Heyyy how are you? I hope you’re doing good and you’re taking care of yourself🫶🏻
Can I ask for a Ateez hc where their s/o pranks them by saying “I want to break up” or they call them by another name?
pairing: Ateez x reader!
warnings: fluff, angst (for the boys), misunderstanding, reader being a lil shit
disclaimer: not my pic!
Hongjoong
He came home late, still smelling faintly of the studio — a mix of coffee, wires, and that quiet determination he carried like a second skin. You were curled up on the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes glued to the door the moment it opened.
“Guess what I brought,” Hongjoong said, holding something behind his back. His grin was small but proud, like a cat that just caught a fish.
You sat up instantly. “Food?”
He pulled out the long paper-wrapped bundle like a magician revealing his finale. “This one-foot cookie from Subway,” he announced.
Your stomach practically applauded. You jumped up, nearly tripping over the blanket. “You’re a hero.”
“I know,” he said, laughing as he placed it on the table. “Thought we could share it.”
You both sat down cross-legged, faces hovering over the cookie like it was treasure. It smelled divine — warm chocolate, soft sugar, and a bit of temptation baked in.
But as he carefully unwrapped it, you got a wicked little idea.
“Hongjoong,” you started, your voice suddenly calm. Too calm.
He hummed, eyes on the cookie. “Yeah?”
“I think we should break up.”
The sound of crinkling paper stopped. He froze mid-motion, hands still gripping the wrapper. Slowly, he looked up at you, confusion painting his expression before shock set in.
“What?” he asked quietly, as if saying it louder would make it real.
You nodded seriously. “Yeah… I think we should break up.”
The color drained from his face. He blinked once, then twice, like maybe he’d misheard. “Wait—what are you talking about?”
You kept your face straight, fighting back a grin that threatened to expose you. You pointed to the cookie. “You know… break up. The cookie. Like two pieces.”
It took him a second — one long, painful heartbeat — before your words clicked. His mouth fell open, and then came a loud, scandalized gasp.
“Are you—” He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “I thought you meant—oh my god, I thought you were breaking up with me!”
You blinked at him, genuinely confused now. “Why would I do that over a cookie?”
He groaned and leaned back in his chair, laughter bubbling out as relief washed over him. “You almost gave me a heart attack, that’s why!”
You couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst out laughing. “You should’ve seen your face!”
He pointed at you, eyes narrowed in mock accusation. “You’re evil. Pure evil.”
You just smirked, grabbing the cookie. “Evil, but sharing.”
He leaned in suddenly, cupping your cheek and kissing you before you could react. It was quick but soft, full of that fondness he carried for you even when you were being a menace.
When he pulled back, you were left blinking, warmth creeping up your neck. “What was that for?”
“For almost giving me a heart attack,” he said with a grin. “And because I love you.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to look unaffected. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Yeah, but now you have to share that cookie with your dramatic boyfriend,” he teased, breaking it cleanly in half.
He handed you your piece and raised his like a toast. “To not breaking up.”
You clinked cookies and took a bite. It was soft, sweet, and a little melty — the kind of thing that made you forget the world outside existed.
As you ate, he kept glancing at you, smiling like he still couldn’t believe how close he’d come to heartbreak over a misunderstanding.
“Next time,” he said between bites, “just say split the cookie. My heart can’t take your sense of humor.”
You just grinned. “We'll see.”
Seonghwa
The kitchen smelled like sugar and comfort — vanilla extract lingering in the air, flour dusting the counters like soft snow. Seonghwa stood beside you, sleeves rolled up, dimples showing as he mixed something with the quiet focus of a man who took baking way too seriously.
You, on the other hand, were in a silent battle with the kitchen machine. It whirred weakly, sputtered, and then stopped altogether, the whisk barely twitching.
“Come on, you useless piece of—” you muttered, jabbing at the buttons like they’d insulted your family.
