp, chimed in. “Do we want to start with Karma or Blessed-Cursed? Karma has a softer open, might be easier to soundcheck.”
Jay was leaning against the wall now, his black top unbuttoned just slightly at the collar as his fingers skimmed the strings of his guitar in a soundless rhythm. He hummed, low in his throat, eyes on the floor but clearly listening.
“Go with Karma. Better flow into the setlist that way.”
“You guys read my mind,” Jungwon said with a grin.
Ni-ki was already setting his bass strap across his shoulder, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Let’s not waste time. I wanna hear how the mix sounds in this room.”
Sunoo, who had been coiling cables neatly, added, “We’ll need to check the balance too. The acoustics here aren’t what we’re used to.”
You couldn’t help but watch them, your chin resting lightly on your knees. There was something mesmerizing about it all—the way their movements fit together like gears in a clock, efficient and familiar. It was chaos, but it was their chaos, and somehow it worked.
“They’re… really good at this,” you murmured softly to Kazuha, not taking your eyes off the group as Heeseung tested his mic with a smooth, “Check, check, one, two.”
“They’ve been at it for years,” Kazuha replied, her voice low but warm.
“Even if some of them don’t seem like it, they’ve always been serious about music. Ni-ki says they barely ever waste a practice session.”
Sunoo pressed a few keys on his keyboard, the warm synth notes cutting softly through the quiet air of the studio.
“Sorry for the wires,” he said into his mic with a sheepish grin, his voice light and melodic even in the test run.
Jungwon cracked his knuckles, adjusted his drumsticks in his hands, and leaned slightly toward his mic, his expression calm but focused.
“We are Enhypen,” he said, voice smooth yet commanding, like he’d done this introduction a hundred times. “And this is Karma. An original.”
You blinked, sitting up straighter. Original?
Before you could fully process it, Jungwon tapped his sticks together—“One, two, three, four”—and the room came alive.
The first sound was Jay’s guitar, low and steady, the distorted riff crawling like electricity over your skin. His fingers moved fluidly over the strings, confident and deliberate.
It wasn’t flashy, but there was weight in every chord, a rhythm that anchored the entire song as Jake joined in with his own guitar, layering bright accents and counter-melodies like sparks dancing over embers.
Then Jungwon came in. His drumming wasn’t frantic—it was calculated, tight, every beat hitting perfectly as his foot worked the bass pedal with precise force.
You could feel it in your chest, that deep, steady thrum that pulled you in and refused to let go.
The rock instrumental wasn’t loud in the grating way you expected from underground bands—it was powerful but clean, addictive even. The kind of sound that could fill an arena yet still feel intimate in a room like this.
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until Kazuha nudged your knee.
“They’re… insane, right?” she whispered with a grin, her eyes locked on Ni-ki as he stepped forward for a small bass run.
You could only nod, your eyes catching briefly on Jay again. He wasn’t looking at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t looking at his bandmates either.
He was looking at you. Fingers steady on the strings, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your eyes were locked on Jay, unable to look away even if you tried. He was in his zone—fingers gliding across the frets with a practiced ease that spoke of years spent mastering his craft.
The way he leaned into his guitar slightly during heavier riffs, the faint furrow of concentration between his brows, even the subtle tap of his foot in time with Jungwon’s drums—it was mesmerizing.
And damn it, he knew how to play. No unnecessary flair, no overcompensation. Just clean, precise chords that bled into Jake’s bright melodies and Sunghoon’s heavy bass lines like they belonged there all along.
They all were good—no, they were phenomenal. Voices layered perfectly, harmonies slipping in like silk as Heeseung and Jake took turns on the vocals, with Sunoo and Jungwon occasionally adding backing vocals that rounded everything out.
Even Ni-ki’s occasional adlibs on the bass fit seamlessly, his energy infectious as his head bobbed with the beat.
As the song started to wind down, the final chorus hit with one last punch of sound—Heeseung’s voice raw and gripping, Jay’s guitar sliding into a clean, lingering note that seemed to hang in the air long after Jungwon gave a final, decisive hit on his snare.
The silence that followed felt heavy but electric.
You exhaled, realizing too late that you’d been holding your breath for most of the song.
Heeseung was the first to break it, pulling back from his mic with a grin. He ran a hand through his hair, sweat sticking a few strands to his forehead as he looked over at you and Kazuha.
“Well?” His voice echoed lightly through the room, still amplified by the mic. “How’d we do?”
You blinked, caught off guard at suddenly being the center of seven pairs of eyes.
Kazuha let out a low whistle, clapping her hands together. “I mean… that was insane. You guys sound like you’re ready to headline college week and then some.”
“Right?” Sunoo grinned, tapping a few playful notes on his keyboard as he leaned toward you. “(Y/N), what about you? You were pretty quiet over there.”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again, trying to find the words.
“I… you guys were incredible. Like, seriously. I didn’t expect it to sound that—” You made a vague gesture in the air, your mind still fogged from the performance. “—that good. That clean.”
“Clean?” Ni-ki raised a brow, smirking. “That’s it? We pour our souls into the song and all we get is ‘clean?’”
“She’s stunned.” Jay’s voice cut in suddenly, calm but with the faintest edge of amusement. He still sitting on his amp, one leg crossed casually over the other as he adjusted the knobs on his amp. “You can tell.”
Your head snapped to him, but he didn’t look up—fingers busy with the guitar strap, lips twitching into what looked dangerously close to a smirk.
“Guess we’ll take that as a compliment,” Jake chuckled, his dimples deepening as he leaned his guitar against the wall.
“You should.” Your voice was softer now, almost too quiet as your eyes flickered back to Jay. “It was really good.”
The clock above the studio door blinked 11:03 PM in harsh red digits when Jungwon clapped his hands, declaring, “Alright, pack it up before someone locks us in here.”
