its written on my skin @tiramingisu - Tumblr Blog

to the boys i’ve crushed on .ᐟ k.hj, j.yh, j.wy, p.sh

.ᐟ you’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic, even more so than you are a stumbling social disaster, which is saying something. you fall easily for four guys around campus and of course, because your luck is just that great, the sappy love letters you wrote to each of them end up delivered and send your usually uneventful life spinning into total chaos.

.ᐟ part one | part two | part three (~14k) | part four

.ᐟ music major!hongjoong x fem!reader, brother’s best friend!seonghwa x fem!reader, tutor!yunho x fem!reader, baseball golden boy!wooyoung x fem!reader

.ᐟ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | cursing, detailed descriptions of a panic attack, suggestive at the end

You stare at Wooyoung’s message, your brows knitting together as your grip on the phone tightens just slightly, your other hand still loosely curled around your cup. The café hum continues around you, unchanged, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening somewhere far outside of you.

This was all supposed to start at the game Saturday. There was a plan, there was structure, and now he’s just pulling the rug from under you. You were sure you’d have enough time to mentally prepare for this whole charade by Saturday, but now he’s saying you’re going to have to put a rush order on confidence and hope it arrives in time.

what??

and why?

Your fingers fly across the screen before you can think it over, sure that now your anxiety about this entire situation must be clear as day to him.

His reply comes faster this time, having read your message the second you sent it.

bc karina’s gonna be there

Right. Of course she is. You almost forgot that this was never just about you to him.

Your gaze drops, your shoulders curling in just slightly as your fingers begin to worry at the sleeve of your hoodie again, twisting the fabric between them until it bunches. You press your lips together, your thoughts already spiraling outward. There’s too many variables, too many ways this could go wrong.

okay but why do i have to go

You type it slower this time, your thumb pausing between words. You’re trying your hardest to soften the edge of it, make it sound less like stubborn resistance and more like confusion, but you think it just makes you seem stupid to him.

bc u’re my girlfriend now??

Before you can even process that one, another message pops up.

try to keep up

Your lips press together, the corner of your mouth twitching faintly, not quite a smile but not quite irritation. It’s something in between that you don’t want to examine too closely because, really, you think if anyone else said this to you while only having spoken to you twice, you’d be peeved.

that’s not funny

You type it out quickly, your thumb hitting send before you can rethink it. You shift in your seat, your back pressing lightly against the booth as you glance up briefly, grounding yourself in the café around you. It all feels strangely distant now, like you’re watching from behind glass.

im not joking

Your fingers still slightly against the table as you read it, your stomach tightening again. Another message follows.

if i show up alone and then suddenly have a gf at the game the next day it’s gonna look fake

The response makes your eyes flutter closed in defeat, the back of your head colliding softly with the cushion of the booth you’re sitting in, because, in a way you hate, that makes perfect sense. The logic settles in slowly, frustrating in how reasonable it is.

You sink back again, your shoulders dropping just a fraction as a quiet breath leaves you, your gaze drifting down to your drink. The whipped cream has fully dissolved, soft peaks having fully melted into uneven swirls. If only it were so easy to disappear for you as it is for the sugary cream.

it’s a baseball kickoff thing. everyone’s gonna be there

including her

You lean forward slightly without realizing it, your elbows hovering just above the table as your fingers curl loosely around your phone as you type a reply.

what am i even supposed to do there

You stare at the screen after sending it, your foot stilling for a second before starting up again, a restless, repetitive motion against the floor. You watch the typing bubble appear and disappear and appear again. Each second stretches just enough to make your chest tighten, your thoughts beginning to fill the silence with possibilities you don’t want to examine.

stick w me

look pretty

You roll your eyes instinctively, your head tilting back just slightly as you let out a small, quiet exhale through your nose, but the reaction doesn’t fully convince you. Underneath it, there’s that same flicker again, something warmer that makes your stomach dip in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

ill handle everything tiny, don’t worry ur pretty lil head

A flush floods your face at his words, rising fast and uninvited, settling high in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. You think you can actually recall a line like that from your favorite movie, the love interest wearing that charming smile, insisting that the protagonist won’t have to stress her pretty lil head about it. Your shoulders draw in, your fingers tightening around your phone like you can physically contain the embarrassing reaction to such a simple sentence.

