The art club room was quiet, like most afternoons. It was your only source of relief from the stress of grades, your parents, and daily life in general. Last year, when you were a junior, it used to be bustling with life, but after all your seniors graduated and your failure to recruit new members thanks to your social ineptitude, you were the art club’s sole member this year. It’s not like you minded—painting was easier when it was quiet and you practically never ran out of supplies since you were the only one using them.
You set your canvas atop an easel and grabbed a tube for every paint color, just in case. The light of the sun shone through the window, inviting you to look outside for inspiration. With a deep breath and a clear mind, you gaze through the window pane in search of your next subject. A couple seconds of gazing turns into a minute. One minute turns into two. Two minutes turns into five. Five minutes turns into half an hour. Nothing. Looking out that window five days a week for more than a year has completely drained the view of any inspiration. The wooded area beyond the school grounds has remained unchanged, and the school’s soccer field wasn’t exactly an enticing subject to paint. With a disappointed sigh, you decide to pack it in early tonight and head home. However, right as you start to pack up, you hear the door open abruptly.
“Oh, sorry, is this the wrong r—Woah.”
The prettiest girl you have ever laid eyes on steps through the door, examining the various paintings adorning the walls with awe. “Oh my god, these are beautiful. Did you paint these?” she asks, directing her attention towards you.
You flinch, startled by the sudden question. “U-uh, a couple of them…” you murmur. Painting was one of the things you considered yourself to be good at. For others, it was studying or sports. For you, it was skillfully using a brush to fill a blank canvas with what you considered art. However, none of your pieces could even compare to the beauty of the girl standing before you.
“Wow, you’re really talented!” she says, flashing a wide grin at you that makes your heart skip a beat. “My name’s Julie, I just moved here recently.” She extends a welcoming hand towards you, which you ungracefully accept with a shaky hand.
“Th-thanks… I-I’m Woohyuk. U-um, what are you doing here?” you ask her, silently praying that she’s here to join the art club.
“Oh right, I was trying to find the room for the hip-hop club, but I guess I got lost.” Julie chuckles cutely at her mistake. Your heart sank a little, but her warm smile lifted your spirits instantly. A warm blush graces your cheeks as you mentally trace every detail of her face, afraid that she would disappear forever the second you blinked. Her silky coffee hair perfectly framed her face, the glistening pink hue of her lip gloss coated her plump lips which curled into a smile that made your heart soar, and the slight puffiness of her eyes made her look endearing, like a cat that just woke up from a nap.
“Uhh, Woohyuk? Are you alright?” she asks with a worried expression. You shake your head, embarrassed that you were caught staring.
“Y-yeah, I’m fine. The hip-hop club is two doors down,” you answer, averting your gaze for fear of getting caught in another trance.
“That’s so close! I should stop by here every once in a while, this place is cool,” Julie giggles as she backs up towards the door, never breaking eye contact with you. “Thanks, Woohyuk! I’ll see you around!” she waves before shutting the door.
You stand there in silence, taking in the brief yet memorable interaction. Without hesitation, you set up your canvas and your paints once again, reinvigorated with a new passion.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
You end up getting home an hour later than usual. Your parents had some stern words for you upon entering the door, but they believed the lie you told them about helping out a teacher after the art club ended. Truthfully, you lost track of time trying to paint Julie, but no amount of skill or experience could truly capture her essence. Was it creepy to try and paint a girl you just met? Maybe. Definitely. But this was the first time in a while that you felt truly inspired to paint, and with the school festival right around the corner, you needed something breathtaking to display amongst your other mundane pieces.
That night, you stared at the dark ceiling of your room, finding it impossible to sleep. The shadows began to shift, morphing into indecipherable shapes like different shades of black and navy spilled on a blank canvas. The splotches took a familiar form until you saw Julie’s magnificent face staring back at you. You couldn’t help but laugh as you contemplated whether or not you’d gone insane. No artist is ever fully sane, you thought before succumbing to the exhaustion and drifting gently into a peaceful slumber.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
As usual, you find yourself in the art club room after a particularly rough day of classes. If you weren’t daydreaming about Julie, you were dozing off in class and dreaming about her instead. To make matters worse, nearly all of your teachers called you out for not paying attention, adding another layer of embarrassment. You set up your equipment, hoping you’ll be able to forget about everything once you start painting.
Just before the paint touches the canvas, you hesitate, glancing at the door with bated breath. As stupid as it was, you strained your mind, half convinced Julie would walk through the door if you willed hard enough. You get your hopes up as you hear footsteps walk by, but ultimately, you’re met with silence and disappointment as the door stares back at you as if taunting you with its stillness. A mix of emotions goes through your head as you look back to your blank canvas.
She wasn’t coming back, and you felt like an idiot for getting so attached after one meeting. Rather than sitting around moping, you decide to cut yourself some slack—you would be surprised if someone didn’t fall in love after one look at her. With a sigh, you bring your brush back to the canvas, this time letting your heart do all the work instead of your head. Your arm moves with a mind of its own, tracing invisible lines and painting with pure intuition. This was the feeling you loved most while painting: Letting yourself get lost in the process without worrying about the final form. No planning, no second guessing, no expectations. In your heart, you knew that no matter how it looked, this would be your masterpiece.
Before you knew it, you were done. You straighten your spine, the pain in your lower back a sign of hard work. Looking back at your now-filled canvas, you see a pair of eyes you hadn’t noticed before. Then, you see lips, shining as if they were coated with lip gloss made out of stars. Then, it’s strands of brown hair, cascading down like a waterfall of milk chocolate.
A face. You made a face. More specifically, it’s Julie’s face. And it was beautiful.
“Is that me?”
A voice from behind makes you jump, inadvertently knocking over your mini table full of supplies. Blotches of paint spray all over the tile floor and onto your pants. You look up at the source of the voice only to see the same familiar face on your canvas: Julie Han.
“I-I… U-um, i-it’s not…” You struggle to explain yourself, not a single eligible word escapes your lips. Somehow, Julie had managed to come into the art room without you knowing. You didn’t know how long she was there, but it was obvious she had seen your painting. There was no use hiding it.
During the commotion, paint had sprayed all over Julie’s legs and her shoes. You quickly grab a pack of wet wipes from the cupboard and offer it to her, your eyes glued to the floor.
“S-sorry…” you utter under your breath. Your heart pounded in your chest as you waited for her to yell at you or call you a creep. The weight of the wet wipes left your hand, leaving you isolated with nothing to hold onto. You could do nothing but wait as your vision of the tiles on the floor began to blur together, creating an ugly blotch of black that glared at you with the sting of disapproval.
Like a ray of light in a dark tunnel, Julie’s voice shot through your worries. “That’s an amazing painting, Woohyuk.” You jerked your head up and saw her gazing at the canvas with deep admiration, too busy enjoying your work to care about the paint on her.
“R-really? Y-you don’t think it’s… creepy?” you ask. At this point, your heart stopped beating and you wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you before you faded into the afterlife.
“Creepy? Not at all, this is really cute. No one has ever painted me before. It’s really flattering.” Her eyes twinkled as she winked at you. Whether it was a trick of the light or just your imagination, it didn’t matter. “Sorry for startling you, I wanted to stop by after hip-hop club since I didn’t get the chance earlier.”
You took a deep breath, letting the familiar and calming scent of the art room fill your lungs. “I-it’s fine. Sorry about your shoes…” you murmur with an apologetic look on your face. Julie glances down at her once-white shoes, now covered in a misshapen rainbow of color.
“It’s cool, I kinda like them better this way,” Julie says. “Why don’t you sign them?”
“W-what?” you asked, completely bewildered by her request.
“Don’t artists sign their paintings? It’s just like that, except I get to wear them every day.” She flashed you a bright smile that you just couldn’t say no to (Not that you would ever say no to her in the first place). You sheepishly grabbed a paintbrush and a tube of black paint, nodding at her. Julie stamps her foot on the stool you were using, and your neck immediately snaps to the side in an attempt to avoid accidentally looking up her skirt, eliciting a hearty laugh from her that rang through your ears.
“I’m wearing shorts underneath, silly,” she says, chuckling at you. With a careful glance, you see that she is in fact wearing black shorts underneath her skirt. A wave of embarrassment turns your cheeks pink as you dip your brush into the black paint. The closer your hand got to her shoe, the more you began to tremble, making it impossible for you to produce an eligible signature.
“Am I making you nervous?” Julie teased with her sweet voice. You could only awkwardly chuckle in response, resorting to grabbing your wrist with your free hand and settling for a subpar signature. It certainly wasn’t your best work by any means, but the smile on her face as she looked down at her paint-splattered shoes made it all worth it.
“Thanks, Woohyuk! I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow!” She gave you one final wink before disappearing behind the closed door, leaving you stunned for the second day in a row. To you, Julie Han is an enigma. Not only was she absolutely gorgeous, but she was also eccentric, optimistic, and kind. How could someone so perfect appear in your life all of a sudden? Was this compensation for the years of suffering you have endured until now? It was simple—you were completely and utterly infatuated with her. As you cleaned the rest of the paint mess on the ground, you couldn’t help but contemplate whether you should be delighted at the prospect of seeing her again or terrified of the uncertain future.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
The math teacher’s unexpected illness and the lax attitude of the substitute gave you the perfect opportunity to sketch out your next piece during class. Sure, the painting of Julie you created yesterday was amazing, but you needed more than a single painting to showcase at the school festival next week. Unfortunately, it was difficult trying to capture her solely through memory and the sub doing nothing to control the now rowdy classroom only added to the difficulty. Suddenly, your notebook was forcefully torn away from you.
“Yah, Woohyuk, what are you drawing?” Yechan, the jerk who had been bullying you all throughout high school, chuckled as he gawked at your sketch with his stupid friends. “Isn’t this that new girl, Julie? What the fuck bro, are you stalking her or something?”
You felt the heat creeping up your neck with anger and embarrassment as the rest of the class started to pay attention to what was happening. The substitute had earbuds in, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding before him. All you could do was clench your fist and pray for a miracle.
“Not gonna lie, she is kinda hot though,” Yechan says, snickering. “Y’know we’re in the hip-hop club together, right? I might consider asking her out at the next meeting.”
