falling for it
pairing: jo x reader
genre: romance, fluff, slow burn
word count: 1.6k
summary: y/n writes romance novels but has never lived one. a proud homebody and a self-proclaimed loner, she's content on her own-until the sly and irresistible jo crashes into her life and turns it upside down. his charm feels dangerous, yet impossible to resist. now y/n must find out. is he the love that she's been waiting for. or the heartbreak she never saw coming.
you've always liked the quiet.
your apartment smells like old books, vanilla candles, and the faint bitterness of coffee that's been sitting too long. the curtains stay half-drawn even on sunny days because direct sunlight makes the screen glare, and glare means squinting, and squinting means headaches, and headaches mean you can't write. writing is everything. writing is safe. writing lets you build perfect boys who say the right thing at the right moment, who never leave dishes in the sink, who never ghost after three dates.
in your novels, the meet-cute is choreographed. rain-soaked strangers under one umbrella. accidental coffee spills that lead to phone numbers scribbled on napkins. grand gestures in train stations with swelling violins in the background (even though violins are rarely playing in real train stations).
in real life, you haven't had a meet-cute since... ever.
you're twenty-six, single, and perfectly fine with it. your friends stopped trying to set you up after the third "he's nice but..." text you sent. you prefer fictional men anyway. they don't snore. they don't ask why your fridge only contains yogurt, kimchi, and half a lemon.
then jo happens.
it's not even dramatic at first.
you're at the small indie bookstore three blocks from your place, the one with creaky wooden floors and a cat that hates everyone. you go there every thursday afternoon to browse the romance section (for research, obviously) and buy overpriced herbal tea. today you're reaching for a copy of a new sapphic fantasy romance when someone else reaches at the exact same time.
your fingers brush.
you pull back like you've been electrocuted.
"sorry," you mumble, eyes already dropping to the floor because eye contact is a scam.
no big deal. happens all the time in bookstores.
except the hand doesn't retreat.
instead, long fingers curl gently around the book and offer it to you.
"you first," the voice says. low. warm. a little amused.
you glance up.
and freeze.
he's tall, stupidly tall, dark hair falling into darker eyes, a lazy half-smile that's somehow both shy and cocky at once. he's wearing a loose black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to show forearms that look like they know their way around a gym (or maybe just life), and there's a silver ring on his index finger that catches the light when he tilts his head.
"i insist," he adds, voice dipping like he's sharing a secret.
you take the book. your fingers brush again. this time you don't flinch.
"thanks," you mutter.
he doesn't walk away.
instead he leans against the shelf, arms crossed, watching you like you're mildly interesting.
"you're here a lot," he says.
you blink. "sorry?"
"thursdays. around three. always in this aisle. always tea in one hand, phone in the other. you mutter to yourself when a blurb disappoints you."
your face burns. "i do not mutter."
"you do. it's cute."
cute.
the word lands like a pebble in still water. ripples everywhere.
you clutch the book tighter. "are you... stalking me?"
he laughs, soft, surprised, like he didn't expect that. "no. i work here now. part-time. saw you a few times. noticed the muttering. hard not to."
oh.
he works here.
that explains why he's been showing up in your peripheral vision more often lately. the tall guy restocking poetry. the one who hums under his breath when he thinks no one's listening.
"i'm jo," he says, offering a hand.
you stare at it for a second too long before shaking it. his palm is warm. calloused in a way that suggests he plays guitar or something equally romantic.
"y/n," you reply.
"nice to officially meet the muttering girl."
"i don't mutter."
"you do. but it's endearing."
you narrow your eyes. "are you flirting?"
"is it working?"
you huff a laugh despite yourself. "no comment."
he grins wider. "fair."
he doesn't push. just nods toward the counter. "i'll ring that up for you. on the house."
"what? no—"
"new employee discount. for cute customers who mutter."
you roll your eyes but follow him anyway.
he rings it up. slides a bookmark into the pages, a simple black one with gold foil that says "read dangerously."
"subtle," you say.
"i try."
you leave the store feeling... off-balance.
like the plot just veered somewhere unexpected.
the next thursday he's there again.
this time he has a recommendation.
"you like slow burns?" he asks, holding up a book you've been eyeing but too stubborn to buy.
"how do you know that?"
"you skipped three insta-love titles last week. lingered on this one. classic sign."
you stare. "are you profiling me?"