Slowly, you remember he’s waiting for a reply, so your thumbs move hesitantly.

fine

Why did you ever agree to this, anyway? You’ve read enough books and seen enough romcoms to know that fake relationships never work. The thought alone is enough to have fear flicker throughout your body again.

there u go, see? isn’t it easier when you let me think for u tiny

There’s a spike of irritation in your chest, but also something else you would feel humiliated to admit to.

stop, you type back.

lmaoo

just messing w u, its way too easy

You try to think of how to respond, but luckily you don’t have to because, in all of his grace, he ends the conversation.

pick u up at 8 on fri

Friday arrives faster than you’d expect, and by the time you’re in Wooyoung’s car, it already feels like you’ve been swept into some insane situation you didn’t fully think through.

The Jeep hums steadily beneath you, a low, constant vibration that you feel through the soles of your shoes and up into your legs, grounding and unsettling all at once. The windows are cracked just slightly, letting in thin ribbons of cool evening air that tug faintly at your hair, carrying with it the distant noise of the party you’re parked outside of.

You sit angled just slightly toward the door; you didn’t mean to put that space there between Wooyoung and yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to close it either. Your bag rests upright between your feet, one hand loosely gripping the strap, your thumb dragging absently over the worn edge of it in a repetitive motion you don’t even notice anymore.

Your knee bounces uncontrollably, a restless, nervous motion that doesn’t stop even when you press your foot harder into the floor. Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off rhythm, like you can’t quite settle into it.

This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea from the start, yet here you are, seconds way from having to play a role when you were never a good actor.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, your voice quieter than the music outside but sharp enough in the small space of the car. Your gaze is fixed forward, not really looking at anything, instead just avoiding everything else.

“It’s a party,” he sighs, like that alone should solve it, his voice easy, unbothered in a way that feels almost unfair. He leans back slightly in his seat, one arm resting lazily against the wheel, the other draped along the back of your seat like he’s already settled in. “You’re acting like I dragged you to court or something.”

Your fingers tighten further into the fabric in your lap. “That’s not helping,” you mumble, your shoulders drawing in just slightly as your gaze flickers toward the house again, then away just as quickly: too many people, too many eyes, too many chances for something to go wrong.

Wooyoung glances at you then, really looks this time, and something in his expression shifts. He sighs, softer this time, his hand lifting from the wheel as he turns slightly toward you. “Okay,” he starts, like he’s conceding something, adjusting the plan in his head. “Give me your phone.”

You blink, caught off guard, “What?”

“Your phone,” he echoes, holding his hand out expectantly, palm up between you. “C’mon.”

Your brows knit together immediately, confusion cutting through the anxiety just enough to make you turn toward him fully now. “Why?” you question, your grip tightening slightly around it instead of handing it over. “What are you—”

“Just give it to me, won’t you?” he cuts in, firm and maybe a little annoyed, in the soft kind of way, wrapped in something that sounds to you like endearment.

You hesitate for a second longer, your fingers lingering against the edges of your phone like you’re trying to hold onto some control, but it slips from your hand anyway, landing lightly in his.

You immediately regret it as you watch him unlock your phone, thumbs dancing across your screen. “What are you doing?” you press, leaning slightly toward him, your voice edged with something between suspicion and nerves.

He hums lightly, and before you can ask him in what world that serves as an answer to your question, he leans in. Your breath catches immediately, your body going still as he shifts into your space like the way your shoulder brushes his chest isn’t sending your thoughts scattering.

“What are you—” you start, but the words don’t finish because his hand comes up and settles along your jaw, his palm cradling the underside of it as his fingers press lightly into your cheeks, squishing them just enough that your lips part in surprise.

Your eyes widen, your gaze snapping to the phone now held up in front of both of you, the screen capturing the exact moment you realize what just happened; your flustered expression, his grin already breaking across his face, far too pleased with himself.