With each word he says, you feel your jaw clench and your fingernails dig into your palm. “G-give me my notebook back…” You try your best to sound confident, but all that comes out of your mouth is a frightened stutter. Yechan smacks you in the head with your notebook, causing it to fall on the floor next to you. The sketch of Julie was crumpled and torn just like your self-esteem.
“You wanna say that again, you little shit?” He growls into your ear, spewing his hot breath in your face. You gulped, wanting to shrink and disappear forever.
“He said to give him his notebook back, asshole.”
A hush fell over the room as a sweet yet stern voice was heard from the doorway. You glance over and see Julie, glaring angrily at Yechan as she stomps toward him.
“Julie? What are you doing he—” Yechan’s words are cut short with a smack to the face, courtesy of Julie’s hand. A chorus of “Ooohs” escaped everyone’s lips, even the substitute became invested in this scene of petty high school drama. You could only sit there and watch, both relieved and embarrassed by Julie’s intervention.
“As if I would ever date some asshole like you,” she spewed before turning to you with a concerned look. “Are you okay, Woohyuk?” The caramel tones of her voice made you feel at ease as if nothing bad could ever happen when you were with her. Like a guardian angel arriving at the most dire times, Julie always found a way to make everything better. At that moment, you knew you wanted to be with her, to spend more time with her and get to know everything about her, but a voice in the back of your mind was telling you that you were inadequate. You couldn’t even protect yourself from one bully, what good could you do as her boyfriend?
Julie grabbed your notebook off the ground and handed it to you. “I’m sorry about your drawing. It still looks really good though, you even got my eye shape and everything,” she compliments, giggling. A soft chuckle escapes your lips as a warm blush coats your cheeks.
“I-it’s just a sketch—”
“YOU BITCH!!” Yechan suddenly reels his arm back and you instinctively stand up in front of Julie, protecting her from the punch. The last thing you feel is a sharp shock to the jaw before your vision fades to black.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
As your eyes creep open, you are greeted by an abstract silhouette of colors. Reds, browns, and creams were lazily pushed together against a background of bland gray to resemble some sort of human form. Confusion hit you first, but as your vision began to clear, the colors and shapes became less fuzzy and more recognizable until you could make out a vivid picture of Julie looking down at you. Her face was close enough for you to see your reflection in her eyes and the smooth texture of her skin.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Julie chuckles. “You had me worried there for a second.”
“Where am I?” You ask her as you sit up. A shooting pain hits your jaw, reminding you of what happened before you blacked out, and a wave of embarrassment hits you.
“You’re in the nurse’s office. The sub and I dragged you here after he sent Yechan to the Principal. I heard he’s gonna get a month-long suspension,” she explained. You couldn’t help but feel slightly irked as this whole thing could have been avoided if the sub had done his job in the first place.
“A month isn’t long enough,” you commented, earning a small chuckle from Julie. Suddenly, she took your hand in hers, lazily caressing the back of your hand with her thumb. You felt your breath catch in your throat and you had to mentally remind yourself to breathe before you blacked out again.
“You were really brave back there,” she said, flashing you a smile of admiration. “Thank you.”
“I-I didn’t really do anything. You were the brave one,” you pointed out. Getting punched in the face wasn’t exactly an act of bravery in your book. Julie, ever the optimist, saw things differently.
“Well then, I guess we make a great team,” she jokes. The two of you share a laugh, alone in the nurse’s office of all places. You would gladly spend the rest of eternity in this small room if it meant getting to spend every second of it close to her like this. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end as the nurse walks through the door.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says nonchalantly. “If you feel fine, you’re free to go back to class.” The urge to lie and tell her that you were still feeling a little dizzy just so you could spend a little more time with Julie was strong, but Julie had already started walking to the door.
“Sorry Woohyuk, I have a test next period that I really don’t want to make up. I’ll see you after school, I promise!” With a bright smile so big that it squeezes her eyes shut, she waves goodbye to you before disappearing into the hallway. You admired how she smiled so freely and so fully as if nothing bad could ever happen to her. It became a precious gesture that you wanted to protect by any means necessary.
But what could you do? You were just a socially awkward painter, and she was everything. All you were good for was becoming a human punching bag for others. It was obvious how this story would end - your one-sided feelings would stay hidden and Julie would go on to date some other guy that could give her everything she could ever want. It was painful, but it was the truth.
Or so you thought.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
Thankfully, the rest of the day went by without any further incidents, and you were once again walking the familiar route to the art club room. Suddenly, a voice from behind you echoes through the hallway.
“Choi Woohyuk!” You turn around to see Julie skipping towards you with a childlike giddiness. “Let’s walk together!”
‘S-sure,” you utter, trying to mask your enthusiasm. As the two of you walk side by side, Julie links arms with you, sending a shockwave through your body, which she notices and giggles at.
“I’m not making you uncomfortable am I?” She asks teasingly.
“N-not at all.” While you were happy with the contact, you weren’t sure what to make of it. Was this just a friendly gesture she did with all of her friends? Not wanting to get your hopes up, you decide to change the subject. “Soooo, you heading to the hip-hop club today?”
“Actually, I think I’m gonna quit the hip-hop club.”
Bewildered, you turn to her. “W-what, why?”
“I’d rather not be in the same club as that jerk Yechan,” she cringed. “Besides, I think it’s time that I try something new. Like painting.”
Her last words stopped you dead in your tracks. “W-what do you mean?”
Julie giggled cutely at your confused expression. “I wanna join the art club, and I want you to teach me how to paint.”
It felt too good to be true. On the outside, you were completely frozen, but on the inside, you were screaming and jumping for joy. “W-why?” you ask, attempting to stifle a grin.
“I don’t know, I just think it would be fun,” she answers simply. “I thought you would be happier since you’re basically obsessed with me.”
“I am not—” The warm blush that spread across your cheeks was answer enough; you were in fact obsessed with her. Julie grabs your hand and starts pulling you towards the art club room.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go, Woohyuk!” Hand in hand, the two of you run through the hallways, your laughter echoing against the walls. You received some looks from students and teachers passing by, but you didn’t care. Instead of suppressing your smile like you usually do, you allowed yourself to smile as freely as the girl whose hand you were holding. The girl who showed up out of nowhere like a bolt from the blue. The girl who you were in love with.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
In the week leading up to the school festival, you and Julie spent practically every second together. You would meet up during the passing period just to talk for five minutes, and during class, you hid your phone underneath books just to send her a quick text. After school, you would give Julie painting lessons while working on your own pieces for the festival. To others, her work could be considered elementary or sloppy, but to you, they were masterpieces that deserved to be displayed at galleries for the whole world to see. Some days, Julie would be your muse and pose for you, giving you new ideas and teasing you if you stared at her for too long. On one particular day, Julie was uncharacteristically quiet as she was completely focused on painting a vase of flowers you set in front of her. You found the way her eyebrows furrowed to be particularly adorable.
On the weekend, you even went on a little museum “date” with her to help familiarize her with famous pieces and techniques. While you insisted that it was purely educational, Julie didn’t cease to poke fun at you when she caught you looking at her instead of the paintings. On the day of the school festival, the two of you had successfully made enough paintings for an exhibit. While you were extremely proud of the pieces you and Julie made, you couldn’t help but feel nervous as you waited for people to stop by the art club room.
Julie noticed you being quieter than usual and gave you a worried expression. “Are you okay, Woohyuk? You don’t look so hot.”
“I-I’m fine,” you reassured her, but she wasn’t convinced. She led you to a nearby chair for you to sit on.
“You can talk to me, y’know. I’m here for you,” she soothes. Her voice had a way of calming you down, even in the worst of times.
“I’m just… nervous, I guess. What if no one shows up? We worked so hard this whole time, but if no one shows up, it’ll be such a waste.” Your head falls into your hands as you let out a deep sigh. Julie runs her hand gently through your hair in an attempt to provide you comfort.
“It’s not a waste at all. We had a lot of fun, and you taught me a lot about painting,” she explains before pausing in contemplation for a moment. Suddenly, her cheeks became tinged with a light shade of pink as she turned to you. “L-look, I was gonna give this to you later, but I think you need it now. Close your eyes.”
You raise an eyebrow at her in bewilderment. “What?”
“Just close them, Woohyuk!” She exclaimed.
“O-okay…” You decide to do as you're told instead of arguing. A couple seconds of nothing passes until the unthinkable happens: a soft warmth grazes against the flesh of your cheek, gentle and fleeting. The feeling lasts for less than a second, but the sensation lingers on your skin like a tattoo. You open your eyes and turn to Julie, whose light pink cheeks evolved into the red of a ripe tomato.
“J-Julie, did you just—”
Your words are interrupted as a couple walks through the doors.
“Hello, are you guys open?”
Julie jumps up from her seat, almost too eager to leave your side. “Yes, hello! Welcome to the art club, please have a look around!”
Slowly but steadily, the room starts to fill with more and more people, a larger crowd than you anticipated. For the next few hours, you and Julie would go around to each person, answering their questions and explaining your works of art. It was nerve-wracking given your track record with social interactions, but Julie’s presence alone was enough to keep you afloat. While you were happy so many people were there to check out your paintings, you weren’t able to ask Julie about what happened earlier.
Once the crowd died down a little bit, you went up to Julie to talk to her, but a girl with long black hair beat you to her.
“Julie!” She exclaimed as she embraced her. The two girls excitedly jumped up and down, squealing with excitement.
“Oh my god, I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow!” Julie beamed.
“I wasn’t about to miss my best friend’s first ever art exhibition! I can’t believe you made all of these, they’re so good!”
“Actually, I didn’t make all of them.” Julie beckons you over, flashing a wide smile at you. “Woohyuk, this is Natty, my best friend from my old school. Natty, this is Woohyuk, my art teacher and my… friend.” You noticed a small hesitation before she said “friend”, but the conversation moved on before you could dwell on it for too long.
“Oh, Woohyuk? So this is the boy you’ve been talking about, Julie. Not bad,” Natty says, winking at Julie. In response, Julie slaps her friend on the shoulder, eliciting heavy laughter from her. You could only stand there awkwardly, confused and out of the loop.