"observing," he corrects. "big difference."
you buy the book. he slips another bookmark in. this one has a tiny doodle of a coffee cup.
weeks pass like that.
small collisions.
he recommends books. you pretend you don't care but read them in one sitting anyway.
he starts remembering your tea order (chamomile with honey, no milk).
one day it rains.
you're caught without an umbrella.
he's just getting off shift.
"here," he says, holding his open over your head before you can protest.
you walk together. shoulders brushing. the umbrella is small. you have to stay close.
"this feels like one of your books," he teases.
"my books are better written."
"ouch."
you smile despite yourself.
at your building he stops. hands you the umbrella.
"keep it. i have another."
"jo—"
"goodnight, y/n."
he walks away in the rain like it's nothing.
you stand there holding his umbrella, heart doing something inconvenient.
you start texting.
at first it's book related.
"the third act twist was cheap."
"you just hate happiness."
"i hate predictable happiness."
then it drifts.
"what are you doing right now?"
"watching the worst horror movie ever. you?"
"writing."
"send me a line."
you do. a soft one. about longing.
he replies: "damn. that's unfair."
"unfair how?"
"makes me want to hear you say it out loud."
you don't reply for ten minutes.
then: "maybe one day."
he sends a photo of his cat sleeping on his guitar.
"this is kuma. he's judging your silence."
you laugh. send a photo of your own workspace. messy notes. half-dead plant.
"kuma says your plant needs water."
"kuma can mind his business."
the banter is easy. too easy.
you catch yourself smiling at your phone more.
dangerous.
one evening he asks if you want to grab coffee.
not at the bookstore cafe.
somewhere else.
"i know a place with good matcha," he texts. "no tourists. quiet."
you hesitate.
your apartment is safe. your routine is safe. he is... not.
but you say yes.
the cafe is tiny. tucked in an alley. fairy lights. mismatched chairs. it smells like cinnamon and rain.
he waits outside. hoodie up. hands in pockets.
when he sees you his whole face softens.
"hey."
"hi."
inside, you sit across from each other.
he talks about music. how he plays guitar late at night when the city quiets.
you talk about writing. how the words come easier when it's dark.
he listens like every word matters.
at one point his knee brushes yours under the table.
neither of you moves away.
"you make me nervous," you admit quietly.
he tilts his head. "good nervous?"
"annoyingly good."
he smiles, slow. real.
"you make me want to be careful," he says. "i'm not usually careful."
"why me?"
"because you look at the world like it's a story. and i want to be in yours."
your chest tightens.
you don't know how to answer.
so you don't.
you just sip your matcha and let the silence feel full instead of empty.
weeks turn into months.
he starts showing up at your place.
first with takeout because "you forget to eat when you're in the zone."
then with vinyls because "your speaker deserves better sound."
then just because.
one night you're both on your couch.
kuma (his cat, who now lives a double life between apartments) is curled between you.
you're editing. he's scrolling playlists.
the room is quiet except for rain tapping the window.
he sets his phone down.
looks at you.
"y/n."
you glance up.
"i like you."
simple.
no grand speech.
no violins.
just him. eyes steady. voice soft.
your heart trips.
"i... like you too," you whisper.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
he leans in slowly.
gives you time to pull away.
you don't.
the kiss is gentle. tentative. like testing if the page will tear.
then deeper.
his hand finds your cheek.
yours finds his hoodie strings.
when you pull back you're both smiling like idiots.
"was that okay?" he asks.
"more than okay."
he laughs against your mouth.
kisses you again.
softer this time.
like a promise.
you think maybe this is it.
the thing you've been writing about.
the thing you never thought you'd get.
but life isn't a novel.
there are still rough drafts.
there are still nights he has schedules. tours coming up. (&team things. photoshoots. practices. the idol life you pretend doesn't exist because it feels too far from your quiet world.)
there are still days you panic.
wonder if he's too bright.
too much.
wonder if you'll dim him.
or if he'll leave when the newness fades.
one night you say it.
"what if this ends badly?"
you're tangled in bed. his arm around your waist. rain again.
he doesn't flinch.
"what if it doesn't?"
you turn to face him.
"i write endings. good ones. bad ones. but i always know how it'll go."
"life doesn't come with an outline."
"that's terrifying."
he brushes hair from your face.
"i know. but i'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
"promise?"
"promise."
you kiss him.
slow.
sure.
maybe he's the love you've been waiting for.
maybe he's the plot twist.
either way...
you're finally living one.
and for once, you don't need to write the next chapter to know it's going to be good.