He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, the warmth of his hand disappearing from your skin, leaving behind a lingering awareness that makes your face burn hotter.

“What was that for?” you demand immediately, your voice breathless and sharp.

A quiet laugh slips out of him, low and satisfied, his thumb tapping across your screen as he does something — multiple things, judging by the way his focus narrows just slightly.

“Wooyoung,” you press, leaning closer again, trying to see, your shoulder brushing his arm this time. “What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he murmurs, still not looking at you and completely at ease in a way that makes your stomach churn. He taps at your phone a few more times before he finally turns the phone back to you, “Done.”

You take it automatically, your fingers brushing his for half a second as he hands it back, the contact brief but enough to make your chest tighten again. Your gaze drops to the screen, your lock screen now the photo he’d taken of the both of you — you, wide-eyed and flustered, your cheeks squished slightly under his hand and him, leaning in close beside you, grin sharp and bright, eyes crinkled with something undeniably amused. You pause for a moment, studying it a second longer before you speak, “You changed it?”

“Mm,” he hums, already reaching for the door handle, “Now it’s believable, and hopefully you can stop doing that,” he gestures toward you vaguely, “whole freaking out thing you’re doing.”

Before you can argue and claim that you’re not ‘freaking out’ and that a new lock screen doesn’t help make this more believable, he’s out of the car, the cool night air rushing in as he shuts his side. For a second, you just sit there, staring at the photo again, your heart doing something wobbly in your chest.

Your door opens and Wooyoung’s standing there, one hand resting casually against the top of the door, the other outstretched for you to take. The porch lights from the house cast a warm glow across him, catching in his hair, cushioning the sharpness of his features.

“C’mon, girlfriend,” he urges, tilting his head like all of this is just another day and not some deliberate charade you’re both performing to solve your problems, “Don’t make me come get you.”

You huff softly under your breath, but you take his hand anyway, letting him pull you up and out of the Jeep. The night air is cooler than you expect, brushing against your skin as you step onto the gravel. The sound of the party feels louder now, closer, the bass thudding through the ground beneath your feet as you move toward the house.

Wooyoung leads you forward, weaving easily through the small groups gathered outside. Every so often, someone calls his name, and he answers easily, tossing greetings over his shoulder without breaking stride. There’s something effortless about it, about the way he belongs here, as if the space bends around him instead of the other way around.

Gravel crunches under your shoes, uneven and loud in your ears, and every step closer pulls more of the party into focus — the low thrum of bass vibrating through the ground, the spill of warm yellow light from the windows, silhouettes moving past them in blurred, overlapping shapes. Someone laughs too loudly from somewhere off to the side, the sound sharp and careless.

The air once you step inside is warmer, heavier, and tinged with something sweet and artificial that clings to the back of your throat. Music pulses through the walls and floor, loud enough that it hums in your bones, and the room itself is crowded in a way that makes it hard to tell where one conversation ends and another begins. Bodies brush past you too close, shoulders knocking lightly, laughter overlapping with the rhythm of the song until it all blends into something overwhelming.

Wooyoung’s hand shifts, sliding from yours to rest at your waist, steadying you as he guides you deeper into the house. The touch is deliberate, grounding, and for a second you focus on it instead of everything else, on the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your top, on the way his thumb moves once, absentminded, like reassurance.

“Wooyoung!” someone calls, and suddenly you’re being pulled to a stop.

A boy approaches first, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair that falls into his eyes in loose, slightly messy waves. There’s an effortless looseness to him, the kind that comes from someone who laughs often and loudly, his grin already spreading before he even fully reaches you.

“Where have you been hiding?” he questions, voice bright and animated, before his gaze drops to you. It sharpens instantly, interest lighting behind it. “Oh. Oh, this must be her.”

Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate; his arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer into his side as he nods. “Jisung,” he states in way of introduction, then gestures lightly toward you. “This is _____.”

Jisung’s grin widens like Wooyoung just confirmed something he’s been waiting a while for. “Damn,” he drawls, dragging the word out, clearly amused. “You’re real.”