“A-anyways,” Julie interjected, blushing profusely, “I’m gonna give Natty a tour of the school, are you okay being here by yourself?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something first,” you utter nervously.
Julie looks at you with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, is it okay if we talk later? I promise I’ll be back within an hour.”
The urge to ask her about what happened earlier was strong, but it was impossible to say no to her, especially when she gave you that look. “O-okay, I’ll see you in an hour then. Go have fun,” you reassure her, trying to hide your disappointment. Julie gives you one last look before exiting the room with Natty, leaving you alone with the few remaining visitors left.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐
Moonlight casts abstract shadows against the floor of the art club room. Everyone else had gone to watch the performances from the various music-related clubs, yet here you were, sitting on the floor of the art club room, waiting for the girl of your dreams to walk through the door. You had been waiting exactly two hours, 43 minutes, and 12 seconds for her to come back (you started counting ever since she stepped out of the doorway). You weren’t mad that she took longer than she said she would, nor were you sad that she isn’t there yet. You were just… waiting.
The silence gave your thoughts the space to roam freely in your mind, yet you were only focused on one thing. It hadn’t left your mind ever since people started entering your art exhibition. You so desperately wanted to know what it meant. More specifically, you wanted to know what it meant for the future. Was it a chance at a new beginning? Or was it just a mistake? Negativity and doubt began to seep through your brain like ink spilled on a blank sheet of paper. Were you meant to live the rest of your life in this unrequited love?
“Woohyuk!” Julie bursts through the door and runs to you, kneeling beside you. “I am so so sorry, Natty started talking to these boys from the rock club, and I couldn’t just leave her alone y’know, and then the concert started and I was gonna leave but Natty forced me to stay, and I’m so sorry Woohyuk, and—”
Without hesitation, you gently grabbed the back of Julie’s head and pulled her closer, planting your lips against hers. The rest of the world fades into oblivion, leaving the two of you suspended in this intimate moment. If Heaven was real, it existed in the way her soft lips felt against yours, perfectly gentle like a brush gliding effortlessly against the canvas. Every fiber of your being was focused on this silent exchange of love. As you finally pull away, breathless and invigorated, Julie stares back at you with stars in her eyes.
“Julie,” you breathe, “I like you. I’ve liked you ever since I laid eyes on you. I like the way nothing ever seems to bother you. I like the way you’re so eager to learn and try new things. I like the way your eyebrows furrow when you’re focusing on a painting. I like the way you smile so freely. I know I’m not that strong or brave, but I want to be the one to protect that smile. You are so precious to me, and you have made my life so much better just by existing. I want to be with you and go on more museum dates and create more art with you. I really, really like you, Julie.”
An eternity passed as you waited for a response from her. The darkness made it hard to clearly decipher the expression on her face, but you could still see the universe reflected in her irises. Rather than embarrassment or anxiety, you were filled with determination. You weren’t going to waste your time anymore - if there was ever a time to confess, it was now.
Julie’s answer came in the form of a warm embrace, her arms tightly wrapped around your neck. “What took you so long?” She cried, her voice muffled by your neck.
The confidence you felt just seconds before was quickly replaced with worry. “J-Julie, are you crying?!”
She pulls away from you, revealing her teary eyes and a cute frown. “I was waiting for so long for you to confess, I thought maybe you didn’t like me anymore,” she pouted. You gently cup her face in your hands, wiping away her tears with your thumbs.
“I was worried you didn’t like me at all.” Laughter filled the room as both of your worries quickly melted away. You give Julie one little peck on the lips to seal the deal, reiterating your feelings towards her. She sinks into your arms, resting her head on your chest, your heartbeats syncing into a singular rhythm. The moonlight casts its silver glow down on Julie’s shoes, painted and signed by you.
Pairing: Julie x Male!Reader
Tags: basically just tsundere julie, fluff
You’ve always been okay with being average.
Average grades. Average clothes. Average everything. You’re not the guy people whisper about in class, or the one professors remember. You’re the one people point to and go, “Wait, he’s in this class?” halfway through the semester.
It’s fine. You like it that way.
Until today — when you accidentally turn yourself into the main character of a bad romantic comedy.
It starts with a sound. Not dramatic music, not a crash — just laughter. The wrong kind. Loud. Pushy. The kind that fills a courtyard like pollution.
You look up from unlocking your bike and see them — three guys, all swagger and cheap aftershave, crowding around someone near the fountain. You’re about to look away, because you mind your business, until you see who they’re talking to.
Julie.
Even from twenty feet away, she looks like she doesn’t belong here — not in this humid Tuesday morning, not surrounded by three morons with too much hair gel. She’s got that quiet kind of beauty that seems allergic to chaos. Long dark hair, clean lines, clothes that somehow look designer even if they’re not.
She’s standing there, perfectly still, her expression unreadable — like someone who’s too tired to care and too proud to show it.
The three guys keep talking.
One’s saying something about how she “should smile more.” Another’s trying to guess what music she’s listening to. The third — the bravest idiot of them all — leans closer.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head a little, eyes cool and steady.
“Are you done?” she asks.
Her voice is low, calm, but it hits like ice water. You’d think that would shut them up, but no. One of them grins, says, “Come on, we’re just being friendly.”
And that’s the moment something in you snaps.
You’re not sure what compels you — adrenaline, boredom, divine stupidity — but your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
“Babe!”
It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that makes heads turn. Including hers.
Julie looks at you like you’ve just crawled out of a bush and declared yourself the messiah.
The three guys turn too, frowning.
You’re walking toward them, bike in hand, smiling like you’ve done this before. You haven’t.
“Sorry I’m late,” you say, breathless, like you’ve been running. “You ready to go?”
Julie blinks once. Her eyebrows lift, slow and precise, and for a horrible, suspended second, you think she’s going to completely destroy you with one sentence.
But instead, she exhales softly through her nose — a sound that might be amusement if she ever allowed herself to feel it.
“Oh,” she says flatly, “there you are.”
The guys look between you, confused. One asks, “Wait, this is your boyfriend?”
Julie’s lips twitch. “Obviously.”
You’ve never seen someone lie so effortlessly. Her tone is clipped, cool, and faintly bored, but her hand brushes your arm just enough to sell the illusion.
The guys instantly back off, muttering apologies like it’s a fire drill.
You’re not sure what’s scarier — how fast they scatter, or how unbothered she looks when they do.
As soon as they’re gone, she drops her hand, sighs, and crosses her arms. “You,” she says, her tone level, “are unbelievably stupid.”
You blink. “You’re welcome?”
Her gaze cuts to you — sharp enough to slice through the awkwardness. “Did I ask you to play knight in shining denim?”
“No, but—”
“But what?” she interrupts. “You decided the best way to help was to yell across the courtyard like we’re in a bad Netflix movie?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
“Technically,” you say, “it worked.”
She stares at you. For a long, dangerous second, you think she’s going to walk away. But then her mouth twitches, barely, like she’s fighting a smile.
“Technically,” she says, “you’re an idiot.”
“Maybe,” you admit, “but a useful idiot.”
That earns you a quiet exhale — not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your heart trip.
Julie shakes her head and adjusts her jacket, her expression sliding back into cool neutrality. “Next time you try to ‘rescue’ someone, maybe don’t shout babe in public. It’s giving secondhand embarrassment.”
You nod solemnly. “Duly noted. No babe. Maybe just—‘hey you’?”
Her lips curve, the ghost of amusement flickering there. “Don’t push it, hero.”
She turns to leave, already pulling her headphones back over her ears. You think that’s the end of it, but halfway across the courtyard she stops and glances back at you.
“Nice bike, by the way,” she says, voice deceptively casual. “Do you polish it before every rescue mission?”
You grin. “Only on weekends.”
Her eyes linger on you for a beat, like she’s debating whether you’re worth the effort of a comeback. Finally, she just smirks — the kind of smirk that feels like it could melt steel if she wanted it to — and says,
“See you around, Bike Boy.”
“Bike Boy?” you echo.
“You showed up on one. You saved me with it. It fits.”
You’re about to protest, but she’s already walking away, one hand raised lazily in a wave. “Don’t worry,” she calls back, “I won’t tell anyone your secret identity.”
You stand there for a full minute, surrounded by the faint smell of wet pavement and her shampoo — sharp, clean, citrus and something floral underneath.
“Bike Boy,” you mutter under your breath, groaning. “Fantastic.”
You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a weird coincidence. A one-off moment in the middle of an average day.
But somehow, that afternoon, you catch yourself smiling — and you don’t even realize it’s the start of something that’s about to make your very average life a lot less boring.
The next morning, the universe has a sense of humor.
You’re trudging into Modern Communication Studies, a class that could very well be subtitled Death by PowerPoint. You take your usual seat near the middle—low profile, invisible to the professor, which is basically your superpower.
You’re not expecting anything to happen. Yesterday’s ridiculous bike rescue? That was a one-off. A blip. A cosmic joke. Julie would go back to being untouchable, untalked-to, untamed.
Right.
You hear a voice behind you—low, sharp, amused, impossible to ignore.
“Bike Boy.”
Your spine straightens. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. Julie. Ice queen herself. She’s sitting in her usual spot, hood down this time, earbuds dangling, the picture of effortless calm. But her eyes are on you.
You swivel in your seat. “Uh… me?”
“No, the other guy called Bike Boy. Yes, you. Come here.”
She gestures toward the empty seat next to her, one eyebrow raised in that “don’t even think about protesting” way she does.
“Why?” you ask cautiously.
“I don’t want to stare at the board alone,” she says, perfectly calm. “You’re fine background noise.”
You blink. “Background… noise?”
She tilts her head like you’re missing the obvious. “Yes. Noise. Do not overthink it, Bike Boy.”
And then, without giving you a chance to reply, she leans over her desk and starts arranging her notebook and pens like she owns the entire universe.
You sit down. The second your butt hits the chair, you realize she’s already judging your posture. Perfectly still, not smiling, but that faint smirk at the corner of her lips betrays amusement—just enough that you can feel it, and your stomach twists a little.