Seonghwa, blissfully unaware of your brewing war, glanced over with a fond smile. “You know,” he began, voice warm and soft, “I really love doing this with you.”
You hummed distractedly, still twisting knobs. “Mhm.”
He smiled wider, leaning against the counter. “It’s just… moments like this make me realize how lucky I am. You make everything fun, even baking.”
“Uh-huh,” you replied absently, hitting the side of the machine with a thunk. The poor thing didn’t even twitch.
“I’m serious,” he said, glancing at the bowl in his hands. “I’m so thankful for you, you know? For us.”
You didn’t hear a word of it. Your entire focus was on the stubborn hunk of metal in front of you. The light blinked once and died again. You clenched your fists.
“This isn’t working!” you snapped, your voice louder than you meant it to be.
Seonghwa froze mid-stir, eyes widening. “...What?”
You groaned and pointed at the mixer. “I’ve tried everything! I wanted it work but — nothing! It just won’t work like it used to!”
The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His hands dropped to the counter. “Wait… what do you mean it doesn’t work like it used to?”
You sighed dramatically, still not looking at him. “Exactly what I said! I’ve had enough!”
He swallowed hard, heart thudding. His mind scrambled through the last few days, trying to remember if he’d done something wrong — forgotten a date? Said something careless?
“...You’ve had enough?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yep.” You glared at the machine and shook your head in defeat. “We’ll just have to make the dough with our bare hands.”
You finally turned around, wiping your hands on your apron — and froze when you saw Seonghwa’s expression. His eyes were wide, face pale, lips parted in confusion and worry.
“What's wrong?” you asked, brow furrowing.
“You—” he stammered, blinking. “You meant… the machine?”
You followed his gaze to the broken mixer and then back to him. “Of course, the machine. What else would I mean?”
He let out a long, shaky breath and laughed weakly, leaning against the counter like his knees might give out. “Oh my god,” he said, half laughing, half groaning. “I thought you were talking about us.”
You blinked, then burst into laughter so hard you had to grab the counter for balance. “You thought I was breaking up with you? Over cake batter?”
“Don’t laugh,” he said, cheeks reddening as he ran a hand through his hair. “You sounded very convincing.”
You giggled and stepped closer, still holding the whisk. “Seonghwa, if I ever break up with you, it won’t be while holding a broken mixer.”
He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close, still shaking his head. “You scared me to death,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
You smiled against his chest. “Well, at least now we know what does work — us.”
He laughed quietly, then glanced at the machine. “Forget it,” he said, tipping your chin up for another kiss. “I don’t care about the mixer. We’ll use our hands.”
You grinned. “Romantic and practical. Just how I like it.”
He kissed you again, flour in his hair, sugar on his cheek, relief melting into warmth — and for the first time that night, something finally worked.
Yunho
You and Yunho had been wrestling with the new couch for what felt like hours. The living room looked like a furniture battlefield—cardboard boxes everywhere, plastic wrap tangled around his ankles, an instruction manual that might as well have been written in hieroglyphics.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, one hand holding an Allen key, the other gesturing dramatically. “Okay, so this part—” he squinted at the diagram, “—either connects here, or we’ve just built a spaceship.”
You laughed, wiping sweat from your forehead. “If it’s a spaceship, I’m the pilot. You’re definitely the co-pilot who brought snacks instead of tools.”
“Fair,” he said, grinning. “Snacks are essential for survival.”
After another twenty minutes of grunting, readjusting, and one near-fatal incident involving a rogue cushion, the couch was finally standing in all its oversized glory. You both stepped back, hands on hips, surveying your work.
“Wow It’s… huge,” Yunho said, sounding half-proud, half-terrified.
“Yeah,” you murmured, tilting your head. “It’s too much.”
The words left your mouth casually, but Yunho’s smile faltered like someone had pulled the plug on his joy. He turned to you slowly, confusion flickering into hurt. “Wait. What do you mean?”