Before you can process that, someone else steps in beside him. This one is different, leaner and sharper in presence, his posture relaxed but composed. His hair is dark, parted cleanly, framing a face that looks put together, sharp in contrast to the chaos around him. There’s something observant in his gaze, assessing and almost skeptical in a way that only makes you more aware of the fact that you’re lying.

“So this is why you’ve been ignoring everyone,” he maintains, voice smooth, measured, though there’s a hint of amusement there that dulls it. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Wooyoung. “Minjae,” he introduces, offering you a small nod.

“Wasn’t ignoring,” Wooyoung shoots back, though there’s a grin tugging at his mouth that betrays him.

“Right,” Minjae replies simply, unconvinced.

Another presence leans in from the side. It’s a girl this time, her hair long and dark, falling sleekly down her back, her features sharp in a way that makes her expressions feel deliberate. She’s tall and lean and you think she’d make a killing in the modeling industry. She studies you openly, not unkindly but just thoroughly, like she’s taking inventory of you. “I’m Ara,” she offers, tilting her head slightly. “You’ve caused a lot of speculation this week.”

Jesus, you didn’t realize Wooyoung had been talking so much about you. You’d kind of thought you’d show up as his girlfriend suddenly at the game, and it would all work itself out. You suppose it makes more sense for him to have at least mentioned a girlfriend before showing up with one.

“So,” Jisung starts, clapping his hands together once like he’s been waiting for this moment, his grin turning almost mischievous. “How did this happen?”

Your fingers curl slightly against Wooyoung’s side, your gaze flicking up to him for half a second, a silent plea. You hope it comes off more that you’re just shy and less like your mind is scrambling for an answer and your only reassurance is the fact that he told you he’d handle it.

“Library,” he explains smoothly, as if the word has been sitting on his tongue waiting to be used. “She dropped her stuff, I helped her pick it up, we started talking—”

“That did not happen,” Minjae cuts in immediately, brows lifting.

“It did,” Wooyoung insists, unbothered, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as he continues. “And then I walked her to class, and then we kept running into each other, and, y’know, the rest just happened.”

Ara’s brows lift slightly, her lips curving into something amused. “Convenient.”

“Fate,” Wooyoung corrects without missing a beat.

Jisung lets out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my god, you’re serious?”

Wooyoung just shrugs, but there’s something in his expression now that plays into the story so convincingly it makes your chest tighten. “Love at first sight,” he claims, like it’s nothing, and you think he’s laying it on a little too thick now. It seems you’re not wrong, because the group erupts. There’s laughter, disbelief, teasing comments thrown his way in rapid succession.

“I have never seen you like this over a girl,” Ara huffs good-naturedly, shaking her head, still smiling, “not once.” That sentiment sits in your mind a little longer than you’d like it to. It makes no sense because isn’t he, like, madly in love with Karina? Isn’t that why you’re doing this whole thing in the first place?

“He’s whipped,” Jisung agrees immediately, “completely whipped.”

“You’re all dramatic,” Wooyoung scoffs, though the corner of his mouth lifts, his hand tightening slightly at your waist.

“You’re smiling,” Ara points out, motioning to his face.

“I always smile.”

“Not like that.”

Wooyoung’s hand stays firm at your waist as the conversation starts to blur around you. His thumb moves absently against your side, a small, repetitive motion that feels practiced. You try to focus on that instead of the way your pulse won’t settle, instead of the way every new face feels like another pair of eyes assessing something you’re not sure you’re performing correctly.

“So,” Ara starts again, leaning forward with that same sharp curiosity, her gaze flicking between you and Wooyoung. “Love at first sight, huh?” It’s teasing in a familiar way that almost draws you to her, and you think if you weren’t so awkward and this situation weren’t so… the way it is, you’d like to be her friend.

Your mouth opens and stalls, because you still don’t have anything. You feel Wooyoung shift beside you, just slightly, like he’s about to step in again, to catch it before it slips, but a voice cuts through.

“Wooyoung.”