The professor starts droning immediately about “communication synergy,” a phrase that has somehow survived this many semesters without being outlawed. You try to pay attention, but the chair next to Julie is a strange kind of magnetic.
After five minutes, she mutters under her breath, “This class is painful.”
“I thought you liked pain,” you whisper back.
Her pen pauses mid-scribble. She glances at you out of the corner of her eye, expression unreadable. “You’re annoying,” she says, softly.
“You’re smirking,” you whisper, grinning.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide it. That faint twitch at the corner of her mouth is all the acknowledgment you need.
From there, a rhythm forms. You whisper occasional sarcastic commentary about the professor: “Did he just say synergy again?” and she whispers back: “If he says ‘synergy’ one more time, I’m charging him rent.”
Somehow, it works. Sitting next to her doesn’t feel tense. It’s… easy. Comfortable. Dangerous.
When she slides her notebook toward you, you notice a doodle—a stick figure version of the professor wearing a crown labeled “King of Synergy”. You stifle a laugh.
“You’re doing art now?” you murmur.
“I’m a critic,” she says, tapping the notebook. “This deserves it.”
“And me?”
She gives you a sidelong glance. “You’re… tolerable. For now.”
You grin. “Tolerable, huh? That’s almost a promotion from yesterday’s heroic bike savior.”
She hums, clearly unimpressed. “I already decided yesterday that you were Bike Boy. That’s your official title now. Use it wisely.”
“Wise use of Bike Boy: ride you somewhere, save you from terrible flirting. Check and check,” you whisper.
Julie leans back slightly, smirking faintly, as if she’s indulging you in a private little joke only she understands. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bike Boy.”
Class drags on, every minute of “paradigm shifts” and “digital synergy” offset by your quiet back-and-forth, each whispered jab or joke earning that small, controlled smirk of hers. And for some reason, it makes the professor’s droning slightly less deadly.
When the lecture ends, Julie packs her things slowly, deliberately, making it clear that she’s in control. You linger, trying not to look too eager.
She finally stands, tossing her bag over her shoulder. “You free after this?”
“Uh… yeah,” you manage, still caught somewhere between excitement and disbelief.
“Good,” she says. “You’re giving me a ride. Don’t make me change my mind, Bike Boy.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Ride where?”
“Wherever I need to go,” she says, already walking away. The faint smirk returns as she glances over her shoulder. “And yes, you will hold the handlebar steady. I’ve seen your technique. It’s… charming.”
You grab your bike and follow, marveling at how someone so effortlessly composed can still command this much attention—even from you, a guy whose life is usually perfectly average.
As she climbs on behind you, her hands brushing your jacket lightly, she says in that calm, measured tone: “Try not to crash. I have things to do.”
“I’ll do my best,” you say.
She leans back slightly, tapping your shoulder. “If you fall, Bike Boy, don’t expect me to help. You volunteered for this.”
You swallow, but your grin is unstoppable. Somehow, the ice queen herself has made you a part of her world. Not invited, not officially, but accepted enough that sitting next to her or giving her a ride feels… natural.
It passes faster than you expect.
Julie hops off the bike, turning to give you a glance you couldn’t quite decipher.
“Thanks for the ride Bike Boy”
It’s been three days since the “ rescue incident,” and you’ve spent all of them trying not to overthink it.
You did the right thing, you tell yourself. That’s all. You didn’t save Julie, you just… provided an exit. On wheels.
Totally normal.
So when you feel a sharp tug on your backpack strap as you’re leaving campus, you half-expect it to be karma coming to collect.
“Study session at my place, Bike Boy.”
You turn—and there she is. Julie. Same unreadable face. Same perfectly controlled tone that somehow sounds both like a command and a dare.
“Study session?” you ask. “Like… actual studying?”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Unless you thought I invited you for interpretive dance.”
“Not ruling it out,” you mutter.
Her lips twitch, almost smiling. Almost. “Don’t make me change my mind.”
She gestures toward your bike like it’s obvious. “You’re driving. Let’s go, Bike Boy.”
And that’s that.
She hops on the back of your bike again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You start pedaling, and even though she’s silent for most of the ride, there’s something different this time—something quiet but noticeable. Her arms wrap around your waist again, and when you hit a bump, she holds on a little tighter than she really has to. You don’t say anything, because if you do, she’ll probably deny it with that calm, slicing tone of hers. But still—your chest feels suspiciously warm for the cool evening air.
When you pull up to her apartment building, you brace yourself for a night of textbooks, highlighters, and intense, judgmental stares over your questionable handwriting.
Instead, as soon as she unlocks the door, a burst of funky music floods out like the place itself is in a good mood.
Julie just steps inside, tosses her bag on the couch, and says, “Don’t touch anything fragile.”
Before you can even ask what that means, chaos incarnate walks in.
Natty’s the first—grinning like she’s been waiting for you. “Ohhh, so this is the Legendary Bike Boy. Julie’s been telling us about you. Takes a special person to make our dear Miss Han swoon.”
Julie’s expression doesn’t change. “No one said that.”
Haneul pokes her head in from the kitchen. “Yeah she did. You did, like, three times.”
Julie shoots her a sharp look, the kind that could freeze lava. “Delusion.”
Belle waves from the table, holding up a plate. “Do you like snacks that may or may not be edible?”
You blink. “Define edible?”
“Perfect,” she says, handing you something vaguely suspicious but smelling way too good to refuse.
Julie sighs, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and tossing it to you. “Drink this. Just in case Belle poisons you.”
“Hey,” Belle protests.
Julie smirks, taking a sip of her own drink. “Relax. He’s sturdy.”
You catch it—the faintest note of warmth in her voice. Teasing, but protective. It’s like her version of affection, hidden under the armor of her deadpan delivery.
Then, without warning, Haneul calls out, “Dance break!” and the room turns into a living, breathing meme.
Natty cranks up the music. Belle starts swaying with her suspicious snack in hand. You—frozen at first—end up being pulled into the middle by Haneul, who insists that “Bike Boy energy must be tested through movement.”
Julie watches from the couch, unimpressed—or pretending to be. You stumble through what could barely be called dancing, trying to keep up with Haneul’s chaotic rhythm.
“Wow,” Julie says eventually, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Your coordination’s breathtaking.”
“Thanks,” you pant, “I aim to underwhelm.”
That earns you a tiny laugh—soft, quick, and so unexpected you almost miss it. She covers it up immediately with a fake cough, pretending to be interested in her phone, but it’s too late. You heard it.
“Was that—”
“No,” she says flatly. “You imagined it.”
Natty grins. “He’s getting to you, isn’t he?”
Julie flicks a piece of popcorn at her. “He’s getting on my nerves.”
But later, when everyone’s talking and you’re sitting on the floor beside her couch, Julie’s foot lightly nudges your side. You look up, and she pretends to be focused on her phone again.
“Not bad,” she says quietly.
“What’s not bad?”
Her eyes flick toward you for a half-second, like she’s checking to make sure you won’t make fun of her. “You. For a Bike Boy.”
You grin. “High praise.”
“It wasn’t praise,” she says automatically—but she doesn’t pull her foot away this time.
And when you leave later that night—after Belle’s questionable snacks, Haneul’s failed dance-off rematch, and Natty loudly teasing Julie about her “study session” turned hangout—Julie walks you to the door.
“Next time,” she says coolly, “try not to look so lost.”
“Next time?” you echo.
She pauses for half a second, eyes softening before she looks away. “You heard nothing.”
And then she shuts the door.
But as you walk back to your bike, you can’t help grinning. Because “next time” sounded a lot like I’ll see you soon.
It starts with a text that feels like a summons.
bring your notes. don’t be late.
That’s it. No punctuation, no emoji, no explanation. Just the cold, clipped efficiency of someone who doesn’t need to say more to get what she wants.
Still, you show up. Of course you do.
You tell yourself it’s for “academic purposes,” but your brain doesn’t even believe that.
You knock twice, and when the door swings open, Julie’s standing there barefoot, hair tied up messily, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that absolutely does not fit the image of “ice queen Julie.”
Her eyes flick down to the two drinks in your hands. “Is one of those for me?”
You nod. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got the one that felt like it might silently judge me.”
She takes it, inspecting it like she’s debating whether to accept the peace offering. Then she hums, just barely audible. “Good choice, Bike Boy.”
You grin. “I studied the ancient art of not messing up.”
“Keep studying,” she says, but there’s a small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips as she turns and walks deeper inside.
The apartment looks different without the chaos of her friends. It’s quieter, warmer. Still neat, but lived-in, a few art prints on the wall, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a cat-shaped mug on the counter. The music playing in the background is faintly jazzy and weirdly upbeat for someone like her.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the couch as if she’s granting permission.
You sit. She sits beside you, not too close, but not far enough to be impersonal either. The kind of distance that says I don’t do this often, but you’re… an exception.
She glances at your notes, flipping through them with her usual surgical precision.
“You write like you’re trying to communicate with future archaeologists,” she says.
You groan. “Wow, I was going for ‘enigmatic intellectual.’”
“More like ‘illiterate cryptid.’”
You snort, and she hides her own laugh behind a sip of iced coffee.
For the next half hour, she pretends to quiz you, but you can tell her attention keeps drifting — not just from the subject, but to you. Her eyes linger a little too long when you’re talking, and when you crack a small joke, she looks down quickly, like she’s caught herself enjoying it.
“Hungry?” she says suddenly.
You blink. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
She gets up without waiting for an answer and disappears into the kitchen. There’s the sound of cabinets opening, something clattering, and then—
Julie returns with a bowl of cereal. And chopsticks.
You stare. “You’re… seriously eating cereal with chopsticks?”
She doesn’t even look up. “It’s effective.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“Then use a better one,” she says, calmly plucking a cornflake with a level of precision that would make surgeons jealous.
You’re half in awe, half terrified. “Why?”
“It slows me down,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Makes me appreciate the texture.”
“Julie, it’s cereal. It’s 99% texture.”
“Exactly,” she says, completely serious.
You can’t help but laugh. It bursts out before you can stop it.
She narrows her eyes, chopsticks poised midair. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re just… kind of ridiculous.”