The sound of zippers, metal clasps, and light chatter filled the space as the boys moved quickly—Jake carefully winding his guitar cable, Sunghoon clicking his keyboard case shut with a soft snap.
Jungwon muttered under his breath as he berated Sunoo, “You almost killed my snare earlier—careful, man. That drum costs more than my entire existence.” Sunoo only laughed sheepishly, clutching said drum like it was a newborn child.
Kazuha was kneeling near the mirrors, folding up her jacket as she handed you your pointe shoes with a little grin.
“Here. Thought you’d want to put these away before they get stepped on.”
“Thanks, Zu,” you murmured, fingers moving to re-lace them neatly before slipping them into your tote. The satin was frayed at the edges, little scars from all the rehearsals you'd been throwing yourself into lately.
By the door, Sunghoon glanced over his shoulder, bass case in hand. “Everyone done?”
“Yes,” came a chorus of voices, yours included as you adjusted your bag strap.
Ni-ki, ever the chaotic younger one, suddenly grabbed Kazuha’s arm as she tried to slip past him.
“Did you film me? Tell me you filmed me—I swear my solo was sick.”
You laughed at Kazuha’s wide-eyed expression as she tried to shake him off. “Ni-ki, let her breathe. She’s not your personal videographer.”
“Should be,” he shot back with a pout, finally releasing her.
The group filed out into the hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The building was quieter at this hour—no chatter from other students, no professors barking reminders.
Just the shuffle of sneakers and the occasional creak of instrument cases shifting against shoulders.
You hung back slightly, letting the line of boys and Kazuha move ahead as you pulled your jacket tighter around you. The hall’s faint chill clung to your cheeks. You didn’t notice Jay slowing down until you caught up beside him.
He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his pace shifting effortlessly to match yours.
“Hey.” His voice was low, almost lost to the quiet hallway.
“Hey,” you replied, tucking your hands into your coat pockets.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just the sort of silence that settled when two people didn’t feel the need to fill it.
The air smelled faintly of dewy grass and cold concrete, your breath coming out in soft little puffs that fogged in front of you. Your gaze drifted to the field outside, now cloaked in darkness with only a few stray lampposts keeping it alive in faint golden light.
“…What did you think?” Jay’s voice broke the quiet, low and steady, pulling your attention back to him.
You blinked at him, tilting your head slightly. “Huh?”
“The songs,” he said, his dark eyes catching a glint of light as he glanced sideways at you. “Were they… good?”
You nodded almost immediately. “Oh—yeah. They’re good. You guys are really good.”
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, his lips pressing together in a subtle nod. But you weren’t done.
“And you’re… really good at playing that guitar,” you added, words softer now. You didn’t know why your cheeks felt warmer as you said it.
Jay looked at you fully this time, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a small, quiet smile. “Thank you.”
You returned it with a shy one of your own before tucking your chin back into the soft folds of your white jacket.
Silence settled again, but this time it felt a little different—like it wasn’t just there by default, but because neither of you wanted to disturb it.
“…Aren’t you cold?” you asked suddenly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
He glanced down at you, buried like a marshmallow in your jacket with your tote bag swinging at your side. The faintest laugh escaped him.
“No, not really.”
“You’re insane,” you huffed, your breath fogging in the chilly night. You exhaled again on purpose, watching the puff disappear like smoke as you hugged yourself tighter.
Jay chuckled under his breath but didn’t argue.
The group had slowed as they reached the path that split off toward the quad. The boys began murmuring their goodbyes as Sunghoon and Ni-ki led ahead, Sunoo falling back slightly to walk closer to you.
Jay suddenly stopped and turned slightly. “Guys, this is my stop,” he said, jerking his chin toward the dimly lit path across the field.
“Oh yeah, mine too,” Heeseung added, adjusting the strap of his mic stand case on his shoulder.
“See you tomorrow,” Jungwon called, waving his free hand.
Jay’s eyes flicked back to you once more. “Bye, (Y/N).”
Your name on his lips—simple, soft—sent an odd warmth rushing up your neck. You raised a hand hesitantly, giving him a small wave. “Bye.”
Heeseung shot you a bright grin and waved too before both boys began crossing the field.
You didn’t notice Jay slowing for just a moment, glancing back over his shoulder one last time.
His eyes caught on you, furrowed brows and lips parted slightly as you nodded at something Sunoo animatedly explained to you, trying your best to keep up.
A small smile tugged at Jay’s lips as he shook his head almost imperceptibly. Then he turned back, shoving his hands into his pockets and falling into step beside Heeseung as their voices faded into the cool night air.
They walked in silence for a few moments, the sound of their shoes against the pavement echoing faintly in the stillness of campus. The air smelled faintly of cold grass and leftover rain.
“Hey,” Jay said suddenly, voice calm but a little lower than usual. “You wanna stop by Prada with me tomorrow?”
Heeseung’s brows shot up slightly in surprise as he glanced at his friend. “Prada? Sure, I guess. I need a new bag anyway—my old one’s starting to look beat up.”
Jay nodded absently, his gaze fixed ahead at the dimly lit path. “Thought so. You’ve been carrying that same one since last year.”
Heeseung chuckled, adjusting the strap of the mic case on his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. So, what about you? What do you need?”
Jay’s hand brushed against his guitar case as he shifted it slightly, his expression neutral as he replied, “A scarf.”
“A scarf?” Heeseung repeated, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. “Since when do you get cold?”
Jay’s lips quirked faintly—not enough to call it a smile—as he muttered, “It’s not for me.”
“Oh?” Heeseung tilted his head, curiosity written all over his face. “Then who’s it for?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jay’s tone was final but not sharp, and he quickened his pace slightly as if to move the conversation along.
Heeseung raised his hands in surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright. Your secret’s safe, Romeo.”
Jay shook his head with a quiet scoff, but the faintest flush crept up his neck under the dim streetlights.
They didn’t speak again as they reached their dorm building, the sound of the door clicking shut behind them echoing in the empty hallway.