You were still staring at the couch, frowning thoughtfully. “I thought I’d like it, but now... I don’t know. It’s just too much to handle.”
He froze. “You—” he swallowed hard, voice suddenly quiet. “You mean… me?”
That pulled your attention away from the couch. You blinked. “What?”
“You said it’s too much. And that you thought you’d like it but don’t. I just…” He looked at the floor, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you.”
You stared at him, completely lost. “Overwhelming me? Yunho, what are you—”
“I’ll give you some space,” he said softly, already reaching for his jacket on the chair.
“Where are you going?” you asked, exasperated.
He gave you a small, sad smile. “You just said I’m too much. I don’t want to make things worse.”
You blinked at him, mouth slightly open. “I— what? No, you’re not going anywhere. We still have to pick a new couch.”
That made him stop mid-step. He turned around slowly, brows furrowing. “A… new couch?”
“Yes!” you said, gesturing dramatically toward the giant piece of furniture dominating the room. “This one’s way too big for the space. I thought it was the perfect size when we ordered it, but I was wrong!”
For a beat, silence hung in the air. Then Yunho blinked. Once. Twice. “Wait— you were talking about the couch?”
You stared at him, incredulous. “Of course I was talking about the couch! What else would I be talking about?”
Realization dawned on his face, followed immediately by deep, visible relief. He exhaled and let out a laugh that was half hysterical, half sheepish. “Oh my god. I thought you meant me.”
You couldn’t help it—you burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “You thought I was breaking up with you because of a couch?”
He groaned, covering his face with both hands. “In my defense, your tone was very convincing.”
You walked over and tugged his hands away, smiling up at him. “Yunho, you’re not too much. The couch is too much. You’re exactly perfect.”
He smiled then, wide and boyish, the kind that could light up a whole room. “You sure? Because I can be a lot.”
“That’s why I love you,” you teased, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. “Okay,” he murmured against your hair. “But just so you know—next time we get furniture, I’m bringing a tape measure and emotional support.”
You laughed into his chest. “Deal. But first, we’re returning this monstrosity before it eats the living room.”
He looked at the couch one last time, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Honestly, I think it already did.”
Yeosang
You were pacing through the living room, phone pressed to your ear, voice half-laughing and half-exasperated.
“I’m telling you, he never listens,” you said, waving your free hand dramatically as you walked past the couch. “Every time I try to talk, he tunes me out! It’s like I’m speaking another language!”
Your best friend hummed on the other end, clearly used to your rants.
“And don’t even get me started on how he’s always late,” you continued, your tone rising with every sentence. “Always! No matter what it is — birthdays, dinner, anything. It’s like a talent at this point.”
You sighed and flopped down onto the couch, kicking your feet onto the coffee table. “Honestly, it’s exhausting. I can’t keep putting in all the effort. He just thinks about himself sometimes, and I’m so tired of it.”
Right about then, Yeosang came through the door, keys jingling in his hand. He smiled the moment he saw you — that soft, warm look he always wore when he came home. But as he walked closer, your next words hit him like a brick.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” you said into the phone. “I’m unhappy, and I can’t keep doing this. I think… I think I’ll have to cut it at some point.”
Yeosang froze mid-step, the smile vanishing. The keys slipped quietly from his hand, landing on the counter with a dull clink.
You didn’t notice. “Yeah,” you murmured, sighing again. “I love him, but love isn’t enough if it’s always one-sided, right?”
Yeosang’s heart dropped straight to the floor. His mind spun — late? distracted? selfish? Was that how you saw him? He thought of the nights he stayed at practice too long, the times he forgot to text, the moments you’d waited up for him.
By the time you said your goodbyes and hung up, he’d made up his mind. He couldn’t just let you walk away without trying.
You turned around at the sound of hurried footsteps — and nearly dropped your phone when Yeosang stood there, eyes wide and desperate.
