Angst with Comfort | Established Relationship | Pre-Debut Lovers | Emotional | Soft!Hoseok | Award Show AU
Word Count: ~1.9k
Warnings:
• Insecurity / Feeling Out of Place
• Emotional Vulnerability
• Mentions of Struggle Era (Pre-Debut)
• Crying but in a healing way
• Fame vs. Identity Themes
The first time you saw Hoseok cry, it wasn’t at an award show.
It wasn’t on a stage with cameras flashing.
It wasn’t when the world screamed his name.
It was in a small, poorly ventilated practice room that smelled like sweat and cheap deodorant.
He had his head in his hands.
“I don’t know if I’m good enough,” he had said back then.
And you—barely adults, barely surviving—had sat next to him on the scuffed wooden floor and told him, “You’re going to shine so bright one day, Hobi. Just don’t quit before you get there.”
You bought him convenience store ramyeon when he couldn’t afford it.
You listened to unfinished mixtapes through cracked earphones.
You watched him practice until his shirt stuck to his back.
You were there before the fame.
Before the awards.
Before the Dior suits.
Before the private jets and screaming arenas.
And tonight—
Tonight felt like none of that mattered.
The award show venue was enormous.
Gold chandeliers. Velvet curtains. Camera cranes moving like predators in the dark.
Everyone was beautiful.
Actresses in couture gowns that probably cost more than your entire yearly rent. Idols glowing under professional makeup artists’ genius hands. Executives with tailored suits and effortless smiles.
And then there was you.
Your dress was elegant—Hoseok chose it himself. It hugged your waist gently, soft satin falling to your ankles. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… you.
But suddenly it didn’t feel like enough.
You adjusted the fabric for the hundredth time as flashes of cameras went off around you. Fans screamed from outside barricades. Reporters called his name.
“Hoseok! Over here!”
He smiled that radiant smile—the one that lights up stadiums—and waved.
And you did something you never thought you would.
You shrank.
Not physically.
But inside.
You took half a step behind him.
Then another.
You told yourself it was silly. You had stood beside him in dingy dance battles. You had held his hand when he got rejected from early auditions. You had wiped his tears when he thought about going back to Gwangju.
So why did this—this polished, glittering world—make you feel small?
Maybe because now he belonged to everyone.
Stylists hovered around him. Managers whispered schedules. Industry people bowed respectfully.
And you felt like a relic.
A chapter from before the glow.
Inside, the lights dimmed.
The members were seated at the front. You sat beside Hoseok, but your hands were clasped too tightly in your lap.
He was nominated tonight.
Best Solo Artist.
The screen played a montage of his performances—Lollapalooza. World tours. Fashion campaigns. Headlines.
Your throat tightened.
You remembered him practicing in socks because he couldn’t afford dance shoes.
You remembered him asking, “What if this never works?”
You blinked hard.
Applause thundered when his name was announced as the winner.
He stood up, stunned but smiling. The members hugged him. The crowd roared.
He walked to the stage.
And you clapped like everyone else.
But it felt distant.
Like you were watching someone else’s story.
When he came back to his seat, trophy in hand, cheeks flushed with happiness, he leaned close to you.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “Of course. You were amazing.”
But he didn’t miss it.
He never missed it.
The way your fingers weren’t reaching for his.
The way your shoulders curved inward.
The way your eyes weren’t shining the way they usually did when you watched him succeed.
Hoseok was sunshine.
But he was also observant.
And he knew you.
After the show, the afterparty buzzed with champagne glasses and laughter.
Models complimented him. Executives praised him. Photographers asked for pictures.
You excused yourself quietly and stepped out onto the balcony.
Cold night air hit your skin.
For a moment, the noise inside faded.
You stared at the city lights below and told yourself you were being dramatic.
He deserved this.
He earned this.
You were proud—so unbelievably proud.
So why did it hurt a little?
Footsteps approached.
You didn’t have to turn around to know.
His cologne—warm, familiar—wrapped around you.
“Hobi, you should be inside,” you said softly.
“Why are you out here alone?” he asked instead.
You kept your eyes on the skyline.
“I just… needed air.”
Silence.
Then gentle fingers tilted your chin toward him. His expression wasn’t celebrity-bright.
It was the same Hoseok from that practice room. Concerned. Soft.
“You’ve been quiet all night,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “It’s just… this world is so big now. Everyone here is so polished and perfect. I feel like I don’t fit anymore.”
His brows knit together.
“Fit?”
You laughed weakly. “Look at you. You’re global. Fashion weeks. Headlines. Awards. And I’m just… the girl from before.”
There it was.
The insecurity you’d tried to swallow.
“I feel like I’m holding onto a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.”
His jaw tightened—not in anger, but in hurt.
“You think I outgrew you?”
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
Hoseok stepped closer.
Close enough that your foreheads almost touched.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
You did.
His voice dropped lower, stripped of stage charisma and public charm.
“Don’t ever think I upgraded.”
Your breath caught.
“You built me.”
The words weren’t dramatic.
They were steady. Firm.
“I was a kid with a dream and no guarantee. You believed in me before charts did. Before brands did. Before the world did.”
His thumb brushed under your eye gently.
“You were there when I doubted myself. When I almost quit. When I thought I wasn’t enough.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“You loved me when all I had was hope.” Your chest ached.
“This,” he gestured vaguely toward the glittering city, the venue, the fame, “this is loud. It’s shiny. It’s temporary.”
Then he placed your hand over his heart.