It was Saturday morning—the kind of golden, lazy one that draped sunlight through your open curtains and made the dust motes dance in the air.
Your dorm room smelled faintly of Sakura’s lavender hand cream and the cup of instant coffee you’d abandoned hours ago.
The TV buzzed softly in the background, some slice-of-life K-drama playing with warm colors and melodramatic music. Laughter bubbled from the floor where Yunjin, Kazuha, and Eunchae sat sprawled out on blankets, their hair tied messily back, snacks scattered between them.
You were curled up at the head of your bed, your laptop balanced on your knees as you furiously typed.
Beside you, Sakura sat cross-legged, her hands skillfully moving a crochet hook through pastel yarn. The soft sound of her work was oddly calming against your clacking keyboard.
“Is that your Art History paper?” Sakura asked without looking up, her voice soft but teasing as she looped another stitch.
You let out a distracted hum, barely glancing at her. “Yeah… it’s due at three. I’m almost done.”
“Almost done, she says,” Yunjin snorted, tilting her head back from the floor to peer at you. “Why are you even cramming that? Didn’t the professor give you like… a week?”
“I thought it would be easy, okay?” you muttered defensively, your brows knitting as you hit delete on a sentence for the third time. “Turns out, it’s not.”
Chaewon let out a giggle from where she was cradling Doobu in her lap. The cat was purring like a tiny engine, squishing its face happily into her hoodie sleeve.
“Yeah, you hear that, Doobu? Mommy’s a really bad crammer, huh? Good thing your aunts aren’t.”
You shot her a mock glare over your screen, your lips twitching despite yourself. “Ha. Ha. So funny, Chae. Keep talking—I’ll assign you to finish this paper for me.”
Eunchae snorted and threw a pillow lightly at you. “She’d probably do a better job.”
You caught it with one hand, tossing it back at her with a small laugh. “Traitors. All of you.”
“Not a traitor,” Kazuha said from the floor, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of tteokbokki she’d brought from the convenience store earlier.
“I’m just saying… you’ve been acting busy all week. Between rehearsals and… other things.”
Her voice trailed, and Yunjin’s head snapped toward her with a grin. “Other things? Wait. Wait. Did something happen?”
You felt your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for a second too long, and that was enough for Yunjin to pounce. “Oh my God. You’ve been quiet since yesterday too. Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“I think there is,” Sakura chimed in, side-eyeing you with a knowing little smile, her crochet work still going steadily.
“There’s nothing,” you said quickly, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you. “Seriously. You guys are so dramatic.”
But Kazuha just leaned back on her hands and raised a brow at you. “Is it about Jay?”
You froze mid-type, your fingers pausing above the keyboard. “…Excuse me?”
“Jay who?” Yunjin asked immediately, her head snapping between the two of you like she’d just caught the scent of drama.
“The one from my cousin’s band,” Kazuha replied casually, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger.
Sakura’s crochet hook stilled as she turned her full attention to you, eyes widening slightly. “Wait… Park Jongseong?”
“The emo guitarist?” Eunchae added in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The one Ni-ki’s always talking about in Biology? That guy?”
“Oh yeah,” Kazuha chimed in, nodding thoughtfully as if she’d just remembered a passing detail. “I forgot you guys are in the same class.”
Chae-won tilted her head at you from the floor, still holding Doobu lazily in her lap. “So? What’s up with him?”
You let out a groan, throwing your head back against the headboard dramatically as your laptop slid slightly down your thighs. “First of all, he’s not emo—he just… owns a lot of black clothes, okay?”
The room broke into quiet snickers, Sakura biting back a smile as she picked her crochet back up.
“Second,” you continued, shooting them all a weak glare, “he’s… nice. That’s it. He’s just nice, okay?”
Kazuha’s grin widened as she dropped her bomb. “And he bought her lunch yesterday.”
You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “Zuha—”
“Oh, oh!” Kazuha added cheerfully, “And he walked her to class too.”
Yunjin’s jaw dropped as if you’d just confessed to dating a K-drama male lead. “What? Jay? That Jay? Doesn’t he like… not talk to anyone at all?”
“I don’t know!” you burst out, throwing your hands up in defense as your friends all gawked at you like they were watching the climax of a drama. “Maybe he just—was being polite? Or he felt bad? I don’t know! Stop looking at me like that.”
“Polite?” Eunchae repeated, raising a brow.
“Girl, he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole whenever Ni-ki drags him to our morning classes, and you’re telling me he voluntarily walked you to class and bought you lunch?”
You let out an exasperated groan, flopping back against the headboard and covering your face with your hands.
“I don’t know, okay? I’ve barely even talked to the man! I already told you guys—he’s just nice. End of story.”
Sakura, sitting cross-legged on the other end of your bed with her crochet still in hand, hummed thoughtfully. Then she said, far too casually, “What if—and it’s a very big what if—he likes you?”
You peeked through your fingers, shooting her a look so sharp it could cut steel. “Sakura.”
“What?” she said with a little shrug, feigning innocence as her eyes sparkled like she’d just lit a fuse.
Kazuha, lounging lazily on the floor with her hair tied up, raised a brow and added fuel to the fire.
“I mean… it’s not impossible. Ni-ki literally says he’s single, and—if we’re being honest—Jay doesn’t seem like the type who cares about romance.”
“Exactly!” Eunchae said, snapping her fingers. “So what if you’re like… the first person who’s caught his eye or something?”
“Guys—seriously?” you muttered, your ears already burning as you hugged a pillow against your chest.
“You’re all making this sound like some kind of webtoon. He’s not interested. He’s just… being decent. That’s it. End of story. Period.”
But Yunjin, sprawled on your rug with her legs propped up on the edge of your bed, smirked knowingly. “You don’t sound very sure, babe. Are you sure it’s not you who’s starting to like him?”