She lifts her chin. “Ridiculous people don’t have perfect cereal control.”
“Okay,” you say, grinning, “but only you would make breakfast sound like a martial art.”
She gives you a look that’s pure Julie: flat, unimpressed, but not entirely real. Because she’s fighting a smile. You can see it, faint but growing.
Then, in the smallest act of either kindness or calculated embarrassment, she pushes the bowl toward you. “Try it.”
“What?”
“You can’t mock it until you do it.”
You hesitate. She arches an eyebrow. “Don’t be a coward, Bike Boy.”
You take the chopsticks. Attempt a cornflake. Miss. Try again. Miss worse. On the third attempt, you actually manage to catch one—just as it crumbles back into the milk.
Julie laughs. Fully, audibly.
The sound is short, light, like she wasn’t expecting it either. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget every reason you were nervous about coming here.
When she finally catches her breath, she says, “Wow. You’re hopeless.”
“You’re the one turning breakfast into a philosophy course,” you reply.
She leans back, crossing her arms, still smiling. “Maybe you just need more practice.”
“With chopsticks?”
“With me,” she says before realizing how that sounded. Her eyes flick up—then away. “That’s not—just—forget it.”
You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.
You end up not studying at all. Instead, she puts on music and starts talking about the most random things imaginable — how she alphabetizes her playlists, why she names her potted plants after Greek philosophers (“Aristotle’s a diva”), how she once tried to learn Morse code “for fun” and now can’t unhear patterns in car blinkers.
You tell her about your bike breaking down in the rain once, and how you duct-taped the seat because you didn’t have money for repairs. She hums thoughtfully, then says, “That’s very you.”
“Very me?”
“Quiet. Practical. A little sad,” she says, looking down at her cereal. “But still kind of… nice.”
Your heart does something traitorous.
When you finally check the time, it’s late. You stand, reluctantly, and start gathering your things. Julie watches you, chin resting on her hand.
“Don’t forget your coffee,” she says softly.
You nod. “Thanks for the… study session?”
“You learned something.”
“About cereal?”
Her smile is almost unnoticeable, but real. “About me.”
You meet her gaze. “Yeah. I did.”
She looks away quickly, reaching for her chopsticks again like she needs something to do with her hands. “Don’t get used to it, Bike Boy.”
“Sure,” you say, smiling as you head to the door. “See you soon?”
“Maybe,” she says, too casually.
But when you leave, you hear the faint sound of her laugh again—small, quiet, almost hidden under the clink of her chopsticks.
And somehow, that sound stays with you all the way home.
By now, Julie isn’t just the cold, mysterious girl from your class anymore.
She’s… something else.
Still effortlessly cool, still intimidatingly pretty — but now you know that behind all that, she’s weird.
Like, endearingly, beautifully weird.
She’s the kind of person who’ll stare down the universe with a straight face and then giggle at a meme about a dancing banana.
And somehow, you keep ending up in her orbit.
It starts on a Friday afternoon in the library, a place that’s supposed to be quiet and serious — which makes it the perfect stage for chaos.
You’re pretending to study when Julie slides her phone across the table without looking at you.
“Here,” she says.
You glance at the screen. It’s a playlist titled “Songs for Bike Boy.”
You blink. “This is real?”
She shrugs, eyes still on her notes. “Don’t overthink it.”
“You… made me a playlist?”
“Technically, I compiled data and organized it by vibes. It’s very scientific.”
You hit play.
The first song is Take On Me.
The third is Careless Whisper.
The second is… a 30-second TikTok remix of a frog.
You choke out a laugh. “Julie, this playlist is unhinged.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
She finally looks up, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ll still listen to it.”
“I— yeah. Obviously.”
“Good,” she says, like she just won something.
You try to get back to studying, but the moment’s too distracting. Julie sitting across from you, focused and quiet, pretending not to notice that you’re still smiling at your screen.
For a moment, she looks up, catches your grin, and rolls her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, Bike Boy. I’ll revoke your playlist privileges.”
You grin wider. “You’d never.”
Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “…Maybe not.”
The next day, you end up at Belle’s apartment again — against your will.
Julie texts you out of nowhere:
emergency. need a second opinion. come over.
You show up thinking it’s something serious. Turns out, the “emergency” is Belle’s cooking.
Belle greets you like a cartoon character, holding a frying pan suspiciously close to the smoke alarm.
“It’s banana pepper tuna crunch 2.0!” she declares.
You blink. “There was a 1.0?”
“Don’t ask,” Julie mutters, arms crossed.
Ten minutes later, you’re sitting at the counter with a plate that looks like a science experiment gone rogue. Julie watches you like she’s hosting a cooking show called Fear Factor: Boyfriend Edition.
“Go on,” she says sweetly. “Be brave, Bike Boy.” Sweet like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
You take a bite. Regret follows instantly. “It’s… complex.”
Belle beams. “Complex is good!”
Julie tilts her head, studying your face. “Complex like trauma, or complex like art?”
“Somewhere between,” you wheeze.
When Belle turns away, Julie slides you a glass of water. “Here,” she says, like she’s doing you a massive favor.
“You enjoy watching me suffer,” you say.
Her eyes sparkle. “You make funny faces when you’re in pain.”
“That’s—evil.”
“Thank you.”
And when Belle proudly offers seconds, Julie casually places a hand over your plate. “He’s full,” she says. “Let him live another day.”
You blink at her.
She doesn’t look at you. But her lips curve slightly — that small, secret smile that makes your chest ache a little.
In lectures, she’s still the master of pretending not to care.
But lately, her sarcasm comes with softer edges.
The professor says “synergy” for the fourth time in ten minutes, because the amount of words this professor knows caps off at his IQ, apparently, and Julie leans in, muttering, “If I hear that word again, I’m transferring to interpretive dance.”
You laugh under your breath. “You’d be good at it.”
She blinks. “What, dancing?”
“Being dramatic.”
Julie tilts her head, mock-offended. “Bike Boy, are you calling me dramatic?”
“Statistically speaking, yes.”
She glares. You grin. And then — for just a moment — she breaks. A tiny giggle escapes before she covers her mouth, pretending to cough.
When you catch her, she mutters, “Shut up.”
You lean in. “You laughed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Her cheeks pink slightly. “Bike Boy, I swear—”
“Cute,” you say without thinking.
She freezes. Then, quietly, “Stop flattering me.”
But she doesn’t deny it.
A few days later, you’re walking her home. The evening is soft and golden, the kind of light that makes everything look like a movie.
You’re pushing your bike alongside you, matching her pace. She’s pretending to scroll through her phone, but she keeps glancing up every few seconds — like she’s checking that you’re still there.
“You’re awfully quiet,” you tease.
She shrugs. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“Whether I should block you or buy you coffee tomorrow.”
You laugh. “That’s a pretty extreme range of options.”
“That’s life with me,” she says, deadpan — but there’s something warm in her voice.
When you reach her building, she pauses at the steps. “Don’t crash on your way home,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“You say that every time, and yet.”
You grin. “You care.”
“Don’t push it,” she says automatically — but then, after a beat, “Text me when you get home. Just… so I know you didn’t die.”
You can’t help but smile. “Okay, Julie.”
You start to leave, but she calls out, “Hey.”
You turn.
She’s standing there, hair catching the light, trying very hard not to look like she’s blushing.
“Don’t listen to track seven,” she says.
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
You grin. “Now I have to.”
“Bike Boy—”
Too late. You’re already cycling off, the wind in your face, her playlist in your ears.
Track seven starts playing.
It’s a sappy love song — overly dramatic, romantic and beautiful.
You don’t stop smiling the whole way home.
And when you finally text her that you made it back safely, her reply comes fast:
good.
delete track seven.
also, bring better snacks next time.
You laugh into your phone, typing back:
yes, ma’am.
There’s a pause. Then her next message arrives:
goodnight, bike boy.
Just three words — simple, casual, typed like it’s nothing.
But you swear you can feel her smiling behind them.
When Julie texts you, it’s never a question. It’s an order dressed up like an invitation.
come over.
bring snacks.
we’re “studying.”
Quotation marks included.
You stare at your phone for a second before texting back, You mean, we’re “not studying,” right?
Her reply comes instantly:
semantics, bike boy.
And just like that, you’re packing your bag — which somehow includes a couple of instant noodles, two sodas, and a packet of cookies because Julie’s kitchen is the Wild West.
When you get to her apartment, she opens the door barefoot, hair up in a messy bun that looks like it fought for its life. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie (you suspect it isn’t hers, and it looks awfully familiar)
Her first words are not “hi.”
“Wow, you actually came. Brave.”
“I brought snacks,” you offer, holding up the bag.
Her eyes flicker down, unimpressed. “You think chips can bribe me?”
“Yes?”
“…You’re not wrong. Come in.”
You notice the soft hum of music playing — her Songs for Bike Boy playlist.
“Are you listening to my playlist again?” you tease, dropping your bag by the couch.
She crosses her arms, feigning indifference. “It’s not your playlist. It’s… a test playlist.”
“For what?”
“For… determining if you have taste.”
You grin. “Julie, you made the playlist”
Julie looks at you for a moment, then shrugs, trying not to smile. “Semantics”
You settle on the couch beside her. For about five minutes, she pretends to study — flipping through her notes, highlighting random lines, underlining a doodle of a cat wearing sunglasses.
Then she sighs dramatically, drops her pen, and declares, “I hate academia.”
“Because?” you ask.
“Because it’s boring, and I’m allergic to boredom.”
You grin. “What are your symptoms?”
“Severe sarcasm, chronic distraction, and the sudden urge to make questionable snacks.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Within minutes, you’re in the kitchen, and Julie’s rummaging through cupboards like a scientist with no ethical limits.
She pulls out bread, instant noodles, peanut butter, and a banana.
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She turns, eyes glinting. “Trust the process.”
“You said that last time, and I’m still recovering from the marshmallow-soy sauce incident.”
“This one’s better. Promise.”
You watch as she fries the noodles, adds peanut butter, and slices bananas over it with terrifying precision.
“This looks illegal.”
She smirks. “It’s revolutionary.”
You sigh. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Julie scoops a bite and holds it out with a chopstick. “If you die, at least you’ll die cultured.”