“But this? This hasn’t changed.” His heartbeat was steady under your palm.
“You don’t stand behind me,” he whispered. “You stand with me. You always have.” Tears blurred your vision.
“You think I don’t notice?” he continued. “When I’m overwhelmed, you squeeze my hand. When interviews exhaust me, you bring me back to earth. When I forget who I am under all of this, you remind me.”
He leaned his forehead against yours.
“You’re not the girl from before.” His voice softened.
“You’re the reason I got here.”
The city lights flickered below like stars.
And suddenly—
You didn’t feel small.
You felt remembered. Inside, someone called his name again.
He didn’t move.
“They can wait,” he said simply.
You laughed through tears. “You’re going to miss networking opportunities.”
He smirked softly. “I already secured the most important partnership years ago.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart melted anyway.
He wiped your tears carefully.
“Next time you feel like shrinking,” he murmured, “remember something.”
“What?” “I don’t shine despite you.” He kissed your forehead.
“I shine because of you.”
And just like that—
The girl who once sat on a wooden practice floor beside a tired trainee felt exactly where she belonged.
Summary: During a long practice, you keep messing up one part of the choreography—but while everyone expects Hoseok to be strict, he's nothing but soft with you, guiding you gently... and reminding everyone exactly how much he loves you.
The practice room smelled faintly of rubber flooring and citrus cleaner the staff used every morning. Music blasted through the speakers for what had to be the fifteenth time. Your legs ached, your shirt clung uncomfortably to your back, and your focus kept slipping in and out no matter how hard you tried to hold onto it.
“Again!”
Hoseok’s voice rang out, cutting clean through the track as it stopped.
A chorus of groans followed immediately.
“Hyung…” Jimin whined, dragging the word out as he leaned against Jungkook for support.
"Again," Hoseok repeats, firmer this time.
Taehyung flops dramatically onto his back. "I can see the afterlife."
"You're not dying," Namjoon says, though he sounds just as tired.
Yoongi doesn't say anything at all. He's sitting against the wall, hood half-up, watching through lidded eyes like this is a documentary he didn't ask to be a part of.
You let out a quiet breath, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the fatigue that was starting to creep deeper than usual.
It wasn’t just exhaustion.
It was that one part again.
Second chorus. That transition.
Every time you reached it, your timing slipped just enough to throw you off—and once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop noticing it. It sat in the back of your mind like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore.
“Positions,” Hoseok said.
You moved automatically, taking your place. Your eyes flicked to the mirror—and then, without meaning to, to him.
He was already looking at you.
Not in that sharp, evaluative way he used during practice.
Something softer.
Warmer.
It made your chest feel a little too full.
You looked away quickly, clearing your throat as the music started again.
The choreography flowed easily at first. Your body knew it, even if your mind felt scattered. Step, turn, slide—everything fell into place like it should.
You told yourself not to think about it.
Not to anticipate.
Just dance.
The chorus hit.
Your focus sharpened automatically, energy rising with the beat. You moved with the others, keeping the formation tight, your eyes locked on your reflection—
And then it came.
That moment.
You felt your body tense.
Too aware.
Too ready.
And just like that—
You rushed it.
Again.
“Stop.”
The music cut.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, already frustrated with yourself. “Sorry, I—”
“Hey.”
Soft.
Close.
You opened your eyes.
Hobi was right in front of you.
You hadn’t even seen him walk over.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, and the way he said it made the apology die on your tongue before it could fully form.
You let out a small breath, looking down. “I keep messing it up.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
Warm fingers brushing lightly against your forehead.
You blinked in surprise as he gently pushed your damp hair back, out of your eyes, his touch careful despite the sweat.
“There,” he murmured, like that had been important. “Now I can see you properly.”
Your heart did something stupid.
Behind you, someone made a very obvious choking noise.
“Oh my—” Jin started.
“Hyung,” Jimin whispered loudly, “we are literally here.”
Hoseok didn’t even glance at them.
His attention stayed on you.
“You’re thinking too much again,” he said softly.
You huffed a quiet laugh, still a little flustered from the unexpected touch. “I always think too much.”
“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a bad thing.
You noticed something you had for two years now.
Hobi never let irritation touch his voice when he spoke to you.
It wasn't favoritism. If anything, he expected just as much from you. Sometimes more. But the tone was different. Like he refused to let practice ever become something that made you doubt yourself.
His hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before dropping back to his side.
“You don’t have to get it perfect right away,” he continued. “We have time.”
“We’ve been on this for an hour,” Jungkook pointed out.
“We have time,” Hoseok repeated.
You smiled a little despite yourself.
He stepped beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. “Show me what you’re doing.”
The music started again, quieter this time.
You moved through the steps, slower, more aware of him next to you than anything else. You could feel his presence—steady, grounding, like it always was.
When you reached the problem part, your body tensed again.
And immediately—
His hand found your wrist.
Gentle.
Not stopping you.
Just there.
“Wait,” he said softly.
You did.
The pause felt longer than it should.
But his thumb brushed lightly over your skin, just once, like a quiet reassurance.
Then—
“Now.”
You shifted.
Turned.
Landed exactly where you were supposed to.
Your breath caught.
“That’s it,” he said, smiling.
It wasn’t big or loud—but it was warm in a way that spread through your chest almost instantly.
Behind you—
“OH,” Taehyung echoed loudly.
Jimin clapped like he'd just witnessed something life-changing. "Progress!"
Jungkook nodded. "Hyung used physical intervention. Effective."