Your head snapped down, “Yunjin.”
“What?” she said with a laugh, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m just saying. You’ve got that look on your face when we brought him up.”
“I do not—” you began, but Kazuha cut you off with a teasing grin.
“Yeah, you do. You’re blushing right now.”
“I’m not—oh my god.” You buried your face into the pillow, groaning as the girls broke into laughter and squeals.
When the sound died down just enough for you to breathe, you peeked out from the pillow, face still flushed, and mumbled under your breath, eyes fixed anywhere but at them.
“He’s… popular, you know? And he’s intimidating. Like… the way he carries himself? I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
Kazuha raised a brow, smirking as she picked up her water bottle. “You’re saying that like you’ve been analyzing him.”
“I’m not,” you said quickly, grabbing your laptop again and pulling it onto your lap as a weak distraction.
The sound of your fingers clacking on the keys filled the room as you added, softer this time, “I’m just saying—I have to agree with Kazuha. Maybe he’s not into romance at all.”
You took a breath, forcing a little laugh that sounded too tight. “So yeah. He probably just… took pity on me or something. Like, no big deal.”
The room fell quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
You didn’t look up, too focused on pretending to type as if your project was suddenly the most important thing in the world.
Then Sakura’s weight shifted on the bed, and you felt her scoot closer. Her hand landed softly on your knee as she said, voice gentle but firm, “(Y/N), don’t say that. Okay? Don’t ever say that about yourself.”
Then Sakura’s weight shifted on the bed, and you felt her scoot closer. Her hand landed softly on your knee as she said, voice gentle but firm, “(Y/N), don’t say that. Okay? Don’t ever say that about yourself.”
You blinked, your fingers pausing mid-word.
“We all know you—inside and out. You’re beautiful, and you’re talented, and you’re so kind it’s almost annoying sometimes,” she said with a small laugh, her eyes searching yours. “Jay wouldn’t be taking pity on you. Not a chance.”
“Exactly,” Yunjin chimed in from her spot on the floor, propping her chin up with her palm.
“And we’re not saying this just because we’re your friends. You really are that girl. Like, honestly? Half the campus has been trying to get your number since freshman year.”
You snorted, shaking your head, but Eunchae leaned forward too, her expression serious for once. “Plus,” she said matter-of-factly, “don’t you, like, reject guys every month? All because they’re too into you, or too clingy, or whatever?”
You groaned again, tugging the pillow back up to your face as their words made your ears burn even hotter. “Oh my god. Can you guys not bring that up right now?”
“Nope,” Chaewon teased, scratching Doobu’s chin as the cat purred in her lap. “Because we’re trying to remind you who you are.”
“You’re not someone he’d ‘pity,’” Sakura said softly. “You’re someone people fall for. And maybe he’s no exception.”
You blinked at her, the words sinking in like warm tea on a cold day. Your lips tugged up, small but genuine, and you nodded slowly.
“Thank you,” you murmured, voice quiet but full of gratitude. “Really. You guys are… way too good to me.”
Yunjin stretched her arms over her head with a dramatic sigh, the elastic between her teeth as she tied her hair up into a quick bun.
“Good to you? Babe, we’re saving you from spiraling into overthinking about some tall broody guitarist who might actually like you.”
“Yunjin,” you said with a laugh, rolling your eyes.
“What?” she grinned, hands on her hips now. “It’s true. Anyway, I’m hungry, and clearly you’re too distracted to feed yourself, so—” She pointed at you with mock accusation. “What do you want? Name it.”
You shook your head, amused. “Anything will do. There’s still stuff in the fridge.”
Yunjin nodded like she was preparing for battle. “Perfect.” She waved dramatically as she made her way toward the kitchenette. “Come on, Eunchae. You’re my sous-chef.”
“Eh? Why me?” Eunchae grumbled but still hopped up from her spot on the floor to trail after her. “Fine—but I’m not cutting onions!”
You shook your head fondly, the soft smile still lingering on your lips as you turned your attention back to your screen. Fingers danced across the keyboard, the steady click of the keys mixing with the sounds of Sakura’s crochet hook tapping against itself.
Then you felt a slight weight on your shoulder. Sakura had leaned her head there, peeking at your screen. “You spelled ‘kinesiology’ wrong.”
You snorted, backspacing quickly. “I always do.”
She hummed softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know, (Y/N)… we’re really proud of you. Not just because of ballet or school or whatever. Just… for being you.”
You paused, the words catching you off guard, and turned slightly to glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you—her eyes were on your laptop, her expression calm and warm.
“You guys are seriously going to make me cry today,” you teased lightly, though your throat tightened a little.
Sakura’s lips curved into a small smile, her eyes finally meeting yours. “Good. Means we’re doing our jobs as your best friends.”
You laughed softly and shook your head before turning back to your screen. “I really am glad I have you all, you know?”
“We know,” she said, patting your leg before picking up her yarn again.
In the background, you heard Yunjin yelling something about “Where’s the sesame oil?” and Eunchae responding with “You’re holding it!”
The scent of something beginning to fry wafted from the kitchenette, and you let yourself relax—shoulders uncoiling from a tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying all morning.
It was perfect. Cozy. The kind of afternoon that felt like a bubble outside of time.
You smiled faintly as you hit the final save on your document, Sakura peeking over your shoulder to murmur, “Finally.” You chuckled. “Took me long enough.”
By the time six in the evening rolled around, the sky outside your window was a watercolor wash of peach and violet. The air had cooled further, and one by one, your friends began gathering their bags, the lingering laughter softening into sleepy goodbyes.
“Thanks for letting us crash your dorm,” Yunjin said with a grin, pulling her hoodie over her head.
“Don’t mention it. Come any time,” you said, hands resting on the doorframe as you watched them shuffle into their shoes. “And thanks for doing the dishes, Zuha.”
