five years in the rain
✸synopsis: a troubled high school boy saves his younger brother from their abusive father, turning himself in and serving five years, while the girl who briefly connected with him waits, bound by letters and longing, for their emotional reunion.
✸genre: one-shot, canon adjacent, friends-to-lovers, yearning, angst with comfort
✸pairing: kim jae-oh x reader
✸content warnings: mentions of injury, death, prison
✸wc: 1.6k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / kim jae-oh the lomllll
[now playing: my jinji — sunset rollercoaster]
m.list
─────
you first notice him in the hallway, leaning against the lockers like he owns the world. black hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed into the pockets, eyes sharp and guarded. the murmur of students flows around him like he doesn’t exist — or maybe like he isn’t allowed to.
everyone whispers when he passes, giving him a wide berth, but you don’t. something about him— stormy, tense, dangerous — pulls at you. it’s unfair, irrational, and maybe a little reckless, but you step closer.
he glances at you once, flat, calculating. “don’t slow down traffic,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly. there’s a tiredness in it, a weight that makes your chest tighten.
“just checking if you’re alive,” you reply, smirking. humor feels safer than the intensity in his eyes.
his lips twitch — almost a smile, half bitter, half wary. “i’m not sure if i am,” he says. and you realize immediately — he’s not lying.
─────
you first speak to him in the courtyard, weeks later. he’s perched on the edge of the fountain, hoodie still pulled low, legs dangling, scribbling in a worn notebook. the faint scent of rain sticks to his hair, and the sunlight catches in his dark eyes when he glances up at you.
“you always sit here alone?” you ask, sliding onto the stone beside him.
“not always,” he mutters. “just when people bother me too much.”
you notice the bruises on his wrists and the tension in his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. he doesn’t explain. you don’t push. some things don’t need to be said out loud.
“i like it,” you say instead. “quiet spots. makes it easier to breathe.”
his gaze flickers toward you, unreadable. “you’re not supposed to talk to me,” he says quietly.
“maybe i’m breaking the rules,” you reply, shrugging. “maybe i don’t care.”
he looks at you for a long moment, and for the first time, you think you see the humanity behind the storm. a flicker of relief. a flash of gratitude.
“you’re… different,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
“i get that a lot,” you say, smirking. “but somehow, i think you like it.”
over the next few weeks, your paths cross in small, unexpected ways. he leaves a notebook behind in the library; you slide it onto his desk before anyone notices. he notices, of course, and for the first time, his eyes soften just slightly when he looks at you.
“you’re persistent,” he mutters one afternoon, leaning against the doorway as you pass.
“and you’re… complicated,” you reply, and it’s half a joke, half the truth.
he snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “you don’t know the half of it.”
“i want to,” you say. “maybe that’s why i keep showing up.”
for a moment, he just stares. the tension between you hums, electric and dangerous, like two storms meeting over the city. and in that short, fleeting connection, you feel it — the possibility of something fragile, something worth holding onto — even if it won’t last.
you don’t yet know what’s coming. you don’t know that in a few short nights, the fragile connection you’ve built will be torn apart by violence, fear, and the impossible choices he must make. but for now, you exist together in this quiet, stolen moment — laughter shared over small jokes, the brush of hands, the quiet understanding in his gaze.
and it’s enough.
─────
you can’t sleep that night. the rain taps against your window in irregular rhythms, a staccato warning you can’t interpret. but it’s not the storm outside that keeps you awake — it’s the uneasy feeling, the gnawing pull that something is wrong.
somehow, you know it has to do with him.
later, you hear whispers the next day — snippets of rumors, half-truths drifting through the halls. but none of them tell the real story, and no one can. only he knows what happened. only he knows the weight of the choice he made.
he had gone home that night, the way he always does — frantic, careful, bracing for what’s waiting behind closed doors. you don’t know exactly what you would have done in his place. most people can’t imagine facing a man like his father — drunk, violent, cruel, with a temper honed to terror.
his younger brother had been trapped in the living room, shaking, eyes wide, terror carved into every line of his face. jae-oh had tried to defuse it, tried to make his father see reason, tried to hold back the storm threatening to boil over. but nothing worked. words failed. hands shook. fear screamed.
you can almost hear him thinking it through in his head. just a step. just one step closer. don’t let him touch him. don’t let it happen again.