"Don't say it like that," you said quickly, heat creeping up your neck again.
“Focus,” Hoseok called, though he was laughing now.
You glanced at him. “You’re cheating.”
“How?”
“You don’t do that with them,” you said, nodding toward the others.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
“Again,” he said.
This time, you didn’t overthink it.
You moved with the music, letting it carry you instead of trying to control it. When the moment came, you remembered the pause—not as something empty, but as something intentional.
You waited.
Shifted.
Turned.
Perfect.
The difference was immediate.
You let out a breath, a small laugh slipping out with it.
“There you go,” Hoseok said, softer now.
You turned your head slightly.
He was already looking at you.
That same expression again—fond, a little proud, a little soft around the edges in a way he never let himself be during practice with anyone else.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “A lot better.”
He nodded once, satisfied.
And then, without warning—
He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead.
It was light.
Brief.
But it sent warmth flooding straight through you, catching you completely off guard.
The room went silent.
Then—
“HYUNG!"
“OH MY GOD?"
"IN PRACTICE?!"
You stared at Hoseok, face burning. “You—”
“What?” he said, completely unbothered.
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” he replied easily.
And then, softer, just for you—
“You did well.”
That… shut you up faster than anything else could have.
Namjoon cleared his throat, trying—and failing—not to smile. “Alright. One last run before we all lose our minds."
“Please," Yoongi added. "I want to go home."
“From the top,” Hoseok called, stepping back into position.
But as he passed you, his hand brushed yours again—lingering just a second longer this time.
When the music started, everything felt different.
Lighter.
Easier.
And when that moment came again—
You didn’t rush.
You didn’t hesitate.
You just trusted it.
And somewhere to your right, you could feel him watching—
Hii long time no see, I am stopping by an hour before my bday to talk about Hobi (as always) 😅 1st of all, I hope you are doing okay ❤ 2nd, Hoseok has the prettiest neck in the universe and I just need to say it. He has such a pretty neck/collarbones. He's so beautiful. I just want to cry over how pretty he is and for him to laugh at me til he falls into my arms and stays there. Also if he could blush and kiss me in response that'd be pretty great 😅 sending love from the og soft hobi stan💌💌💌-♒✒ (crying over Hoseok as always)
MY DEAREST!!!! I’ve missed you!!!! I lit up seeing your ask here, aaaahhhhh I hope you’re well and life is treating you okay 🥺💜.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! 💜💜💜💜
Oh my goshhhh yes he does have a very pretty neck 🥰. Here’s a little bit of soft boyfriend Hobi for you 🥺💜💜💜. I hope you have a lovely day 💜
amae - japanese. the way you act when you want to depend on another person. relying on someone’s goodwill and love to help you. frequently thought of as wanting to be loved and taken care of.
when someone new moves in next door, you don’t expect to become friends. everyone on your block was friendly, yes, but none of you gave more than a courteous wave when you spotted each other in passing. that changes with jung hoseok; a literature professor with sunlight gleaming out of every pore, who enjoys complex lectures, random coffee trips, and…sleeping in your hammock? curiosity gets the better of you as you befriend him, but just what could have this man sleeping in your garden hammock every night?
pairing | jung hoseok x reader
genre/warnings | neighbor!hobi, writer!reader, pure cotton candy fluff, this may actually rot your teeth
word count | 6.7k | cross posted to ao3
a/n | ahaha this did end up shorter than give and take, bc it felt very right to end it where i did!!! there’s a lot of flower language used in this, bc i’m the ultimate slut for flower language, i think it’s the cutest shit i’ve ever seen. i also tried to make this MC different than g.a.t’s, pls tell me if i failed!!!! i want them all to be v distinguishable and independent and unique, and i love feedback!!!!
The moving van in front of the neighbor's house shocks you when you get up that morning. There had been a For Sale sign hanging in the yard for upwards of a year, and you've watched with mild amusement as the price continued to drop.
A favorite hobby of yours is coming up with creative reasons the realtor was more and more desperate to sell the house. Your favorite so far was that the adorable plump woman had to sell it soon, or her wife would run off with their girlfriend in the night, never to be seen again. Until Minri did get it sold, that is, upon which her wife and girlfriend would return and they would live in bliss.
Minri was, in actuality, very nice, and you doubt you should be entertaining such thoughts about her. She'd sold you your own house, after all; a lovely little three-bedroom, with a wonderful yard for your garden and your friends' dogs. Minri had even managed it at a great price, though she had emphasized the cleanliness of the place and the nearby churches, which was a little odd. You owed her for it, no matter how peculiar she had been during the viewing.
Well not really, she got a very nice commission from the sale, but it's the principle of the thing.
You scavenge one of the dry erase markers from the drawer and make a note on your fridge to bake her cookies sometime soon. Your mother would have a fit if she saw you writing straight on your fridge, but it was erasable and easy and you are if nothing if not a simple girl.
You pull yourself from your musings and make another note to call your mother before she could get huffy that you haven't in a while, and toss the marker back into the drawer when you're done. You direct your attention back at the moving van, unsurprised when a gaggle of young-looking boys emerges from the neighboring house to start unloading. Well, it wouldn't be extremely fair to call them a gaggle, as there are only three of them, but the point stands. They seem to be very close, judging by the way they tease and play, and it makes you smile a little. It was long past time the neighborhood got some life in it. The closest people to your age are the couple three doors down, in their 50s and always willing to talk about their seven children. It got tiring.