The group quiets just a fraction, attention shifting in that subtle, collective way that tells you that everyone knows this is about to be awkward. You feel it before you see her, the slight tightening of the air, the way the moment rearranges itself around her presence.

Karina stands just a few feet away, framed by the kitchen light behind her. She looks so composed, effortlessly so, outwardly unbothered in a way that makes you worry that the plan to make her jealous isn’t working at all. Her posture is straight without being stiff, her expression controlled. Her hair falls neatly over her shoulders, smooth and untouched by the chaos of the room, and there’s something in her gaze, sharp and observant, that settles on Wooyoung first.

“You actually came,” she says, her tone light, but there’s a faint edge beneath it, something just slightly off from casual.

“Obviously. Makes more sense for me to be here than you,” he replies. He’s not wrong, this is a baseball kickoff thing, or however he said it.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction, then they shift to you and this time there’s no mistaking it. The irritation is subtle, but it’s there, tight in the corners of her eyes, in the way her glossed lips press together just a second too long before she smooths it over.

“This is her?” she asks, even though it’s not really a question at all. You know she must recognize you from the party.

Wooyoung’s hand presses a little more firmly into your side. “Yeah.”

Karina lets out a quiet breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wow,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly as she looks at you again, assessing you like a predator to its prey. “You really do move fast.”

There’s a flicker of something in the group, an even mix of tension and curiosity, you think, but no one interrupts. You feel it settle under your skin, that tone of hers, not outright rude but definitely not kind either.

“I didn’t think you were a serious relationship kind of guy,” she continues, her gaze sliding back to Wooyoung, then returning to you like she can’t help it. “You weren’t, like… two weeks ago.”

Wooyoung exhales softly, “Things change.”

“Clearly,” she replies, and there’s a tightness there now, something she’s not bothering to hide as well. Her arms cross loosely over her chest and her weight shifts to one side, her gaze lingering on the way his hand rests against you, on the space you’re occupying next to him.

You suddenly feel how out of place you are. Not just here, in the party, but here, in this conversation, in whatever history exists between them that you don’t understand. It presses in on you from all sides, invisible but heavy, as if you’ve stepped into something already in motion and you’re expected to keep up without knowing the rules.

“You’ve been quiet about her,” she adds, and this time it’s sharper. “That’s new.”

Jisung glances between them, catching on a little belatedly that this couldn’t end up going anywhere good. “Okay—”

But Karina keeps going, her attention still fixed, “I mean, you usually don’t shut up when you’re interested in someone,” she remarks, her lips curving faintly, though it doesn’t read as a smile. “So I guess I was just wondering what makes this one different.”

Something in your chest dips, uncomfortable and sudden. You feel like you’ve just been reduced to something smaller, something easier to dismiss. You feel it in the way your shoulders pull in just slightly, in the way your fingers tighten again at your sides.

Wooyoung’s hand shifts at your waist, anchoring, but it suddenly feels too noticeable, too present, like it’s drawing attention to something you’re not sure you can hold up under scrutiny. “Maybe I just don’t need to explain everything to you,” he argues lightly.

Karina hums, unconvinced. “Or maybe,” she starts, her gaze flicking to you again, “there’s just not that much to explain.”

The words lingers in your chest, uncomfortable and quiet, something pressing down just enough to make it harder to breathe. You become hyperaware of yourself; of how you’re standing, of where your hands are, of the way your face feels warm. Your thoughts are slightly scrambled, your presence too visible and not enough at the same time.

And somewhere in the middle of that, of her voice, of the pressure, of the way everything feels just slightly tilted, your mind slips. You don’t mean to stop listening, you really don’t, but it just happens. Her words blur together, still audible but harder to hold onto, sliding past you instead of actually clicking in your mind. Your focus loosens its grip on the conversation, searching for something else, something easier to latch onto.

Your gaze drifts across the room, and your breath stutters violently in your chest when you see him.

The sight of Hongjoong hits all at once, sharp and immediate, something snapping into place in your chest and knocking everything else out of alignment. He stands near the kitchen, half-turned toward Mingi, his posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other moves as he talks. The rings on his fingers catch the light with every small gesture, glinting in brief flashes that feel too familiar, too grounding even across the room in a way that makes something in your chest twist.