You hesitate. “You’re really committed to this bit, huh?”
Her lips twitch. “You’re cute when you’re scared.”
That distracts you just long enough for her to shove the bite into your mouth.
You blink. It’s… weirdly good. Sweet, nutty, a little spicy.
Julie grins like she’s just conquered the world. “See? I’m a genius.”
You laugh. “You’re something.”
Her voice softens — barely. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s perfect.” You quietly reassure her.
“Just like you.” You don’t say that last part
You end up eating together at the counter, her feet resting on the chair rung, hair falling into her eyes as she chatters about random things.
She tells you she names all her older plants after historical villains “because it keeps them alive out of spite.”
She shows you a keychain collection she’s “accidentally” started — all of them tiny food items with faces.
She has a weird talent for balancing utensils on her nose, which she proceeded to demonstrate.
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.
Julie’s grinning too, chin resting on her palm as she watches you try (and fail) to mimic her spoon-balancing trick.
“You’re hopeless,” she says fondly.
“You’re terrible at teaching.”
“Excuse me, I’m a great teacher. My student’s just a disaster.”
You glance at her, and she looks away too quickly.
Back in the living room, she flops onto the couch, tossing you a throw pillow like a challenge.
“You look too comfortable,” she says. “That’s suspicious.”
“Sorry for existing comfortably?”
She huffs. “I didn’t say stop.”
You smirk. “You like having me here.”
Julie glares — the kind of glare that would scare anyone else. “Shut up.”
But her cheeks are pink.
You lean back beside her. “Admit it.”
She crosses her arms. “I tolerate you.”
“Sure.”
There’s a pause, and then — so softly you almost miss it — she adds, “A lot.”
Your heart skips. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “You imagined it.”
A little later, you’re both lying on the couch — her with her head resting on your thigh, scrolling through her phone.
She shows you a video of a cat and a vacuum attacking a dog. “That’s you when someone says something dumb in class.”
You laugh. “And you’re the vacuum?”
She smirks. “Always cleaning up after you, bike boy.”
You roll your eyes. “You love it.”
Julie opens her mouth to deny it but stops — like she’s too tired to pretend. Instead, she sighs, sets her phone down, and closes her eyes.
“Maybe I do,” she murmurs. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smile. “Too late.”
You stay like that for a while — her half-asleep, you quietly scrolling through your phone. Every few minutes, she shifts closer, until her hand ends up resting over yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When she speaks again, her voice is soft, sleepy, unguarded.
“You’re comfy, you know that?”
You chuckle. “You’ve mentioned it before.”
“I stand by it, you’re nice to hold” she mumbles.
You look down at her — her relaxed face, the faint smile tugging at her lips. She looks nothing like the aloof girl from class.
She looks like someone who finally feels safe.
It’s nearly midnight when you finally get up to leave. She walks you to the door, arms crossed but smile tugging at her mouth.
“Don’t make this weird,” she says.
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.” A pause. “You’re coming over again tomorrow.”
You blink. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m… teaching you how to fold dumplings.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to fold dumplings.”
“I don’t,” she says, completely serious. “We’ll learn together. It’ll be chaotic.”
You laugh. “You mean disastrous.”
She grins. “Exactly.”
You’re still laughing when she grabs your sleeve, stops you just before you step out. Her hand lingers for half a second too long.
Then, softly: “Hey, bike boy.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not being boring.”
And just like that, she closes the door, leaving you on the other side with a heart that feels way too full for someone who just spent an evening eating peanut butter noodles and laughing at cat videos.
You’re midway through your sacred Saturday routine — the one that involves a blanket, bad TV, and a deep, philosophical relationship with your couch — when the doorbell rings.
You shuffle to the door, expecting a delivery or maybe divine punishment for not doing laundry again.
Instead, it’s Julie.
Julie, standing there in an oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun that’s held together by sheer defiance, holding a grocery bag and a hand mixer like a weapon.
“Hi,” you manage, still blinking sleep out of your eyes.
“Hi,” she mimics, stepping past you like she pays rent. “We’re baking cookies. Your kitchen’s less tragic than mine.”
You blink. “Wait— what— why?”
Your brain catches up roughly three seconds later.
“Wait—Julie—how do you even know where I live?”
She’s already setting the grocery bags on your counter, scanning the place like a general surveying a battlefield.
“Google,” she says without missing a beat.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “And Belle. Don’t ask.”
You really want to ask, but there’s something about Julie’s tone — the mix of mischief and authority — that convinces you not to.
She shrugs, setting her bag on the counter. “Also, I was bored. You didn’t text back. So now you’re my sous-chef, Bike Boy.”
You open your mouth to protest, but she’s already preheating the oven and tying your apron around her waist.
It’s your apron.
It says “Kiss the Cook.”
You don’t know if she noticed, but she smirks when she catches your expression — so yeah, she definitely noticed.
Your kitchen, normally a quiet place reserved for instant noodles and existential thoughts, is suddenly alive.
Julie hums — off-key — as she measures flour, tapping the measuring cup against the bowl.
“You actually bake?” you ask, leaning against the counter.
“Define bake,” she says, squinting at the sugar.
“Like, making edible things.”
“Oh. Then… no.”
You laugh, and she rolls her eyes but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips.
The first half hour is pure chaos. Julie insists she knows what she’s doing, but she’s reading the recipe off her phone upside down. You try to correct her once — once — and she glares like you just insulted her ancestors.
“Don’t question the process, Bike Boy,” she says, stirring way too aggressively.
“The process looks like a disaster.”
“That’s the artistic touch.”
She hands you the whisk, and you almost drop it because she’s somehow managed to get butter on everything. The counter, the mixer, your sleeve, your soul.
At some point, Julie finds your music speaker and connects her phone. The kitchen fills with music — her chaotic mix of 80s love ballads, meme songs, and what sounds suspiciously like a cat remix of “Take On Me.”
“You put this on the playlist,” you say.
“It’s a cultural masterpiece,” she argues. “Don’t be rude.”
You laugh so hard you nearly spill the bowl.
Julie flicks flour at you in retaliation.
You gasp.
It’s on.
Like Donkey Kong(sorry I had to)
Soon, there’s a flour war in full swing.
Julie hides behind the fridge door for cover. You try to sneak up on her, but she pops out like a villain in a romcom, smearing flour across your face.
“Truce!” you yell, hands raised.
She grins, victorious. “Say it. Say I’m the baking queen.”
“Never.”
Flour. Everywhere.
When it’s finally over, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm hit it.
You’re both laughing so hard you can’t breathe.
Julie has flour in her hair, across her hoodie, on her cheek — and she doesn’t even notice.
“You have—” you start, reaching forward to wipe a streak off her face.
She freezes for half a second, eyes flicking to yours.
Then she blinks, grabs your wrist, and smears flour on your nose instead.
“Now we match,” she says softly, and it’s impossible not to smile.
Somehow, against all odds, the cookies actually make it into the oven.
You both collapse on the floor, leaning against the counter while you wait for them to bake.
Julie’s scrolling through her phone, but she keeps glancing at you — quick little looks, like she’s checking if you’re still there.
“So,” you say, “this is how you usually spend your Saturdays?”
“Not usually,” she replies, without looking up. Then, quieter, “This is… nicer.”
You glance at her. She’s pretending to be busy on her phone, but the tips of her ears are pink.
When the cookies come out, they’re… well, “unique” would be kind.
Some are perfectly round. Some look like continents. One somehow folded in on itself.
Julie takes a bite of the weirdest-looking one and hums approvingly.
“Not bad,” she says through a mouthful of cookie.
“Not bad? That’s high praise from the ice queen.”
She elbows you, glaring, but she’s grinning too. “Don’t push it, Bike Boy.”
Later, she’s curled up on your couch, one knee tucked under her, sipping milk from a mug she found in your cupboard.
Your cat (who usually hates everyone) is sitting in her lap, purring.
Julie scratches behind its ear absentmindedly.
“Your cat likes me,” she says.
“She likes chaos. So yeah, makes sense.”
Julie smirks. “Then we understand each other.”
You laugh softly, watching her — the soft hair falling into her eyes, the relaxed way she’s sitting, the faint smile that doesn’t look rehearsed at all.
She looks up suddenly, catching you staring.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just… didn’t expect you to like cookies this much.”
“I didn’t expect you to be this bad at baking,” she fires back, but her tone’s gentle. Then, after a pause, “Still… thanks.”
“For what?”
“For letting me invade your kitchen. And… for not making me feel weird for it.”
Her voice drops to almost a whisper.
You smile. “Julie?”
“Yeah?”
“You can invade my kitchen anytime.”
She groans, hiding her face behind her mug. “Don’t say things like that, Bike Boy.”
But she’s laughing. And blushing.
And when she leaves later — hoodie dusted with flour, cookies in a Tupperware, your cat glaring at you like you let its new favorite person leave — you find a sticky note on your counter.
In Julie’s messy handwriting, it says:
“You make chaos fun. — J”
You smile for the rest of the night, the faint scent of cookies and laughter still lingering in your kitchen.
The next day, way too late for surprises, it starts with a knock that sounds more like a plea for help than an actual knock.
When you open the door, Julie is standing there — completely soaked, hoodie clinging to her like she’s just crawled out of a sad indie music video. Her hair’s dripping, her eyeliner is somehow still perfect, and she’s holding a grocery bag like it personally betrayed her.
“Your neighborhood,” she announces flatly, “is cursed.”
You blink, taking in the puddle forming beneath her shoes. “Julie—what are you doing here?”
She points at the sky. “It rained.”
“It rained everywhere.”
“Yeah, but it chose me,” she mutters darkly, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “My apartment’s roof is leaking. Natty’s out of town. Belle’s busy hexing her ex with slippers under the bridge, don’t ask. And Haneul’s filming something called ‘Cereal Soup: The Documentary.’”
You can’t help but laugh. “So naturally, you came to me.”
She nods, dead serious. “You have a roof. And snacks. I checked your pantry last time.”
You blink. “…You what?”
But she’s already stepping inside, her sneakers squeaking against your floor like small, soggy betrayals.