With a soft sigh, you turn from the window at your sink and dismiss the flash of bright pink you see in the mirroring window from next door. None of the three you saw had pink hair, but you could have missed one. You slide your hand along the spine of your cat, Tuna, and smile as she wraps her tail around your wrist for a moment before chirping and jumping down from the counter. She follows as you make your way to your office, tucked into the smallest of the bedrooms because it gets the best light, and settle at your desk to return to your work. Novels don't write themselves, after all.
You aren’t sure which of the boys lives next door, but it becomes quickly clear that it’s only one of them. Several are over at all hours of the day, but by the time the sun goes down, there’s usually only one or two there. A variety of vehicles come and go, but only one is there often enough to be the owner's. You might think it was a gay couple, had you not heard the complaints about an uncomfortable sofa on your way to get your morning paper.
They’re a very respectful bunch, whoever they are. They keep things quiet after sunset, and wait for a reasonable hour to start their backyard morning exercises. The music they play is pleasant, if a bit loud as it drifts over to where you kneel in the dirt. The fence that separates your yard from his reaches your shoulder. A white-picket thing that surrounds each of the yards in the neighborhood, you've never cared much for it, and it keeps you from seeing anything notable as you tend your garden. Still, you catch snippets of conversation, bits of stories that you never get a conclusion to, jokes with a punchline that’s carried off by the wind.
For the most part, though, you catch names; Jungkook, Jimin, Seokjin, different variants of each, but the one you hear most often is Hobi. His name rings out constantly, gliding through the air on notes of both mirth and vitriol. It’s usually accompanied by a laugh that makes your heart warm in your chest, or some form of inhuman screech, though you’re not sure why. You’ve never seen enough to understand what happens at the house next door, nor have you actually met any of the people that come and go like leaves in the fall.
Still, you can’t deny your curiosity, and you tell yourself that if the opportunity presents itself, you’ll introduce yourself. Despite that decision, the opportunity never does seem to present itself. Weeks pass, and you find that you feel nervous at the thought of going and introducing yourself now. The window has passed, it would be too strange now, he would think you odd. So you keep to your own house, tending your flowers and your trees, writing your novel, and doing your level best to keep Tuna off of the manuscripts and letters sitting around that you have yet to organize. You’ve resigned yourself to the sad truth that you simply won’t get to know your neighbor, won’t be able to have that adorable friendship you’ve dreamed of, won’t even know which one it is that lives there.
The universe has always worked rather strangely for you, though, and it’s not long after your acceptance of this fact that you come out of your back door, gardening gloves in hand and already reaching for the misting hose, to find someone swaying in your hammock.
You’re not really mad, you don’t use it very often anyway and someone should. Mostly you’re curious - you always have been, and always will be, most likely. Curious as to why someone is in your hammock when most everyone on the block has their own lawn furniture, who that someone is, how they got into your yard. The bolt on the gate is nearly impossible to unlatch from the outside; you know, from the many times that you’ve locked yourself out and had to James Bond your way into your own house through the back window.
You set your gloves on your patio table - a white bistro set your mother gave you when you moved out - and make your way over to the stranger. He’s good-looking; feather-soft brown hair and oddly clear skin, drowning in a sweatshirt that was at least two sizes too big, snoring lightly as the wind rocked him.
“Hey,” You say. He doesn’t respond, and you frown. “Hey, dude, what are you doing?” Still no response. You huff and turn, eyeing the yard for something to help. You don’t want to shake him awake, that could prove dangerous if he swings out at you. Your eyes light up as they land on the hose, forgotten among the grass. You tromp over and pick it up, dragging it back over to where the hammock sways among the tree branches.
“I’m gonna spray you awake,” You say. You receive no reaction, not that you expected any, and shrug. With one pulse, a fine mist of water settles on him. The guy does, indeed, flail, swinging wildly in a futile attempt to fight the water raining down him. He sputters and wipes at his face, and you watch as he does.
“What the hell, who the fuck sprays someone with water when they're sleeping?” He asks, shaking out his now damp hair.
“In my defense, I told you I was going to do it. You were the one that was asleep and didn’t hear.” The man freezes at the sound of your voice, looking around your yard as if seeing it for the first time. He gives you a hesitant and apologetic grin, and the sun seems to grow brighter on his face.
“I’m so sorry, I did not mean to fall asleep in your yard, I swear. There was...it’s a long story, but it really was an accident.” He flips himself gracefully off the hammock, with practiced ease that makes you only a little jealous. You should learn to do that.
“It’s fine, you can sleep in the hammock. I only want to know how you got in my yard.”
“I vaulted the fence,” He says as if it was obvious. You look from him to the fence, and back again. “What? It’s not difficult.” You turn back to the fence, measuring it with your eyes. If he was able to vault it without much difficulty, how fast would he have to be going? He would surely need a good deal of momentum, of course, to be able to launch himself five feet up in the air. The only thing in your brain is that ‘ten-foot vertical leap’ meme, and you curse your best friend for sending you every meme he ever thinks is remotely amusing.
The sound of your name brings you back to the present, and you focus on the man once more. “That’s you, I’m assuming?” The man says. You nod and point to him, belatedly realizing that you still have the hose in your hand when he flinches.
“Which one are you?” You ask him. He gives you a confused look. “There are several people next door most of the time, which one are you? Jungkook, Jimin, Seokjin, or Hobi?”
“Hobi,” He says after a second, beaming at you as he does. Something in your chest starts to unfurl itself, and the sensation is strangely comforting. “But my name is actually Hoseok, they just call me Hobi. You’re welcome to as well, most do.”