the fight had been short, brutal, inevitable. one wrong move, one raised hand — and suddenly, the man who had ruled their lives with fear was gone. his father lay on the floor, the weight of years of abuse collapsed into a single, terrible instant.
he doesn’t celebrate. there’s no relief. only the hollow, crushing weight of what had to be done. he calls the police himself, doesn’t run. doesn’t hide. he faces the consequences immediately, because even in the chaos, he knows responsibility matters.
the next morning, the halls are heavy. the rumors begin — whispers of what happened, of police cars and screams. but no one can reach him — not really. his younger brother refuses. refuses to speak. refuses to forgive. and the rest of the world doesn’t care to understand.
you hear about it through fragments — a teacher’s cautious words, a friend’s hushed gossip. you clutch your notebook to your chest, heart heavy, wishing you could do something, anything. but there’s nothing to be done. not now.
you don’t yet know what will happen when you see him again, after five years, but the memory of that brief high school connection — the stolen laughs, the quiet understanding, the brush of hands — keeps you tethered. the storm in him has always been dangerous. but you’ve never been afraid.
the first letter arrives a few months into his sentence. the envelope is thin, edges frayed, his handwriting jagged and uneven — like him, always teetering on the edge between control and chaos.
“i keep seeing you in my head. hallways, rain, that stupid smirk. stay alive for me.”
you press it to your chest, feeling his presence like a heartbeat you can’t reach. you write back that night, fumbling with words that never feel enough.
“i’m here. i’m not going anywhere. and i’m not going to let you disappear either.”
the letters continue, sporadic at first, then more frequent. every one is a fragment of him — moments of regret, fear, anger, longing. you can almost hear the rustle of his hoodie, the tap of his pen against paper, the way his jaw tightens when he thinks of you.
“the nights are worse than the days. i see my brother in my dreams, angry, silent. i don’t know how to fix it. but i think of you, and it makes it… lighter.”
you write back, sometimes in bursts, sometimes in long careful lines, describing your own life — the way the rain smells, the fights you win or lose at school, the moments you catch yourself laughing and wish he could see you. each word is a tether, each letter a thread connecting you across walls, across years.
“i wish i could be there,” he writes one night. “i wish i could protect you instead of myself.”
you hold the envelope close, whispering your own truth into the empty room: “you already are. you always have been.”
─────
years pass slowly. you grow, survive, fight your own battles without him. but the memory of him — the storm in his eyes, the intensity of his presence, the weight he carries — never leaves you. every laugh, every quiet moment in the hallways, reminds you of what’s gone but not forgotten.
you imagine him at night, lying awake on a narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you. you imagine his fingers trembling as he holds the pen, struggling to form the words that keep him alive. and you imagine the longing in his chest, the same longing that twists yours.
the letters are your lifeline. his are your anchor. and though the world separates you, you are tethered together by fragile, unwavering threads.
the day he is released, you are standing at the edge of the abandoned lot — the place where you first really saw him, the place where everything began. the sunlight is golden, reflecting off wet asphalt. rain has just passed, leaving the world quiet and heavy with possibility.
and then you see him.
he steps out from behind the chain-link fence, taller, sharper, more guarded. the storm is still in his eyes, but it’s tempered now, softened by time and reflection. your heart thunders, and for a moment, the world freezes.
“you’re still here,” he says, voice low, almost fragile.
“i never left,” you reply, stepping forward.
he pauses, eyes scanning your face, searching for the girl he left behind. then, slowly, cautiously, he reaches for your hand. his fingers brush yours, hesitant at first, then grip, desperate, as if holding onto you is the only thing keeping him from drifting away.
“i thought… maybe you’d hate me by now,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
“never,” you answer. “i knew this storm had a heart all along.”
he exhales, relief and tension mingling in one shaky breath. finally, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. the years, the distance, the pain — they all hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, but for a moment, they don’t matter.
“five years,” you murmur, letting the words linger.
“i know,” he says. “but i’m here now. that’s what matters.”
your lips brush, tentative and careful at first, tasting the reality of his presence after half a decade. the kiss isn’t the end — it’s the beginning. a spark after the storm.
the wind picks up, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and possibility. for the first time in five years, the world feels like it might be okay. he is danger, shadow, fire. and you are the only one brave enough to stand beside him. hand in hand, storm in hand, heart in hand. and this time… you won’t let go.