“Please,” he said, voice trembling just enough to make your chest tighten. “Please don’t end this.”
“What?”
“I’ll change,” he rushed on, stepping closer. “I’ll listen better, I’ll be on time, I’ll do whatever you need me to. Just don’t… don’t leave me.”
You blinked at him, utterly bewildered. “Leave you?”
He nodded toward your phone, his expression so heartbreakingly sincere it almost made you laugh and cry at once. “I heard everything,” he said softly. “About me — about how unhappy you are.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, your brain catching up. Then it clicked.
You groaned and slapped your forehead. “Oh my god, Yeosang. I was talking about my dad!”
He blinked, confused. “Your… dad?”
“Yes! My dad!” you said, laughing now. “He was supposed to pick up my package today and forgot for the third time this week. I was venting to my best friend!”
Yeosang stood there, blinking rapidly as color crept back into his face. “So… you’re not… unhappy with me?”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Yeosang, of course not. Why would you even think that?”
He shrugged awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You said you had to ‘cut it’… I thought you meant us.”
You laughed and crossed the room, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You sweet idiot,” you murmured against his chest. “I was talking about cutting ties with my dad’s bad habits, not with you.”
He chuckled weakly, the tension melting out of his shoulders as he hugged you back. “I panicked,” he admitted, his voice muffled in your hair. “You sounded so serious.”
You leaned back enough to look up at him, smiling. “You really thought I’d just break up with you mid-phone call?”
He shrugged, a shy grin tugging at his lips. “It’s happened in dramas…”
You rolled your eyes and pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips. “You’re ridiculous. And for the record, I’m extremely happy with you.”
He smiled against your lips, eyes soft and relieved. “Good,” he murmured. “Because you almost gave me a heart attack.”
You grinned. “Guess that makes us even — you nearly did the same when you came running at me like that.”
He laughed quietly and kissed you again, gentler this time, the last traces of worry melting away. The phone lay forgotten on the table — because, for once, the only thing either of you could hear was each other.
San
You sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, a steaming mug of coffee untouched beside you. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence, only occasionally broken by the faint clicking of your mouse. You scrolled through your credit card statement, and with each line, your heart sank lower.
Behind you, San lounged on the couch, legs stretched out, phone in hand, humming quietly to himself — completely relaxed, completely unaware of your financial horror story.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your temples. “How did I spend that much on takeout? And… why did I buy three candles? They all smell the same!”
San barely glanced up. “Because you like candles?”
“Don’t enable me,” you said grimly, still scrolling. Then, after another minute of silent reckoning, you took a deep breath, picked up your credit card, and looked at it like it had personally betrayed you.
“You know...” you said solemnly, holding it between your fingers. “I think it’s time we take a break from each other.”
San’s head snapped up instantly. “What?”
You sighed dramatically, still staring at the card. “It’s been fun, really. But it’s getting toxic between us. I have to think about my future — about my self-control.”
He froze, phone forgotten in his hand. “Wait… what are you talking about?”
You groaned softly, pressing your hand to your forehead like this breakup was emotionally draining. “You’ve taken too much from me already. I can’t keep doing this. It’s not healthy.”
San sat up straight, eyes wide, confusion giving way to panic. “Wait—what do you mean? Are you saying you want to… break up?”
You nodded solemnly, still talking to the card. “It’s not you, it’s me. I just need to work on myself right now.”
He stared at you, completely stricken, voice barely above a whisper. “You… really mean that?”
You sighed again, deep and mournful. “It’s harder for me than for you, believe me.”
San’s jaw dropped. His phone slipped from his fingers onto the couch cushion as he slowly stood up. “You can’t be serious,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “We can fix whatever’s wrong! I’ll do better!”
You blinked at him, finally turning around, only to find him standing there looking like a kicked puppy — wide eyes, trembling lips, the full heartbreak movie scene expression.
“Do better?” you repeated, confused. “What are you talking about?”