“Right.” You watch him for a few more seconds as he shakes out his sweatshirt, water dusting the grass below him. “I have gardening to do. Please let me know the next time you want to sleep in the hammock.” You turn back to the flowers closest the fence, satisfied now that you’ve answered so many of your questions about your neighbor.
“You aren’t going to ask why I’m here?” His voice calls from behind you. You shrug, kneeling beside your white camellias and checking their soil and sprouts. They were starting to bloom and you needed to be careful to make sure they weren’t soaking up too much water. “So I can seriously sleep here whenever. I just have to tell you first?”
“That’s what I said,” You reply. You pause, thinking for a second, and turn to look at him. “Does this make us friends?” The beaming smile he wears is nearly blinding, and you find it very endearing that he is so wildly happy at such a small thing.
“It absolutely makes us friends,” He tells you. You return the smile, albeit yours is much less sunshine-y than his. He starts to walk toward the fence and you laugh under your breath.
“Hoseok, you can use the gate,” You tell him. He stops and looks between the gate and the fence for a second before laughing embarrassedly at himself. “Please refrain from vaulting the fence in the future, as well. I'll leave the gate unlatched for you from now on.”
Hoseok grins and waves as he jogs out the gate and to his own home. You don’t relax until you hear the click of his door shut. A soft mrow from your left has you moving to pet Tuna once more, and you beam at her.
“It’s been a long time since I had a friend, hasn’t it?”
You don't expect to see or hear much from Hoseok after your brief interaction. You've had friends before, of course, but they all tend to fade away as they have their own lives and you have deadlines. Even your closest friends, three boys you met in college and somehow kept around, don't message you as often when you're close to finishing your work; they know better than to expect a response when you have an editor breathing down your neck. You're used to it, used to people becoming immersed in their own problems and not wanting to share them, so you never get upset about it anymore. There's no use in it, not when you do the same thing.
You're so used to this that it surprises you when Hoseok waves at you one morning as you're both getting mail. Another day he's playing football with a couple of friends and shouts a quick greeting over the fence as you dip down to do your gardening. One memorable evening, you turn from shooing a raccoon away from your trash with a feather duster to see Hoseok watching from his driveway. You give him a polite smile and he shoots you a proud, yet puzzled, grin, and the next day when he sees you putting out small feeders near the back part of your yard for the raccoon, he just chuckles.
Not to mention that you still come outside most mornings to find him snoozing in your hammock, rocking in the gentle breeze and comfortable as can be. He's never given you any explanation, though to be fair, you also don't pry.
It's a struggle; you want so much to know why he doesn't sleep in his house that sits not ten feet away from yours. You don't want to push him, though, too scared of breaking this tentative friendship you've built over something so small.
Things only start to change the afternoon he knocks on your back door while you're getting lunch ready for Tuna. She yells as you set the food down in front of her - a special blend designed to help her hearing and her eyesight since she's predisposed to troubles with both - but she quiets soon enough. You step around her to open the door, and you're shocked at the expression on Hoseok's face.
He wears a smile now, but for a second...for a second, he had looked afraid.
Your name drops from his lips in a tone that tells you he didn't expect you to answer. "I was only wondering, do you, um…" He trails off and you wait patiently for him to finish the thought. "Do you want to get lunch? Coffee? Anything? I need to get out of the house for a while."
"Sure," You reply. "Let me get my wallet." You move to the entryway to grab the thing - old and falling apart but still useful - and when you return, Hoseok is standing exactly where you left him. You pat Tuna's head and exit, closing the door behind you before you turn to Hoseok with an expectant smile. "I'll drive?" You suggest, since he still seems somewhat jumpy, and he nods.
He's not quiet on the drive, by any means, but it amazes you how he says so much but so little all at once. By the time you get to the cafe he directed you to, you've heard all about the antics of his friends - Jimin, Jungkook, and Seokjin, who helped him move that day - and you've heard plenty about their time at school and his days spent as a literature professor at the local university, and yet that's the most you know about him. Fun anecdotes and the off-hand comment about a student. Definitely not a word about why he sleeps in your hammock, or why he showed up at your door out of nowhere and asked you to lunch with a look in eyes that you thought you'd only see from a rabbit caught in a hunter's snare.
Still, as curious as you are, you can't bring yourself to ask about it, because it's so obvious that he wants to talk about anything else.
"So, what do you do? I never see you leave for work when everyone else does, so I assume you work from home?" You nod in response to Hoseok's question.
"I do. I'm an author, so I spend quite a bit of time in my office. That's why I started gardening, actually, so that I was forced to be outside in the sun at least a little bit every day. Otherwise, I tend to nest in my office for days without leaving."
"That makes a lot of sense," He says as he sips at his coffee. "What do you write?"
"Horror." The shock on his face, like perhaps he heard you wrong, is one of your favorite things about telling people you write. He gazes at you, taking in the messy hair, overalls, daisy-covered shirt, and pink sandals. "Psychological horror, to be exact.”
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." You grin, much too amused with the entire conversation. You slide your phone out of your pocket and tap at it until you're at your official website. You slide it across for him to see, and he clicks through the pages. There are several - one for each series, one for your upcoming releases, an appearance schedule, and then a quick bio that features a picture of you and Tuna. When he slides the phone back across the table, he looks impressed, and it warms you.
"I had no idea that was you," he says. You can't help the knowing grin. "You seem a little...bright for the genre."