Kazuha waved you off, tugging Eunchae’s sleeve to hurry her along. “You let us stay; it’s the least I could do.”
Chaewon turned back briefly, holding Doobu like a baby in her arms. “Bye-bye, mommy’s little princess. Don’t keep her up too late.”
You laughed. “Goodnight, guys.”
“Night!” they chorused back, their voices overlapping as they spilled into the hallway.
Doobu trotted out after them as if to see them off. You crouched and scooped her up easily, cradling her against your chest. “Come on, girl,” you murmured, pressing your cheek into her soft fur. “Let’s get some sleep.”
You nudged the door closed with your foot, the faint click echoing in the now-quiet room. The air still smelled faintly of fried rice and buttered eggs.
As you laid Doobu gently onto the bed, she circled twice before curling into a neat ball beside your pillow. You smiled, slipping under the covers, pulling the blanket up to your chin and her tiny body close to yours.
The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, joined by faint footsteps down the hall—someone passing by, a door closing a few rooms down. It was soothing in a way, grounding.
Slowly, sleep crept in, your eyes fluttering shut as your breathing evened out.
You didn’t know how long you’d been out when your phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
With a groggy groan, you reached out blindly, fingers fumbling until you grabbed it. Blinking against the harsh light of the screen, you squinted at the time. 9:12 PM.
“Ugh.” You stretched lazily, arms above your head, a yawn spilling out as you rubbed your eyes.
But when you turned back, your brows furrowed. The blankets were rumpled—too rumpled—and the familiar soft weight of Doobu was missing.
“Doobu?” you called softly, still half-asleep.
Silence.
“She’s probably under the bed,” you mumbled to yourself, slipping one foot to the floor. You crouched down, peeking under. “Doobu?”
Nothing.
Maybe the bathroom. You padded over, cracking the door open. Empty.
“Come on, girl, where are you?”
Panic didn’t hit right away—not until your eyes flicked to the door and you noticed it.
A sliver of faint golden light where there shouldn’t have been any. Your door wasn’t fully shut.
“…Shit.”
Your voice was barely above a whisper as you crossed the room, heart thudding. You tightened the knot of your hooie over your pajamas and cursed under your breath again.
Pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click, you huffed out a shaky breath, shoving your phone into the pocket of your oversized hoodie.
“Shit… okay, okay, don’t panic,” you muttered, yanking on your outside slippers so hard you almost tripped. Fingers raked through your hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame the mess from your nap as you stepped into the hallway.
The air outside was cooler than your room, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above you. You padded quickly down the corridor, whisper-yelling, “Doobu? Come on, girl… where the fuck did you go?”
Your voice echoed faintly against the closed doors lining the hall.
“Shit, shit, shit—she can’t have gone far,” you hissed to yourself, scanning every corner like a deranged detective.
You peeked around the trash bins, past the stairwell, even crouched briefly to check under the benches near the elevator. Nothing.
You bolted up the stairs to the next floor, slippers slapping quietly against the steps. As you rounded the corner, a small group of arts students you recognized from studio night looked up at you from where they lounged against the wall, sketchbooks in hand.
“Hey, (Y/N)!” one of them greeted cheerfully.
“Hey,” you said a little breathlessly, not slowing your pace as your eyes darted around. “Sorry—uh—if you guys see a white cat, she’s mine. She slipped out.”
“Oh no,” another said, eyes wide. “We’ll keep a lookout!”
“Thanks,” you called over your shoulder, already halfway down the hallway.
“Doobu!” you hissed again.
“Do not make me climb this entire fucking building in my pajamas. I swear to god—” You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Way to go, (Y/N). Lose your cat and look like a sleep-deprived idiot in the process. Great job.”
Your slippers squeaked faintly against the linoleum as you turned another corner, scanning the dimmer end of the hall where the lights flickered faintly.
Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, your breath visible in the cold drafts slipping through the windows.
“Doobu? Baby girl? Please don’t make me cry right now…” you muttered desperately.
You made your way down the other floors, checking every nook and cranny, even peering behind trash bins and under staircases. Your slippers scuffed against the stairs, the sound almost swallowed by your frantic heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Every student you passed got the same frazzled question. “Hey—sorry, have you seen a white cat? Fluffy, kind of round?”
Some shook their heads apologetically, others blinked in surprise at the sheer panic in your tone before nodding.
“Oh, I’ll keep a lookout!” a girl carrying an armful of books promised.
“Thanks—thank you so much,” you said breathlessly, bowing your head slightly before bolting down the next set of stairs.
When you reached the ground floor, you didn’t even pause. The cold air slapped you in the face as you pushed open the glass doors to your dorm building, the metal handle biting into your palm from your tight grip.
“Shit—Doobu, where the hell are you?” you whispered harshly, stepping into the crisp night air.
The campus was quieter now, the golden glow of the streetlamps casting long shadows across the empty walkways. You scanned the quad, your eyes darting across the open field, the benches, even the bases of the trees.
Your slippers whispered against the pavement as you jogged lightly toward the benches near the edge of the field.
“Doobu!” you called again, voice cracking slightly. “Come on, girl… don’t do this to me.”
Muttering curses under your breath—“Goddammit, (Y/N), you’re so careless…”—you almost didn’t notice it.
But then—there it was.
A tuft of white fur. A bushy tail flicking lazily.
Your breath caught in your throat. Doobu sat primly on one of the benches under the golden streetlights, her little face upturned like she owned the entire campus.
“Oh my god,” you whispered in disbelief, your knees nearly giving out in relief. You walked closer, slowly, carefully, afraid that a sudden movement might startle her away again.
Your cat sat so calmly on the bench, tail curled neatly around her paws, completely unbothered as if she hadn’t just sent you on a heart attack-inducing campus-wide manhunt.
You started walking closer, slow and careful, not wanting to startle her away. But as you got nearer, your steps faltered.
You started walking closer, slow and careful, not wanting to startle her away. But as you got nearer, your steps faltered.