He gestured helplessly between you and the card in your hand. “You just said it’s over! That it’s toxic!”
You stared for a beat, and then it hit you — all at once. You groaned and let your head fall back. “Oh my god, San. I was talking about my credit card.”
He blinked. “Your… credit card?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, waving it at him. “I spent way too much money lately, so I’m taking a break from using it. I wasn’t breaking up with you!”
The color came rushing back to his face. He blinked again, then let out a loud, incredulous laugh, clutching his chest. “You can’t say it like that! You almost gave me a heart attack!”
You couldn’t help but laugh too, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Okay, fine, maybe I was being a little dramatic.”
“A little?” he said, still laughing as he walked up to you. “You looked like you were about to give a farewell speech!”
You rolled your eyes and handed him the card. “Here. Since you’re already involved, you can hide it for me. Somewhere I won’t find it.”
He took it carefully, holding it up between two fingers like it was a rare artifact. “You’re trusting me with this power?”
“Yeah,” you said with a grin. “Don’t tell me where it is. Just… make sure I can’t spend money for at least a week.”
He chuckled, slipping the card into his pocket and leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured. “Next time you decide to ‘break up,’ give me a warning first, okay?”
You smiled against his chest, laughing softly. “Deal. But maybe this time… the drama helped me commit.”
He snorted, wrapping his arms around you. “Sure, sure. You and your dramatic financial breakups.”
You chuckled, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eyes. “At least now you know — you’ll never have competition. Not even from Visa.”
Mingi
You were crouched over the bathroom sink like a surgeon mid-operation, one hand gripping a towel, the other frantically scrubbing at a deep brown stain on the sleeve of one of Mingi’s white dress shirts. The once-pristine fabric was now an abstract art piece in cola tones.
“Come on, come on…” you muttered, dabbing at it with soap, vinegar, even toothpaste — anything you could find under the sink. Nothing helped. The more you scrubbed, the worse it looked.
The shirt drooped pitifully in your hands, dripping with a mixture of water and regret. “He’s going to kill me,” you whispered dramatically.
Just as you were running the faucet again, the front door opened. “Babe?” Mingi’s voice echoed down the hall, warm and cheerful. “I’m home!”
Panic. Pure, ice-cold panic.
“Hi!” you called out, voice cracking. You sounded… odd — nasal, stuffed up, your nose still half-clogged from that cold you’d been fighting. Unfortunately, to Mingi’s ears, it sounded like you were crying.
He immediately went on alert. “Hey… are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” you blurted, definitely not sounding fine.
There was a pause, footsteps approaching. “Where are you?”
“Bathroom! Don’t come in!”
The sudden desperation in your tone only made him worry more. He stopped right outside the door, heart hammering. “What’s going on? Why are you crying?”
You sighed, still trying to rub out the stain. “I made a big mistake.”
Mingi froze. “…What kind of mistake?”
“I ruined everything,” you said miserably, voice muffled through the door. “Because of one little accident… and because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.”
Mingi’s blood ran cold. His brain short-circuited. Ruined everything? Couldn’t keep her hands to herself?
He gripped the doorknob. “What—what are you talking about?”
You groaned, staring down at the shirt like it might confess on your behalf. “You’re going to hate me forever,” you said weakly. “I swear it was a one-time thing.”
That did it. Mingi’s heart dropped to his stomach. He knocked once, then decided against it, pushing the door open with a trembling hand.
“Babe, please just tell me wha—”
He froze.
There you were, standing in front of the sink, hair a little messy, sleeves rolled up, holding his white dress shirt like a wounded animal. The sleeve was stained with a faint brown blotch. Your eyes were wide and guilty as you looked up at him.
“I spilled Coke on it,” you said softly. “I tried everything to fix it, but I think it’s ruined.”
For a heartbeat, Mingi just stared. Then he blinked once. Twice. His shoulders slumped, and the air left his lungs in a single relieved laugh.
