#downbad!sungchan

[fleurliz]

𝒥ellyous

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The worst part wasn’t that you were in love with someone else.

No.

The worst part was that you weren’t in love with anyone—you were just so hopelessly, blindingly clueless that you never realized Sungchan was in love with you.

Everyone else knew.

You’d call him at 2 a.m. because you’d lost your keys, and he’d show up half-asleep in sweats, unlocking your door without complaint. You’d crawl into his bed during movie nights, tucking yourself under his arm like it was the most normal thing in the world. You’d steal his hoodies—never giving them back—and he’d pretend not to notice just so you’d keep wearing them.

You thought it was friendly.

You thought he held your hand when you were tired because he was “comforting you.” That he brushed your hair behind your ear because it was “in your face.”

You were the kind of girl who’d giggle and say, You’re so nice to me, Chan, never realizing he was mentally proposing marriage every time you smiled.

And the worst thing?

You did it without even trying.

Like last weekend—when you’d slipped your hand into his at the street crossing. Or the time you’d fed him a bite of your ice cream without blinking. Or when you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, wearing his hoodie, legs draped across his lap.

You had no idea how many times he’d nearly leaned in to kiss you, how many nights he’d lain awake, heart a bruised thing in his chest, wondering how you could be so painfully, heartbreakingly oblivious.

And that’s why now—

You burst into his apartment, a tiny pink shopping bag swinging from your wrist, wearing that innocent smile that could unravel him in seconds.

You had no idea how many times you’d nearly given him a heart attack.

Like right now, when you burst into his apartment, a tiny pink shopping bag swinging from your wrist, wearing that innocent smile that could unravel him in seconds.

“Sungchan,” you chirp, “I need your opinion!”

He’s sprawled on the couch in a black hoodie and gray sweats, hair falling into his eyes, because he’s been sulking for the past two hours thinking about you out on your little coffee date with that guy from your history class. His jaw tenses.

“Opinion on what?” he asks carefully, because he knows if he sounds too jealous you’ll notice—though honestly, you never notice anything.

You plop down beside him, so close he can smell your perfume—soft and sweet, like vanilla—and his brain short-circuits.

“On this,” you say, pulling out a dainty hair clip. It’s shaped like a cherry. “Do you think it’s cute?”

He blinks. “Yeah. Cute.”

“Like…should I wear it on my next date?”

He almost chokes. “Date?”

“Yeah! Remember the guy I told you about? The one who’s in my class ?”

Oh, he remembers. The walking highlighter who’s been trying to flirt with you for weeks. Sungchan’s hands curl into loose fists, and he swallows the sharp thing in his throat.

“You really…like him?” His voice is too tight.

You frown, tilting your head. “I mean…he’s nice?”

That’s it? Nice? He wants to laugh, or scream, or just grab your face and say I’m nice too, but you don’t see me taking you on dumb coffee dates.

Instead, he says:

“Don’t go.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t go with him.”

“Why not?” you ask, wide-eyed. You look genuinely puzzled, and it only makes him feel more insane.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Because—”

“Because what?”

Because I’m so in love with you it makes me stupid.

But you just sit there, blinking at him, clutching your cherry clip like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” he says hoarsely.

“See what?”

“How much I—” He breaks off, chest heaving. Your eyes soften in concern.

“Sungchan…are you okay?”

“No,” he mutters. “I’m not.”

Before you can reply, he grabs your wrist, tugging you closer until your knees bump. His heart is pounding like he’s run a marathon.

“I’m not okay because you keep going on these dates and talking about other guys and you never, ever realize—”

“Realize what?”

He exhales shakily, voice dropping low. “That you’re mine.”

You freeze, lips parted.

“…Yours?”

He tips his forehead to yours. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You’re mine.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Your pulse is thrumming under his fingers.

“You’re always mine,” he whispers. “And it’s driving me crazy that you can’t tell.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Then, very softly, you say, “You…like me?”

His laugh is ragged. “I’m in love with you.”

Your heart skips.

“You’re so clueless,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled. “God, you make me jealous over everyone who so much as looks at you.”

You swallow, feeling your cheeks burn. “…Even the guy with the pens?”

“Especially him.”

“…Oh.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, searching for any sign that you’re going to run away. Instead, you smile—shy and sweet.

“…So…should I cancel my date?” you whisper.

His thumb brushes your lower lip, gaze dark. “Yes.”

“Okay,” you murmur, “but…what if I still want to wear the clip?”

He groans again, and you giggle as he kisses you—finally, after all that time, your clueless heart catching up with his.

And in that moment, there’s no more jealousy.

Just you. And him. And all the sweetness you never noticed until now.