There was someone sitting on the bench with her.
A man.
He was leaned back casually, one arm resting along the backrest as his other hand absentmindedly stroked Doobu’s fur. She—your Doobu, who notoriously despised every single male human who dared to even look her way—was preening under his touch.
The little traitor was even leaning her head closer, purring so faintly you could hear it from where you stood.
Your eyes flicked up, scanning the guy. Black hoodie pulled over his head. A gray cap tucked low enough to shadow his face. Cream pants loose but clean. His sneakers looked a little scuffed, as if he actually walked around campus instead of just cutting through in a car.
Then he laughed quietly—low and warm, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it—and said to your cat,
“I bet your owner’s losing her mind looking for you, huh?”
Your jaw nearly dropped. He was talking to her?
You let out a shaky sigh, deciding to ignore him completely as you stepped forward. “Hey, Doobu,” you murmured softly, crouching slightly as you reached a hand out. “You scared the shit out of me. Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”
At the sound of your voice, Doobu’s ears twitched. She gave a soft purr, standing on her paws to hop down—only to pause when the guy slowly drew his hand back, letting his palm rest on his knee.
That’s when he finally looked up at you.
Sharp eyes under the cap. Lips quirked in an almost imperceptible smile.
“She’s got a habit of wandering off, huh?” he said, voice low and smooth with the faintest trace of amusement.
Your heart stuttered at the sound, recognition dawning like a wave crashing down on you.
“…Jay?”
He chuckled under his breath, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. “You didn’t notice? Thought you were too focused on your runaway cat to see me.”
You straightened, blinking at him incredulously as your cat jumped off the bench and started rubbing against your legs.
“I—You—what are you even doing here?” you asked, your voice tight from a cocktail of exhaustion and mild embarrassment.
Jay didn’t answer at first. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, reaching down to grab two sleek Prada paper bags sitting on the concrete by his feet.
He swished them in the air casually, the crisp sound of the handles snapping into place breaking the quiet night.
“Shopped a little,” he said, his tone easy. “Went with Heeseung. We had some free time.”
You blinked at the bags, then back at him as he patted the now-empty spot on the bench beside him. “Sit down. You look like you ran a marathon.”
Hesitating only a moment, you bent down to scoop Doobu off the concrete, clutching her soft, warm body against your chest as you crossed the few steps to the bench.
Sitting down beside him, you let out a slow, shaky breath. Doobu purred against you, seemingly unbothered by her little adventure.
Jay was already looking at you—one elbow draped casually over the backrest, his dark eyes unreadable under the brim of his cap.
You glanced down at the bags and pointed at them. “So… you’re rich-rich, huh?”
His lips quirked, a small laugh rumbling out of him. “Not me. My parents are.” He nudged one of the bags with his foot before adding, “And anyway, I bought these using my own money. No trust fund involved.”
Jay chuckled again, softer this time. “I guess.”
There was a beat of silence before he tilted his head slightly, his eyes darting to the white fluff curled in your lap. “Can I?” he asked, one hand lifting a little as he gestured toward Doobu.
You looked down at your cat, who blinked up at you lazily as if granting her approval herself. “Sure,” you murmured.
Jay shifted closer, his fingers brushing over Doobu’s head with surprising gentleness. She pressed into his touch, tail flicking lazily as a faint purr rumbled from her chest.
“She likes you,” you said quietly, unable to hide the faint trace of surprise in your voice.
“She’s cute,” Jay murmured, his thumb stroking behind her ear. Then his eyes flicked back to yours. “So… what happened? How’d she get out?”
You sighed, your shoulders slumping as you leaned back slightly against the bench. “I didn’t close my dorm room all the way. Must’ve been when I fell asleep earlier. She probably pushed it open and slipped out.”
You buried your face briefly in Doobu’s fur, muffling a groan. “God, I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t,” Jay said simply, his voice steady and calm. “She’s safe now. That’s all that matters.”
You peeked up at him, startled by how sincere he sounded. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were on Doobu as he continued stroking her fur—but there was something in his tone that made your chest tighten.
“…Thanks,” you murmured, hugging your cat a little closer. “For finding her.”
Jay glanced at you again, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t find her. She found me.”
You huffed a small laugh despite yourself, your nerves slowly beginning to settle. “Typical. Little traitor.”
Jay chuckled too, his hand still absentmindedly stroking Doobu’s fur. “She’s got good taste, though.”
You froze slightly at that, unsure how to respond as the warmth from his words and the gentle sound of Doobu’s purrs filled the air. Your eyes flicked to his, catching the way he was already looking at you—something soft and unspoken in his expression.
Then his gaze dropped, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head toward you. “Not sure about her owner, though. Teddy bears and choo-choo trains? Really?”
You blinked in confusion for a moment before glancing down at yourself, realizing too late he was talking about your pajama set—the faint pastel print of tiny teddy bears riding toy trains now painfully obvious.
Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my god—Jay!” You slapped his arm, mortified.
He let out a laugh—louder this time, low and warm in his chest—as his hand came up to rub the spot where you hit him. “What? I’m just saying.”
“Shut up!” you hissed, cheeks flaming as you buried your face in Doobu’s fur. “I was in a rush, okay? I didn’t think anyone was going to see me like this.”
Jay’s grin softened, his dark eyes glinting under the streetlight. “Okay, okay. No need to hit me. I surrender.” He raised both hands in mock surrender before leaning back against the bench again, his posture relaxed and easy.
You frowned at him anyway, though the heat in your cheeks didn’t let up. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” he said with a light shrug, still smiling.
The evening breeze picked up then, making you instinctively pull Doobu closer to your chest. You shivered slightly, tugging at your thin jacket as a chill ran through you.
Jay’s eyes flicked to you, catching the way your hair was slightly mussed from sleep and the faint flush on your cheeks. The corner of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly—not in amusement this time, but in something gentler.