“That’s it?” he asked incredulously.
You frowned, confused. “What do you mean that’s it? I ruined your shirt!”
He ran a hand down his face, then crossed the small room in two long strides and pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the shirt from your hands. You squeaked in surprise.
“I thought—” he let out a shaky laugh against your hair “—I thought you meant something else. You sounded so serious!”
You blinked up at him, still holding the shirt between you. “Something else? Like what?”
He groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “I don’t even want to admit it. Just—don’t talk like that when I can’t see you, okay? My heart can’t handle it.”
You laughed softly, finally relaxing in his arms. “So… you’re not mad about the shirt?”
He leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, smiling fondly. “It’s just a shirt,” he said. “I’d rather lose that than lose you.”
You smiled, cheeks warming. “That’s sweet… but still, I’ll buy you a new one.”
He grinned, tapping your nose with his finger. “You can buy me dinner instead. That’ll make up for the heart attack you just gave me.”
You laughed, swatting his chest lightly. “Deal. But maybe next time I’ll just text before confessing my crimes.”
“Please,” he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “For the sake of my sanity.”
He hugged you again, still chuckling softly — the kind of laugh that came from sheer relief. The shirt hung limply in your hand, but neither of you cared anymore.
Turns out, stains could wait. Heartbeats couldn’t.
Wooyoung
You’d been glued to your laptop all morning, the soft clicking of your keyboard the only sound in the room. A dozen tabs were open — jewelry, sneakers, cologne, limited-edition plushies — all part of your desperate hunt for the perfect birthday gift for San.
Meanwhile, Wooyoung sat on the couch, pretending to scroll through his phone but mostly watching you with mild curiosity.
You huffed and leaned back, rubbing your eyes. “Ugh, I can’t decide between this bracelet or the hoodie…”
“Who’s it for again?” he asked, though he already knew.
“San,” you murmured distractedly, eyes still fixed on the screen. Then you looked up and pointed toward the coffee table. “Hey, can you hand me my phone?”
He reached over, grabbed it, and handed it to you with a little flourish. “Here, your majesty.”
“Thanks, San,” you said absently.
The world went silent.
You froze, realizing what just came out of your mouth, and slowly looked up to find Wooyoung staring at you like you’d just committed treason.
“I— I meant Wooyoung!” you blurted quickly. “Slip of the tongue!”
But it was too late. He gasped dramatically, snatched your phone right back, and crossed his arms. “Wow. Unbelievable.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Are you serious right now?”
“Serious?” he repeated, eyes wide. “You just called me San! What am I supposed to think, huh? That you like him better than me?”
You groaned. “Oh my god, Wooyoung. It was a mistake!”
He pointed at you accusingly. “A Freudian slip, maybe!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing. “You’re such a diva.”
He pouted and looked away. “Then why’d you call me San, huh? Just confess it.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. “You’re impossible.” You turned your laptop toward him, showing him the screen. “Look! I’ve been looking for a birthday gift for San all morning. His name’s been in my head for hours.”
Wooyoung’s angry pout faltered. He leaned closer, scanning the dozens of open tabs. Each one screamed ‘Happy Birthday San!’ in one way or another — custom necklaces with his initials, T-shirts in his favorite colors, fan merchandise of his favorite shows.
His shoulders dropped a little. “Oh…”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, folding your arms.
He hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip, then quietly handed your phone back. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice suddenly small. “I just… didn’t like hearing it.”
You took the phone, giving him your best unimpressed look. “You doubted me over one word, Wooyoung.”
He looked down at his hands like a scolded puppy. “I know…”
Without another word, you lightly kicked his shin under the table — not hard, just enough to make your point.
“Ow!” he yelped, rubbing his leg. “What was that for?”
“For being dramatic,” you said, smirking. “And for stealing my phone like a jealous teenager.”
He shot you a wounded look, though the corners of his mouth were twitching upward. “I was just… emotionally invested!”