He looks normal, the same way he did Sunday night, and he hasn’t seen you, but he will, and the thought lands heavy and immediate, sinking into your chest. The air feels heavier, harder to pull into your lungs, and the music sharpens, each beat hitting a little too hard, a little too loud, like it’s pressing inward instead of outward. The conversations around you blur, voices overlapping into something indistinct and overwhelming. Wooyoung’s hand at your waist suddenly feels like too much.

You’re unable to tear your eyes from Hongjoong across the room even as the thought cuts through everything else:

You slept with him. You slept with Hongjoong, and now you’re here, standing in the middle of a crowded room, tucked against Wooyoung’s side, his friends surrounding you as if you actually belong there and aren’t just playing a part.

You really didn’t think this through. You didn’t think about how it would feel, or about what it would look like from the outside.

“I—” you start, but your voice doesn’t carry, swallowed immediately by the noise. Your fingers curl tighter into Wooyoung’s shirt, your thoughts slipping faster than you can catch them. “I need—” you stutter uselessly, unable to finish your thought before your body is already moving, pulling away in a quick motion that’s urgent enough that Wooyoung’s hand slips from your waist as you step back, “I need the bathroom,” you finally manage.

“Down the hall to the left,” Minjae gestures vaguely and your feet are taking you there before you even realize it.

The hallway is quieter, but not enough. The music still bleeds through the walls, dulled but persistent, the bass a low, constant thrum beneath your feet. The space feels too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re pressing inward with every step.

By the time you reach the bathroom, your hands are already shaking.

The door shuts behind you with a sharp click that sounds too loud in the small space, and for a second you just stand there, back pressed to it like you need to make sure it’s really closed because something might follow you in if you don’t hold it there.

Your breath doesn’t come right, catching halfway, shallow and uneven, your chest tightening like something is wrapping around it, pulling too tight beneath your ribs. You try to inhale deeper, try to force it, but it only makes it worse — your lungs stutter and your throat feels too narrow, like the air isn’t getting where it’s supposed to go.

You push yourself off the door and stumble forward a step, your hands landing against the sink hard enough that the porcelain rattles faintly under your grip. The cool surface barely registers as your fingers curl over the edge, knuckles whitening.

Your reflection looks wrong, you realize as you stare up at it. You’re too bright, too flushed, and your eyes are too wide, glassy in a way that almost makes it feel like you’re looking at someone else entirely. Your lips part as you try to breathe again, but it comes out in short, uneven bursts that just aren’t enough.

Your heart is beating too fast and you can feel it everywhere — your chest, your throat, the tips of your fingers. It makes your head feel light, dizzy in a way that tilts the room just slightly off its axis. You press your palm flat against your chest like you can physically force it to slow down.

Thoughts crash in, rapid and unorganized, overlapping so quickly you can’t hold onto any of them long enough to make sense of them.

You think about the way everyone was looking at you, the way Wooyoung said love at first sight, the way Hongjoong hadn’t seen you yet, but would have, and the way that you didn’t think about this, didn’t plan for this, not even at all.

Your stomach twists sharply, nausea rising fast and sudden, your body reacting to something your mind can’t even fully process. You lean forward slightly, your grip on the sink tightening as your breathing breaks again, a small, strangled sound slipping out of you before you can stop it.

“I can’t—” you whisper, and you don’t know who you’re talking to, but it barely sounds like words, more like breath catching on something that won’t let it pass. You turn around and press your back to the cabinet of the sink, sliding down it to sit on the floor.

There’s a faint tingling creeping into your fingers, like they’re falling asleep or like they don’t quite belong to you anymore. It spreads slowly and subtly up your wrists, and it only makes the panic spike sharper.

Something’s wrong. Something is wrong.

You try to breathe deeper again, desperate now, your chest lifting too fast, too sharply, but it just makes your vision blur at the edges, little dark spots flickering in and out as your body struggles to keep up.