"The mind is a fascinating place, Hoseok. The darker parts are so often either overlooked entirely or exaggerated for dramatic purposes. I want to tell real stories about real things that can happen. There's no need for embellishment when very real, very terrible things happen every single day. Besides, you don't need to dress in all black and carry around a leather-bound copy of Stephen King to prove you're interested in horror." He hums across the table, and his look has turned almost calculating.
"I may have to read some of your work then."
"You might." You give him a serene smile and finish your coffee.
He's somehow friendlier after that. He initiates small conversations almost every day, outside your mailbox or hanging over the fence while you garden. He appears all but every other day on your doorstep, looking terrified but grinning as he asks you to go to coffee. You start to wonder if there's something chasing him that only he can see, but brush the thought off the same second you have it. You've become too deep into your latest book.
He does read your work, which surprised you; you'd never expected him to do so. You offer to lend him your copies, as you have one of each on a shelf in your office, but he steadfastly refuses. You talk about it over coffee, and though you shouldn't be surprised at the quick thinking and keen observations he makes, you are. As often as you interact with your readers at signings and readings and conventions, you've never been quite so invested in someone's thoughts before.
You're eager to know what he thinks of the most recent book he's read. You're curious as to what metaphors and symbolism he's picked up on, what foreshadowing has punched him in the gut with realization. If he would criticize the heavy-handed allegory you've created, or if praise would fall from his lips to slide across and settle in your chest.
It's been a very long time since you cared for someone's opinion like this, you realize one morning as you stare out your kitchen window. Butterflies form in your stomach and you sigh, content in the knowledge that there would be no running from this. You watch as Hoseok runs around his own backyard, laughing at something Jimin says. He's sweaty from the game they're playing, but the sunlight seems to absorb into his skin in a way you've not seen before, and it looks like he's glowing. His smile lights up the sunset, and you can hear his laugh from here, and you want nothing more than to wrap yourself up in the sound.
No, you decide, there would be no running from these feelings, only acceptance of the blossoming fondness inside your heart. You turn from the window as Hoseok laughs again, spotting an empty section of your garden as you do, right beside the eye-catching red tulips. It makes you frown, as you can't remember there being an empty section there before.
You make a note on your fridge to pick up some pink camellias next time you're at the garden center to fill it. Your reminder to call your mother stares back at you and frown at it for a solid minute before you pick up the phone. As it rings, you resign yourself to yet another conversation with your mother about why you're not married with a real career yet.
"Have you had dinner yet?"
You look up from the weeds in your grasp to see Hoseok leaning across your fence and beaming at you.
"Have you had dinner yet?" Hoseok repeats at your obvious confusion. "I ordered delivery and saw you out here and I thought I should offer to share. Since you've been so kind in sharing your lovely hammock and free time, I want to repay the favor."
"Oh. No, I haven't eaten yet." You stand and dust the dirt off your gloves before sliding them off. Hoseok grins and hands two large bags over the fence to you. You take them, curious, and watch as he pulls himself up and over the fence. He’s careful not to step on your flowers, but he still gives an apologetic smile as you sigh. "The gate is right there, Hobi."
He winks as he rights himself and takes one of the bags. "It's faster like this." You laugh and slide your gloves off with care, not wanting to drop the food, and hang them on the fence beside you. Hoseok is already halfway to your back door and waves at Tuna where she waits on your dining table.
"Oh, Hoseok, don't-" He's opened the door before you can finish your sentence, and a small black and tan fluff darts out. The dog circles him, yipping at his toes and running back and forth between the two of you. Hoseok looks startled, but a smile spreads across his face after a moment. "I'm sorry, I'm dogsitting for my friend while he's out of town."
Hoseok coos at the dog and leads him back inside, luring him along with a small bit of meat. You laugh as you follow, sliding a hand down Tuna's back as you shut the door behind you.
"He's adorable, I love him!" Hoseok exclaims, laughing again as he sets the food on the counter. He looks at you and gestures to the piece of meat in his hand, and you nod to let him know it's fine. Yeontan takes it and follows Hobi around as he starts getting plates and utensils, the fact that he knows where they are is a testament to how often he's at your house.
The two of you eat in relative silence. Tuna bathes languidly atop her cat tower and Yeontan sits between you and Hoseok, his entire body shaking back and forth as his tail wags. Every so often, Hoseok will comment about his day, as he usually does when the two of you eat together, and he asks about yours. You tell him about the new flowers you've planted - some gorgeous white lilies that should bloom well. He tells you about his theories and opinions on the last book of yours he'd read.
By the time you're finished eating, he has several new thoughts and notes jotted down in a hasty scrawl on a napkin. He's insightful with his questions, bringing up points you hadn't considered and opinions on continuity that you need to clarify in the future. Your heart flutters in your chest when he smiles, bouncing Yeontan in his lap.
"I do think they're good, though," He says as he makes kissy faces at the dog. "Like, good good. If I ever teach a psychological horror class, I may use them. Students could learn a lot from the dedication to detail."
"Thanks, Hobi," You tell him, and you don't bother to hide the fond smile. The fluttering in your chest is familiar at this point, and it makes you sigh a little.
You're so smitten, you think as you watch him bounce Yeontan on his knee; you should, perhaps, feel more conflicted about your growing emotions. And yet, you've been accepting of it since you first met him. It was as if the second you met Hoseok, you knew you would fall for him. How could you not, with his charm and warmth and humor and the unbearable mystique he left in his wake each time you spoke to him?