Ten minutes later, Julie is wearing your hoodie — the one that’s a little too big even on you — and glaring at your towel like it personally offended her. Her socks and sneakers since abandoned, Julie now roaming around your house barefoot.
She stands in the middle of your living room, hair still damp, looking like she fell out of a “Hot Girl Has Bad Day” Pinterest board.
“You can sit, you know,” you offer.
“I’m drying,” she says, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable reason to stand dramatically in your living room.
You shrug. “Suit yourself.”
She finally sits. Cross-legged. Wrapped up in your hoodie, sleeves dangling past her hands like oversized mittens.
You’re pretty sure your heart actually hiccups.
The day turns into chaos almost immediately.
Julie insists she can “totally handle” making instant noodles. Ten minutes later, you’re fanning the smoke alarm while she stares into the pot like it betrayed her family.
“I followed the instructions,” she says indignantly.
“You poured the seasoning before the water,” you remind her.
“Details, Bike Boy. Details.”
“Julie, it’s literally step one.”
She points her chopsticks at you. “If you mock me, you’re eating them.”
You do. They’re terrible. You still eat them.
She watches you the whole time, like she’s waiting for you to spit them out — but when you don’t, when you grin and say, “Honestly, not that bad,” she just stares for a second, then mutters, “You’re such an idiot.”
But she’s smiling.
After the meal (if you can even call it that), you end up on the couch watching the most random documentary Netflix could find.
“Pigeons Aren’t Real: The Untold Truth,” the title declares.
You expect her to mock it.
Instead, Julie is invested.
“Look at that footage,” she whispers, leaning forward. “That’s a government drone if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Julie, that’s a dove release at a wedding.”
“Exactly. Cover story.”
You glance at her — eyes wide, hair messy, blanket draped over her like she’s the world’s most fashionable conspiracy theorist — and you realize she’s completely, adorably unhinged.
And you wouldn’t change a thing.
Outside, thunder cracks loud enough to make the windows shake.
Julie jumps — just a little — and immediately pretends she didn’t.
“That didn’t scare me,” she says.
“Of course not,” you say gently, fighting a smile.
She crosses her arms and scoots a little closer. Not much. Just enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
“Cold?” you ask.
“I’m conserving heat,” she replies, deadpan.
You cover her with half the blanket anyway. She doesn’t say thank you, but she doesn’t move away either.
By the time the storm fades, the documentary has ended, replaced by a baking competition show where everyone’s crying over burnt meringues.
Julie’s head is resting on your shoulder. You didn’t even notice when it happened.
“You’re comfy,” she murmurs, half-asleep.
“You’re drooling,” you reply softly.
“I’m—what?!” she jerks upright, cheeks pink. “You’re lying.”
You grin. “A little.”
She glares, smacking your arm. “You’re insufferable, Bike Boy.”
“Yet somehow you keep showing up.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it again. “…Don’t read into it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But she’s smiling, and you swear her voice is softer when she adds, “You’re not the worst company, I guess.”
The next morning, you wake up to the smell of burning.
You rush to the kitchen to find Julie, in your hoodie, flipping pancakes with the enthusiasm of someone who has no idea what they’re doing.
“Julie.”
“Don’t.”
“Julie, that one’s on fire.”
“I said don’t!”
You grab the spatula from her and rescue the last pancake from a fiery demise. She crosses her arms. “You ruined my artistic process.”
“You were about to summon a demon via smoke alarm.”
She pouts — actually pouts — and mutters, “I was trying to make breakfast for you.”
You freeze. “Wait, for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird. I was bored.”
You smile. “Sure. Bored.”
She throws a pancake at you. You catch it. Barely.
You end up baking together instead, because “cookies are easier,” according to her. (They are not.)
The kitchen becomes chaos — flour everywhere, butter on the counter, Julie dancing badly to your playlist as she tries to measure sugar.
At one point, she smudges flour on your cheek just to laugh when you try to wipe it off.
When the cookies finally come out, they’re lumpy but edible. You both take a bite at the same time.
“…These are terrible,” you say.
“They taste like regret,” she agrees.
Then, after a pause, “But like… good regret?”
You nod. “Yeah. Cozy regret.”
Julie grins, leaning against the counter, hair messy and eyes bright.
And just for a second, her walls — the cool, distant ice queen thing — are completely gone.
When she finally gets ready to leave, she lingers by the door, hoodie sleeves half-covering her hands.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she says.
“What, the cookies or the sleepover?”
“Either. It’ll ruin my brand.”
You smirk. “Mysterious loner girl turned domestic menace?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Exactly.”
Then, quieter — barely audible — she adds, “You make being around people less… exhausting.”
You blink. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, turning away. “I said your kitchen’s exhausting.”
“Sure you did, Julie.”
She gives you one last look, trying to suppress a smile. “See you around, Bike Boy.”
And when she leaves, there’s a little sticky note on your fridge.
“Next time: less fire, more cookies.
— J”
You stare at it for a moment, grinning.
Your kitchen’s a mess. Your heart’s worse.
And somehow, both feel perfect.
The café is alive tonight — too alive for a place that normally smells like burnt espresso and existential dread. Strings of fairy lights hang across the ceiling like low-hanging constellations, mismatched lamps flicker in soft amber hues, and a disco ball—God knows where they found it—throws shards of light across the walls. Someone’s playlist of retro hits hums through the speakers, full of synths, keytars, and confidence.
It’s Retro Rewind Night, apparently. The poster out front promised “a night of nostalgia, neon, and questionable rhythm.” You hadn’t planned to go—until Julie texted you.
“Café LaLune. Be here in 10. Dress like regret.”
It wasn’t a request. It never is, when it’s Julie.
You showed up fifteen minutes later, on your bike, obviously, still wearing your hoodie and jeans and a neon sweatband Natty forced on you at some point in the past week. You thought about turning back twice. Then you saw her.
Julie.
She’s impossible to miss — leaning against the counter like she owns the place, a picture of confidence and chaos wrapped in black lace and silver shimmer. She’s got eyeliner sharp enough to end you and hair that catches the disco ball light in every movement. Everyone else in the café is trying too hard; Julie doesn’t have to.
When she spots you, her lips twitch — the faintest smile, but real.
“You,” she says, looking you up and down. “… what is that on your head?”
You touch the sweatband self-consciously. “Natty said it makes me look athletic.”
“You look good. It makes you look like a middle-aged man having a midlife crisis.”
You grin. “Perfect. That’s the theme, right?”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a soft huff of amusement she can’t quite hide. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you say, “you invited me.”
Julie’s about to respond when the host — some guy wearing bell bottoms and too much confidence — yells into the mic: “Dance contest, people! Grab a partner!”
You turn to leave. “Nope. Not doing that.”
Julie catches your wrist. “Oh yes, you are.”
“I have two left feet,” you say.
“Good,” she smirks. “Then you’ll make me look even better.”
Before you can argue, you’re being dragged to the middle of the café. The crowd parts around you, clapping in rhythm to a synthy beat that sounds like a soda commercial from 1986.
Julie moves like she was born in music videos — sharp, smooth, effortlessly confident. You, on the other hand, look like you’re being electrocuted in rhythm.
She starts laughing — really laughing — doubling over mid-spin. You’ve never seen her like this before. The Julie from school, the quiet, unreadable one who barely talks to anyone, is gone. In her place is this version of her — loose, carefree, radiant.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “what are you doing?”
“Expressing myself,” you pant, dramatically moonwalking into a chair.
The crowd loses it. Belle’s filming, Natty’s wheezing into her drink, and Haneul’s pretending to rate your moves with imaginary scorecards. Julie tries to regain composure, but every time she looks at you, she bursts into laughter again.
And it’s infectious — the kind of laughter that lights up her whole face, not just her mouth but her eyes too. The kind that feels private, like it’s meant just for you.
By the end of the song, both of you collapse onto the floor, out of breath and dizzy. She’s sprawled on her back, staring at the ceiling, her hair a halo of chaos around her. You’re beside her, grinning like an idiot.
“You’re,” she starts, still catching her breath, “a menace, bike boy.”
“Thank you,” you say, “I try my best.”
She rolls her head toward you, eyes shining, and for the first time, she doesn’t hide it — the way she’s smiling, the way her guard’s gone soft around you.
Then someone calls out from the counter. “Hey! Did Julie just laugh?”
Julie sits up immediately, scowling. “No.”
Natty’s already grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Oh, she laughed. Big, loud, embarrassing laughter. I knew it.”
Belle groans, pulling out her wallet. Haneul sighs and follows suit, slapping some bills into Natty’s waiting palm.
Julie blinks. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“Settling a bet,” Natty says cheerfully. “I said it’d happen by the end of the month. Belle said midterms. Haneul said never.”
Julie’s jaw drops. “You bet on me?”
“On you dropping the ice queen act for him, yeah.” Natty jerks a thumb toward you. “And look—ta-da! You did.”
Julie’s cheeks go pink. “I didn’t—! This—he’s just—!”
But the sentence dies somewhere between her flustered words and the soft, sheepish smile tugging at her lips. You meet her eyes, trying (and failing) to hide how fond you feel.
“Sounds like you owe Natty dinner,” you say.
Julie turns to you with mock severity, but there’s no bite behind it. “Don’t get cocky, bike boy.”
“Too late,” you grin. “You already danced with me.”
She exhales, shoulders relaxing, a smile flickering that she doesn’t bother suppressing this time.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says softly.
“And yet you like me,” you reply, half-joking, half-hoping.
Julie doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches over, tugs lightly at your hoodie sleeve, and mutters, “Don’t make me say it.”
But her hand lingers.
Her friends watch from afar, whispering, grinning, nudging each other like they can’t believe what they’re seeing — Julie Han, the girl who can freeze a room with a glance, sitting on a café floor, laughing with a boy who still smells faintly like bike grease and bad coffee.
You lean back against the counter, looking up at the fairy lights, and catch her watching you. When your eyes meet, she quickly looks away, pretending to study her nails — but the faint smile she’s wearing betrays her.
And in that tiny moment, with music still humming and laughter filling the air, you realize something:
Julie doesn’t laugh like this for anyone else.