You chuckled and leaned over to flick his forehead gently. “Next time, maybe try asking before you jump to conclusions.”
He sighed, then smiled sheepishly, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re right. Sorry.”
You softened, brushing your thumb over his arm. “Apology accepted. Now be useful and help me decide between this hoodie and the bracelet.”
He perked up immediately, leaning in with sudden enthusiasm. “Bracelet. Definitely. San loves accessories.”
You laughed. “You sure you’re not just saying that so I’ll stop talking about him?”
“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But also — you already said my name again, so I’m feeling better.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
He winked. “Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous.”
And though you’d never admit it out loud, he was — perfectly, undeniably yours.
Jongho
The evening air was cool, tinted with the scent of autumn and the faint spice of street food drifting from somewhere down the block. You and Jongho walked side by side, hands clasped loosely, your steps falling into that easy rhythm that came so naturally when you were with him.
It had been a quiet day — peaceful, simple — except for the silent battle raging in your stomach. Because for three days straight, you’d had ramen. Breakfast ramen. Late-night ramen. Fancy “this-one-has-an-egg” ramen. And while Jongho could apparently live off the stuff forever, you were one more noodle away from a breakdown.
You squeezed his hand and stopped walking. “Jongho,” you said softly.
He turned to you immediately, eyes alert. “What’s wrong?”
You took a deep breath, staring down at your intertwined fingers. “We need to talk.”
The words hit him like a cold wave. His posture stiffened instantly, his thumb stopping mid-circle against your skin. “...Talk? About what?”
You looked up at him, your face solemn. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” you began, voice slow and deliberate. “I tried to find a way to accept things as they are… but I just can’t pretend anymore.”
His brows furrowed, confusion melting into dread. “Pretend what?”
You sighed, stepping closer and holding both his hands now. “I can’t do this anymore.”
He froze. His grip on your hands tightened as his expression crumbled into panic. “Wait—don’t say that,” he said quickly, voice trembling. “Please, don’t do this.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the worry in his eyes. “Do what?”
“End things,” he breathed, his jaw tightening. “If I did something wrong, just tell me, I’ll fix it—just don’t…”
You stared at him, confused, before it hit you — what he thought you meant. You almost felt bad for what was coming next. Almost.
“Jongho,” you said softly, squeezing his hands. “I have no other choice. If I eat one more ramen, I swear I’ll throw up.”
He froze completely. “...What?”
You let out an exhausted groan. “We’ve had ramen every day this week. My stomach can’t handle it anymore. I tried to be supportive, but I just can’t do it. No more ramen, please.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then his hands slowly fell from yours. “You—wait, that’s what this was about?”
“Of course,” you said, tilting your head. “What else would I be talking about?”
For a long moment, he just stared at you — face caught somewhere between disbelief and relief — and then he let out a long, shaky sigh. “You’re going to kill me one day,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.
You frowned, trying not to smile. “I mean, maybe from sodium intake, but not like that.”
He groaned but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You really scared me,” he said, shaking his head. “You looked so serious. I thought—” He cut himself off with a breathy laugh and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around you.
You laughed softly, hugging him back. “I was serious,” you said against his chest. “Just not about you.”
He chuckled, his shoulders finally relaxing as he buried his face in your hair. “You could’ve led with the ramen part.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” you teased.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile soft and warm. “You’re lucky I love you more than I love ramen.”
You grinned. “Good. Because if I see another bowl this week, I’m running away.”
He laughed — a real, deep laugh that vibrated through you — then pulled you close again, resting his chin on your head. “No more ramen for now,” he promised, voice still thick with relief. “But next time, just say that before I almost have a heart attack.”
You giggled, squeezing him tighter. “No promises.”
He sighed dramatically, though his arms didn’t loosen. “One of these days, you’re going to be the end of me.”
You smiled into his chest. “At least it won’t be from ramen.”