"Oh, that reminds me, I have something for you!" You stand and head outside for a mere moment, grabbing what you need in a flash. When you return, Yeontan is on his belly beside Hoseok, Tuna glaring at both of them with envy. You set the pot in front of him, and he blinks at it, bewildered.
"Is this...?"
"Tulips!" You say with a grin. The yellow blossoms stand proud as he gapes, and you like to imagine that they're proud they look so good for him. "To brighten up your house. You always seem so interested them, and I had several extra seedlings this year, so I grew one for you."
The look on Hoseok's face is unreadable and he's silent for a long while as he looks at the flowers. You wait; you've seen the way he looks at your garden while the two of you talk over the fence, you've seen the way that he eyes the tulips as you weed them. You know it's a good gift, and you scream the reminder inside your chest to drown out the voice in the back of your head saying otherwise. It's worth the wait when his face splits into the biggest smile you've ever seen, radiant and bright. It almost seems to surround him, a halo of joy that feels like a summer sun.
"I absolutely love it," He tells you. "It's gorgeous, I'm going to make sure everyone can see it." He stands, potted flowers cradled in both hands like a babe, and gives Yeontan one last kiss. "I should be going anyway, I have a class in the morning, but I need to make sure I find the perfect place for these." He beams at you again, and you return his grin.
"It's nothing, Hobi," You say, walking him to the front door and opening it for him. "Consider it a housewarming gift." He beams as he makes his way across to his own house, and the way he's already cooing at the buds and talking to it have your emotions a mess.
It's been months since you first went to coffee with Hoseok. The two of you are, you would say, friends. You've definitely graduated from neighbors, and you spend more time together than acquaintances, but it feels strange to call him your friend when what you feel is so much more than that.
Every time you see him, it only gets worse. More than once, you wished time would stand still if only to keep him with you a little longer. Being around him feels like standing in a meadow of daffodils in the noon sun, heat seeping into your skin and painting the world with its oranges and yellows while the breeze whispers a promise in your ear as it rolls through you.
You wish you could bottle the feeling.
You make a note on your fridge - 'bottling emotions for capitalistic gain - too obvious? trite? overused? must consider further' - and set out a treat for Tuna. She's grumpy, likely because you've yet again woken at four in the morning and disrupted her usual bed - your face - with your need for a bathroom and a snack.
You haven't slept much that week, too busy polishing the last few press releases and comments that had to be perfect before release. You'd finally done the last of the work and had checked the mail and done your gardening before you received Joy's email saying you were good to go back into hibernation until the next book was due.
You took the hint and proceeded to pass out at around five that evening. You needed the sleep, clearly; you can't remember the last time you slept so long without even getting up to pee. Still, you muse as you munch on a week-old granola bar your mother left on her last visit, you're glad that you've gotten the book done. You're always relieved when you finish writing one, these days. In the beginning, you would wait anxiously until publication finished and the book was on the shelves. Joy had to pull you out of your rabbit hole several times, too consumed with what people were saying to even bother with anything else.
That was before Tuna, of course, and the garden.
Now, you were content seeing whatever happened your way. You didn't much care for professional reviews anymore; they were nice but they weren't as honest. The random people who stumbled onto Twitter in the early hours of the morning because they'd just turned the last page were much more genuine. There were always those that criticized you, of course, but you contented yourself with the knowledge that they never had to read your books if they didn't want to. Others enjoyed them, and that was what mattered. The ones who read them and then couldn't sleep, either for need to express their thoughts to someone before they could rest or because they were too on edge, too anxious, the ones who saw danger in every mundane shadow of their bedroom after putting your book down, those were the ones who mattered to you.
A bang startles you out of your thoughts, and you share a look with Tuna. Her fur is raised, tail straight up as she looks to your front door. You follow her gaze and see nothing, which isn't unusual. Tuna regularly communes with whatever shadow monsters exist in that parallel plane of existence only cats can see. It's not typical, however, for you to be able to hear said shadow monsters.
You pad your way to the front door, sliding one of the hardcovers that had arrived the day before into your hand as you do, in case one of the shadow monsters tried something. Another bang echoes throughout your house, followed by a series of quick, desperate knocks. Deciding that no respectable shadow monster would knock before murdering you, you open the door to see Hoseok, panicked and sweating and panting. He looks as surprised as you feel.
"Um…" is all he says for a minute, and you wait. "I didn't expect you to answer, honestly, I just. You weren't around earlier so I didn't want to use the hammock, and it's getting kind of chilly, and so I tried to sleep in the house, but it's gotten worse and I was doing alright but then it started making these noises? So I tried to get it to stop with some things I found online but that only made it all worse, and then it seemed like things were gonna shoot around the room, so I-"
"Hoseok," You interrupt. He stops, fixing wide eyes on you. "Context."
"My house is being haunted by some kind of demon monster and I think it's going to try to kill me and I would really appreciate your help in exorcising it."
You blink, but the grave expression on his face doesn't change. It takes a second for your brain to fit that particular frame around the puzzle that Hoseok has been - sleeping in the hammock, random coffee trips where he's jittery and on edge, the minute you go to leave the cafe, the terrified look in his eyes whenever he comes over or sparks a conversation out of nowhere.
"Okay," You say, sliding the book under your arm and closing the door behind you. Hoseok looks taken aback at the idea that you're actually going to help him, but he hesitantly follows as you head across the front yard to his own front door.
The house is quiet when you enter, the shadows of still-yet-to-be-unpacked boxes dancing on the walls as you turn the overhead light on. He's lived in the house for months and yet it seems only the bare necessities have been unpacked; it should surprise you more, but considering the fact that he's spent all that time believing there's a ghost haunting him, you aren't surprised.