He glanced down at the Prada bag at his feet, pulling one of the items out. The soft, knitted material clung to his hand as he carefully tore off the tag, fingers meticulous so as not to snag the fabric. Without a word, he scooted closer until his knee brushed yours.
You blinked as he draped the scarf around your neck, the sudden warmth making you jolt slightly. “Jay—?”
“Relax,” he said calmly, adjusting it so it sat snug yet loose enough to breathe. “You need it. You’re freezing.”
Your hands went up to touch the scarf, the fine, soft knit catching between your fingers. “Jay, I… I can’t accept this. It’s Prada. This probably costs—”
“No returns, I’m afraid,” he interrupted smoothly, his dark eyes meeting yours again with a quiet finality.
“But—”
“Don’t,” he said simply, voice low but firm as he reached over again. His hands were careful, almost tender, as he wrapped it more securely around your neck. “And you’re still cold. So don’t argue.”
You stared at him, your protest catching in your throat. The scarf smelled faintly of new fabric and something warm—something that somehow reminded you of him.
“…You’re ridiculous,” you murmured finally, lips twitching into a small smile.
“Maybe,” Jay said again, his lips curving ever so slightly as he leaned back, resting an arm on the bench’s backrest. “But I’m also right.”
You ducked your head, hiding your warming face in Doobu’s fur as she purred sleepily in your lap.
Jay glanced at you once more, his fingers flexing faintly like he wanted to reach for you again but thought better of it. Instead, he moved just slightly closer, the edge of his shoulder brushing yours as the cool night settled comfortably around you both.
“So… any plans after this?” he asked, his tone casual but his gaze unreadable as it lingered on you.
You tilted your head slightly, thinking for a moment before shaking your head. “No, not really. Why?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. “So you’re free.”
A small giggle escaped you before you could stop it, the sound carried away slightly by the night breeze. “Yeah, I’m free. Why?”
He looked ahead for a second, lips twitching as if debating saying the next words. Then he glanced back at you, meeting your curious eyes. “Do you… want to eat dinner?”
Your face lit up, eyes widening a little in surprise. “Yeah—sure. If it’s not a bother?”
Jay shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips as his eyes softened. “Never. It’s not.”
He glanced down at the white ball of fluff curled in your lap, still purring lightly. “But… what about Doobu?”
You followed his gaze, only now realizing your cat had made herself at home again, her tiny body rising and falling against your arms as she napped.
“Oh. Right.” You laughed a little sheepishly. “Would it be alright if I take her back to my dorm first? I should probably change too—”
Your voice trailed off as the memory of his earlier teasing came back, cheeks heating instantly. “—before you start commenting on my pajamas again,” you muttered under your breath, burying your face in Doobu’s soft fur.
Jay laughed at that—low, warm, and unrestrained this time. It sent a strange flutter through your chest.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, standing smoothly as he grabbed his paper bags off the concrete. “I really am. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
You stood too, cradling the now-sleeping Doobu in your arms. She stirred slightly at the movement, her tiny head tucking into the crook of your shoulder as her tail curled closer to you. You adjusted your hold on her carefully, trying not to wake her.
Jay’s eyes softened further as he watched you fuss over your cat—something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he shifted his bags to one hand and gestured with the other.
“Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said simply, his tone making it clear he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “But I want to.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting down the smile threatening to break through. “Okay… thank you.”
Jay only nodded, falling into step beside you as the two of you started walking back toward the dorms. His steps were unhurried, his presence steady next to yours as the faint sound of crickets and your own quiet breaths filled the night.
Doobu shifted slightly in your arms, letting out a soft sigh as if content, and you felt your chest loosen—somehow lighter with Jay’s warmth just a few inches away.
ballerina!reader… is dedicated and disciplined. she’ll do whatever it takes to claim the role she desires, staying up late to practice. as a perfectionist, she pushes herself past exhaustion—again and again—until her aching feet are raw and bleeding. because to her, anything less than flawless is failure.
“it has to be perfect. it has to be perfect. it has to be perfect.”
ballerina!reader… appears to be a fragile, innocent and soft-spoken girl. but don’t be fooled; it’s merely a facade. beneath the surface, she is fierce, powerful and unafraid to put someone in their place when necessary. with envious, bitter girls watching her every move, she knows exactly how to bite back.
“for so long, i danced for them. now, i dance for me.”
ballerina!reader… has a desire deep down to break free from the control, pressure and expectations she puts on herself. she craves something more— something deeper, wilder and darker. this yearning brings out her seductive, bold and intoxicating side.
“i was never fragile. i was only waiting to break free.”
ballerina!reader… doesn’t let people close easily— her walls are high, and trust is something she gives hesitantly. when she finally allows herself to love someone, it’s with an unforgettable intensity. her love is possessive, consuming, and fierce, yet also protective, constantly fearing rejection or abandonment.
“if you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first who ever did.” — cinnamon girl by lana del rey
summary: You are a principal dancer with your ballet company, and if Steve weren't your very dedicated boyfriend, you might be tempted to call him a dance mom
wc: 985
warnings: reader has traditionally female roles in various ballets, fem!reader, reader is a ballerina, Steve is a bit of a sap, I don’t know where they live in Indiana that has a professional ballet company but please just roll with it
a/n:I have been suddenly inundated with ballet tiktoks over the last few weeks and I yearn for my childhood ballet studio. I don’t know why this is where my brain is but I am choosing to rock with it. This is very much giving house husband Steve and I am not mad at that. A very happy Nutcracker season to those who celebrate!
Nutcracker season is his Super Bowl. He has tickets for every performance and a bouquet of flowers to go with them. You are halfway to begging him to stop with the flowers, because your dressing room and the coffee table at home are overflowing with your favorites.