She doesn’t drop her guard for anyone else.
But with you — she does.
And as she stands, brushing off her skirt, she mumbles, “Come on, bike boy. Let’s get out of here before they start betting on whether I’ll hold your hand next.”
You stand too, grinning. “Would you?”
She glares at you playfully — but then, just before heading toward the door, she reaches out and grabs your wrist.
Not your hand — not quite. But close enough.
And as the two of you step into the cool night, laughter still trailing behind you, you think maybe — just maybe — the ice queen has melted a little more.
Just for you.
The night air is soft — the kind that feels like velvet against your skin, warm but threaded with a breeze. The café lights fade behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of streetlamps and the gentle click of your bike wheels rolling beside you. Julie walks next to you, arms crossed, pretending she’s cold just so she has an excuse to tug your hoodie sleeve and make you slow down.
“Don’t say anything,” she says.
You blink. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“About what?”
“That whole—” she waves a hand vaguely, “—café situation. The dancing. The laughing. Natty’s stupid bet. Whatever that was.”
You grin. “Whatever that was looked a lot like fun.”
Julie shoots you a glare, but her lips twitch. “You looked like a dad at a wedding trying to stay relevant.”
“And yet you couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Shut up, bike boy.”
Her voice is sharp, but her eyes aren’t. You’ve learned to read the difference. This isn’t the Julie who keeps everyone at arm’s length. This is the one who lets you in — the one who texts you pictures of cursed recipes at 2 a.m., who shows up uninvited to your place and takes over your kitchen, who steals your hoodie when she thinks you’re not looking.
She’s in your kitchen before you even set your bike down. “We’re making cookies.”
“It’s 10:30 p.m.”
“Then we’re making night cookies,” she says with the kind of logic that sounds unbeatable coming from her.
You give up trying to argue. There’s no point. With Julie, there never is.
Flour dusts her fingers, her hair falls over her face, and she’s humming under her breath, not caring how off-key she is.
You watch her from the counter, leaning on your elbows. She’s different here — softer, realer. The edges blur a little.
When she catches you staring, she points the spatula at you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bike boy,” she warns.
“You look… happy,” you say, because it slips out before you can stop it.
Her expression falters for half a second. She glances down at the dough, shoulders rising and falling. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” you say quietly. “But I like seeing it.”
Julie doesn’t answer, but her cheeks turn pink — the exact shade of the icing Belle once made that no one would eat, because you’re pretty sure it was at least in some portion, blood.
She rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the next thing you know she’s flicking flour at you.
“Hey—!”
You grab a handful back, and before long, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm hit it. Julie’s laughter rings through the room, loud and unguarded. She’s got flour in her hair, icing on her cheek, and the kind of smile that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
You’re both leaning against the counter, trying to catch your breath, when she quietly says, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” you say automatically.
She bumps your shoulder with hers, still looking at the half-burnt cookies on the tray. “You know…” She pauses, almost shy now, which is something you never thought you’d see from her. “I don’t really… hang out with people like this.”
You tilt your head. “People like me?”
“People. Period, even with the girls it’s different, but…,” she says. Then softer: “But you’re tolerable.”
You grin. “Wow. My best review yet.”
Julie laughs, shaking her head. But then she turns to face you, and for once, she doesn’t look away when your eyes meet.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says quietly. “But I like being here. With you.”
It’s a small confession, tucked between the smell of sugar and the soft buzz of the fridge, but it lands heavy and warm.
“I won’t tell,” you promise.
She hums, pretending not to care, but when you hand her a cookie — half-crumbled, misshapen, probably raw in the middle — she takes it, bites, and says through a mouthful, “This is disgusting.”
“You made it.”
“And?” she deadpans. “You’re still eating it too.”
She’s right. You are.
The rest of the night is quiet chaos. Julie steals your blanket to wrap herself in while the two of you sit on the couch, a half-empty cookie tray between you. She scrolls through her phone, finds some random song, and hums along, voice low and lazy.
You don’t say much. You don’t need to.
At some point, she leans her head against your shoulder. It’s subtle, almost hesitant — like she’s testing if she’s allowed to.
And when you don’t move, she lets herself stay.
“Don’t read too much into this,” she murmurs, eyes already half-shut.
“Of course not,” you whisper back. “You just wanted to make sure I didn’t eat all your cookies.”
“Exactly,” she mumbles, a sleepy smile on her lips.
But when you glance down, she’s already fallen asleep — curled up against you, completely at peace for once.
And that’s when it hits you: Julie’s facade isn’t slipping anymore.
It’s gone — melted away in the warmth of cookie dough, soft music, and the way she fits perfectly beside you.
It’s almost funny, how life seems to be running on reruns, or maybe the shit author is out of ideas and decided to recycle a scene.
Same courtyard. Same afternoon sun dripping gold across the pavement.
Same girl — Julie Han, queen of the unbothered, standing near the gates with her arms crossed and her resting-glare face perfectly in place.
And, of course, the same trio of guys trying (and failing spectacularly) to flirt with her.
You can practically hear the lines from here.
Something about her “vibe.” Something about “coffee sometime.” Something about how she “looks lonely.”
You sigh, adjusting your bag. Here we go again. The sequel to Bike Boy and the Three Dorks.
You’re halfway through rehearsing your classic move — the fake boyfriend routine, the charming “Hey, babe—” — when Julie looks up, locks eyes with you, and beats you to it.
“There you are!”
It’s so loud that two pigeons actually take off from a nearby bench.
Three heads whip around to stare at you.
Julie strides toward you with all the grace of someone who’s been planning this her whole life. “You’re late.”
You blink. “For what?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Our date.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
You can practically feel the shock radiating off the three guys still standing there, jaws unhinged.
“Oh. Right. Our… date.” You nod solemnly. “My bad. Traffic was insane.”
Julie slips her hand into yours like she’s been doing it forever. Her palm is cool, her grip firm. You’re too stunned to say anything until she tugs you a little closer.
“Let’s go, before you embarrass yourself further,” she says, completely straight-faced.
You’re ninety percent sure she means you, but the little twitch of her lips says otherwise.
You pass the three rejected suitors — one looks confused, another looks heartbroken, and the third looks like he’s reconsidering his entire life.
“Later, fellas,” you say as Julie drags you away.
Once you’re out of earshot, you can’t help it. You laugh. “Wow. That was—”
“Necessary,” she cuts in, tone clipped.
“I was going to say dramatic.”
Julie scoffs. “I was saving myself from another conversation about someone’s crypto portfolio. In a way that didn’t get me in police station”
You grin. “Ah yes, the modern plague.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, but she’s smiling now — just barely, just enough for you to see it before she turns away.
When you reach your bike, she finally exhales, as though she’s been holding her breath the whole time.
You swing a leg over the seat, watching her from the corner of your eye.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For… I don’t know. Showing up, I guess.”
You tilt your head. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.”
She frowns, arms crossing again. “You were supposed to know.”
“Oh, psychic communication. My bad, must’ve missed the telepathic memo.”
She rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out. “Bike boy, I swear—”
You grin. “Ah, there it is. The nickname of affection.”
“Affection?” she repeats, deadpan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
And yet her ears — the tips of them — are turning pink.
You hop on your bike, patting the back seat. “Come on, ‘not-affectionate’ Julie. Let’s get out of here before someone else with a tragic pick-up line shows up.”
She huffs but climbs on, settling in behind you. Her hands find your waist automatically, fingers curling lightly around your hoodie.
Halfway down the street, she leans forward and says, “You didn’t have to come save me again, you know.”
“Technically, you saved yourself,” you point out. “I didn’t even get to say my line.”
“What line?”
“The ‘hey babe’ one. It’s my signature move.”
Julie snorts — actually snorts. “Signature move? You mean that fake boyfriend act you pulled the first time?”
“It worked,” you protest.
“I had a panic response,” she says. “You just benefited from it.”
You glance over your shoulder with a grin. “You can admit it. You liked it.”
“I liked not being talked at by three walking examples of male overconfidence.”
“But if I recall correctly,” you tease, “you grabbed my hand again just now.”
“That was strategy,” she says firmly. “Pure survival instinct.”
“Sure, strategy that involves calling me your boyfriend and holding my hand.”
Her hands tighten slightly against your sides. “Bike boy, do you ever shut up?”
“Not when you’re blushing, apparently.”
“I’m not blushing,” she says, voice just a touch too high-pitched to sell it.
You slow at a stoplight, catching her reflection in your rearview mirror — cheeks warm, eyes soft, lips trying and failing to hide a smile.
“Okay,” you say lightly. “Then what do you call this whole thing?”
She hesitates for a moment, the world humming around the two of you — the faint buzz of cars, the rustle of trees, the steady rhythm of your heart threatening to drown it all out.
Then, in the smallest voice, she says, “I call it… being comfortable.”
You turn slightly. “Comfortable?”
“With you,” she adds quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “It’s annoying.”
“Annoying,” you repeat, trying not to laugh. “Right. Got it.”
“I mean it,” she mutters. “I don’t do this with people. Any of it. The talking, the… baking, the playlists, the late nights, the—”
“Dates?”
Her hand slaps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t push it.”
You grin, letting the moment linger. The wind picks up as you pedal again, the late afternoon sunlight stretching long and lazy across the street.
After a while, Julie’s voice drifts through the air again — softer this time, almost shy. “Hey, bike boy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad those 3 hit on me that day. You’re fun to be around.”
You pretend to gasp. “Julie Han said something nice about me. I think the earth just tilted.”
She laughs, shoving your shoulder. “You ruin everything.”
And yet she’s still holding onto you. Tight.
By the time you reach her street, her head’s resting lightly against your back, and you can feel the rhythm of her breathing sync with yours.
You stop at a corner, glance over your shoulder, and ask quietly, “So… was this a real date then, or part of your survival strategy?”
Julie looks at you for a long second, then smirks. “You tell me.”
And you do — not in words, but in the small, knowing smile you give her before pedaling forward again.
Because now you know: she might never say it outright, but she doesn’t have to.
The hand on your waist, the laughter she tries to hide, the way she leans just a little closer every time you ride — that’s her confession.