Your first walk through the house doesn't seem to trigger anything. It's completely silent, eerily still, and yet Hoseok seems to jump at every creak of a floorboard, ready to run at every twisting shadow that shies away from the light.
"Is there a ghost here?" You eventually call into the living room, and Hoseok curses at the soft thud that echoes. Your eyes narrow, darting around the space. "I asked a question. Don't be rude, it's very inconsiderate of you." There's a couple of other thuds eyes track them around the room. "If you don't stop, I'm going to start performing an exorcism, and then who's going to regret being impolite?"
Hoseok hisses your name, but you ignore him, instead of focusing on the way the lamp in the corner wobbles ever so slightly. Hoseok clearly also notices this, inching towards the door once more.
"Hoseok said you were talking to him. Am I not good enough?" There's a pause, and then a warbled voice reverberates through the room, eerie and lingering, which only cements your theory. You turn to Hoseok and lower your voice, barely even whispering. You're so close that your lips brush his ear as you ask him where the entrance to his attic is. He leads you to it, stepping softly and avoiding the creaky floorboards as you do.
It's harder to be quiet as he pulls the trapdoor down, stairs sliding along with it, but at this point, you don't need to be. You ascend first, Hoseok following close behind. He no longer looks afraid, merely curious, and you're glad for it. It's a pity that he's felt so alienated from his own house.
There are several squeaking sounds as you turn on your phone flashlight and showing Hoseok exactly what has been haunting him: a pink-haired young man and his blonde friend, both scrambling for cover amidst the sleeping bag and snack wrappers that litter the floor of the attic.
You stand aside as Hoseok chases them out, cursing about mice and sleep and ungrateful friends as he does. When Jungkook and Jimin are both gone, laughing so hard they can't run, you show Hoseok the boots they used to stomp around, the nearly-invisible fishing line threaded down and around various lamps and paintings, the radio hookup they used to change their voices.
"It's all stuff I've used in books before," You tell him as he pours a cups of coffee for you both. "Also, I could hear them laughing."
"I feel like an idiot for waking you up for this. And for sleeping in a hammock and getting chased out of my house for something so stupid." He runs a hand through his hair and the fondness in your chest grows. He doesn’t look at you, instead staring at the potted tulips sitting in his kitchen window. It mirrors your own, and you’ve caught yourself staring more than once from your own kitchen.
"There are worse things,” you say.
"Oh?"
"Mhm. I could've not had a hammock." The small grin he gives has you melting, and you want nothing more than to wrap him in a hug and kiss away the line between his brows.
“You have a point," He says with a small laugh. "It is a really comfortable hammock. I almost don't want to go back to my bed."
"So don't," You say, voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. The tone in his voice feels new, feels good, like perhaps he's standing in that meadow of daffodils with you, and it gives you hope. "You're always welcome to use the hammock. As I said, someone should, otherwise it's going to hang there, all sad and lonely."
He looks shocked to hear that, though you aren't sure why. It isn't like you've been very secretive of the way he makes you feel; but then, you haven't been outright vocal, either. And he did think he was being haunted for the better part of four months, without realizing it was two of his friends living in his attic.
"You're welcome to come over whenever, Hobi," You tell him. "You don't need to be chased out by a ghost to talk to me."
"I don't want to interrupt your work," He says. His voice is hesitant and sweet and it reminds you of the orange blossoms you used to plant with your grandmother.
"I'm actually finished with my book," You tell him. He makes a questioning noise, and you remember the hardcover tucked under your arm and set it on the counter. "This is actually for you." He steps closer to look it over and flips it around to look at the back as well.
"I can't take your only copy," He starts but you cut him off with a shake of your head.
"I have one for me," You say. Your voice is firm, unaffected by the rolling of your stomach, but it's quieter than usual. "That's yours. I wanted your opinion on it if it lives up to the hype. We talked about the one right before this last week, and I'm curious if this one will answer any of your questions or if it leaves you with more. I've been trying some new things, and I'm not sure how well I executed them."
You choke the need to keep talking. Instead, you bite your tongue and return the look Hoseok is giving you; it's intense and full of something you can't place. But he's opened the book to the back, fingers resting lightly against the dedication bearing his name, thumb brushing the red carnation you'd pressed between the pages out of sheer impulse.
"You don't have to read it, of course," You eventually say.
"I'll need something to do while you garden, though," He says, stepping closer and letting the book fall closed. "I can't exactly lay in that hammock and watch you garden, can I?"
"If you wanted, you could." He's closer than he's ever been now, eyes focused on your lips even as he studies your face for any sign that you don't want him there. "I wouldn't mind."
When he finally presses his lips to yours, they're softer than you expected. Even his hands are soft as he slides them up to cup your jaw and press deeper, like gardenia blossoms against your skin, and everywhere he touches is warmed, as if the sun itself was dancing across you. It makes it hard to breathe, but god, at this point, you'd be fine with never breathing again so long as he kept kissing you.
It feels like hours when he finally pulls away, a shy smile painted pink with the sunrise, and it's breathtaking.
Later that day, you plant lilies, white and yellow intermixed in a pattern that your grandmother taught you, while Hoseok swings lazily in your hammock, one leg on the ground to rock himself. He spouts questions at you as he does, making little notes in the margins of each page as you respond, Tuna curled beside him and happily snoring.
You should plant more daffodils, you decide as you watch them.