He has watched you sew on the elastics and ribbons onto your shoes enough times that he can do it himself, and he has. When you’re in the middle of nutcracker season and can’t seem to keep up with all of the demands, Steve adores picking up the slack however he can. He always likes to make sure you have a few pairs in your bag because of how quickly they die when you are dancing so much.
Steve also has a habit of stashing a million snacks in there, along with whatever dinner he has set aside for you. Robin likes to poke fun at him for having been so thoroughly domesticated, but in all reality, no one is surprised by this turn of events.
Steve insists on picking you up from the studio on days when you have long rehearsals after you arrived home nearly incoherent during tech week. He shuddered to think about you driving home alone and something happening to you. Yes, he also drops you off in the morning and begs you to sleep for the short ride to the studio. No matter how long this has been your routine, you cannot become a morning person for the life of you.
When you were young, you were so shy for him to come to any of your performances. He tries his best to be patient with you, and not to push but when he finds out that Nancy and Robin have tickets for opening night, he pouts until you tell him that you’ve set aside a few for him and the kids.
When he sees you onstage for the first time, his eyes get watery. He knows how hard you work, and never doubted how talented you are. But to see it for the first time knocks the wind out of him.
Dustin had tucked a pack of tissues in his pocket before he left the house, Steve can’t even say anything snarky because he is two seconds from weeping and you’ve barely finished your first set of turns.
Steve anticipates the day that cast list comes out more than you do. When your company is working on a new show, he looks forward to you explaining the plot of the ballet to him, explaining the roles that you are hoping for and the ones that you would be resigned to. He is without fail your biggest cheerleader and on the rare occasion that casting doesn’t go your way, he does his best to rein in his frustration and trade it in for something supportive. If he thought it would help he would round up Robin and Dustin and have a word with your studio director.
On opening night, he is there with the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen. That’s standard after every performance, and if he can’t make it, the florist knows his usual order and your typical dressing room like the back of their hand.
If you haven’t already had the nugget talk, you better get ready for it the first time he sees you teaching the baby ballet class. You are a principal dancer with your company, but you don’t mind filling in a few times a year for the young ones. You’d forgotten your favorite rehearsal skirt at home and even though you hadn’t said anything, Steve dropped by the studio, skirt and several baggies of orange slices in hand. He spots you helping one of the little girls with her slippers and he honestly feels woozy.
They know him by name at the local dance store, and he keeps a little note in his wallet with your preferred brands and sizes.
When you stop in together, you always catch him staring at the little leotards and teeny ballet slippers with heart eyes
He begs you to teach him a few lifts. It’s not that he is jealous of your partners, in fact, he invites them over for dinner a few times a year with any family they may have. He loves to hold you, and you have a special smile that peaks out when a lift goes especially well mid-variation. He would love to be responsible for it.
When you hesitate, he tries not to take it personally. “Sugarplum, you know I won’t let you fall”
Oh yeah, the first year you met, you landed the role of the Sugarplum fairy for the first time. Steve doesn’t seem phased in the slightest that it is a bit of a seasonal nickname. You are Sugarplum during Nutcracker season and you are Sugarplum in the heat of July. Sometimes, you’re just Sugar, but only when he is cross with you- which is very rare.
Always happy to rub your feet and run you a hot bath after rehearsal. Any excuse to pamper you he takes.
Some of his favorite ballets include Giselle and he loves Coppélia very very much because he thinks Franz is an idiot and he rides for Swanhilda like no other. (If you are not familiar with Coppélia, I highly recommend a peak at the synopsis, it’s genuinely so funny.) He is not overly fond of Romeo and Juliet, because he insists that he never would’ve fallen for the poison situation, and he has a grudge against Shakespeare after trudging through Hamlet in high school.
He has very strong opinions about your various Nutcracker roles. He loves your other shows as well, but he's seen Nutcracker more times than he can count, so he has the most opinions about it. He loves when you are the Sugarplum Fairy the most, but he has a special place in his heart for the years when you are Dewdrop or the Snow Queen
Just as a brief last thought, he goes wild for Mother Ginger every year, like tears in his eyes silently laughing in his seat. Something about it kills him
ballerina!reader who can’t stop giggling while making out with hockeyplayer!chris.
you’re perched on his lap, your soft pink bedspread crinkling beneath you. the walls of your room are painted a pale blush, ballet posters hanging in neat frames, pointe shoes resting in the corner, everything soft and girlish. his hockey jacket is thrown haphazardly onto the floor, a stark contrast to the dainty decor of your room. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as his lips press against yours, feeling the roughness of his hands on your waist, but you can’t stop the little giggles bubbling up in you chest.
he feels it, the sound of your laugh muffled beneath his lips, the smile pressed against him. his lips move slowly, trailing open, wet kisses along your jawline. "what’s so funny, angel?" he murmurs, voice low, his breath hot against your skin.
you lowered your gaze, meeting his eyes. his lips, slightly parted, trembled as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. the corner of your mouth twitched into a smile. "i don’t know," you murmured, your voice barely audible. "your lips... they make me laugh."
his expression softened, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his mouth. "ah, really?" he asked as he lifted his head. his lips barely grazed yours, sending a shiver down your spine.
your hands moved slowly to his cheeks, fingertips tracing the shape of his jaw as if memorizing every line. "mhm," you hummed softly in response.
a moment of silence stretched between you, your gazes locked. then, without warning, he shifted, flipping your positions in one swift movement. a gasp escaped your lips at the sudden change, and the bed creaked softly beneath the weight of your bodies. before you could fully process it, his hands were everywhere—on your hips, gliding over your arms, tracing your thighs—touching every spot where you were most ticklish.
his lips followed the path of his hands, brushing against your neck, your nose, cheeks, and chin, leaving a trail of warmth wherever they landed. your laughter erupted uncontrollably, filling the room as you squirmed beneath him, trying in vain to wriggle free. he didn’t stop, though, a playful grin tugging at his lips. he loved the sound of your laughter, the way it lit up the space around you, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear it forever.