A knock at the door startles you, sharp enough that your shoulders jolt, your breath catching again in your throat.

“Tiny?”

You don’t answer — you can’t, your body wouldn’t let you even you if you tried, but you don’t think you would have anyway. The thought of him seeing you like this, so broken and helpless, almost makes the panic spike again.

“I’m coming in, tiny.”

That’s the only warning you get before the door opens just enough for Wooyoung to slip inside, shutting it quickly behind him and sealing the space again. The shift is immediate — he takes one look at you, really looks, and whatever he was expecting clearly isn’t this.

“Hey,” he starts, but his voice is more hushed now than it was from outside the door, the word careful, as if he doesn’t want to startle you further. He steps closer like he’s approaching something fragile and the realization almost makes everything worse. You must look as pathetic as you feel. “Hey— look at me.”

You shake your head instinctively, your grip tightening on your upper arms as another wave of dizziness rolls through you. “I can’t breathe,” you manage, the words breaking apart, your voice thin and uneven. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he cuts in immediately, firm in a way that cuts through the noise just slightly. “You can. You’re just breathing too fast.” He crouches in front of you and his hand hovers for a second before settling gently on your arm and you think the contact should overwhelm you but it’s more grounding than anything. His thumb moves slightly, a small, steady motion against the thin fabric of your sleeve that gives you something to focus on.

“Look at me,” he repeats, softer this time. It takes effort, but you do, your gaze lifting, unfocused at first, then slowly finding his.

“Okay, good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough that it feels separate from everything else. “We’re gonna slow it down, yeah, tiny? In through your nose,” he guides, “slow, like this,” He demonstrates it, exaggerated just enough for you to follow, his own breathing controlled. You try to mimic it, but it doesn’t work at first. Your body resists, still stuck in that frantic rhythm, but he doesn’t rush you. “Again,” he mutters, “you’re okay.”

The next breath comes easier, still not easy, by any means, but better. Your heart is still racing, your hands still trembling, but the edges of the panic start to dull, just slightly, the volume of your thoughts turned down just a fraction.

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, his hand still steady on your arm. “You’re not gonna pass out or anything, okay? It just feels like that.”

Your eyes squeeze shut briefly, a shaky breath leaving you as your shoulders drop just a fraction. The room feels a little less like it’s spinning, and after a long moment of letting you regaining your bearings, Wooyoung speaks again.

“We can leave,” he offers after a moment, watching you carefully. “We don’t have to stay here. I can take you home.”

God, you want that more than anything now. You nod, wiping your eyes of the tears that started to gather, looking up at him in a way you’re sure must look pitiful, but if he feels that way, his expression betrays none of it.

Wooyoung doesn’t comment on the way your lashes are still damp, or the way your breathing still catches every few seconds. If anything, something in his expression softens.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low now, gentler in a way you haven’t heard from him before. His hand shifts slightly on your arm, thumb brushing once, anchoring instead of guiding this time, “don’t look at me like that.”

You blink at him, still a little dazed, your chest rising unevenly as you try to catch up with your own body again. “Like what?” you manage, your voice small and still rough around the edges.

“Like you did something wrong,” he answers plainly, studying your face.

Your gaze drops instinctively, your fingers curling faintly into the fabric at your sides, the remnants of that tight, suffocating feeling still lingering in your chest. You don’t argue with him, you don’t even really know how to, but the thought doesn’t leave just because he says it.

He watches you for a second longer, like he can see that much without you saying it, then he exhales softly through his nose, shifting his stance just slightly. “C’mon,” he urges, hushed now, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

The hallway feels narrower on the way out, or maybe it’s just you — your awareness stretched too thin, still recovering, still catching on every little thing like it matters too much. The bass from the party thumps through the walls in dull, distant waves, no longer overwhelming but still present enough to sit uncomfortably under your skin. Your body hasn’t fully decided that you’re safe yet.

Wooyoung stays close. His hand finds yours somewhere between the bathroom and the front door, his fingers warm as they wrap around yours just enough pressure to anchor you to something.

“C’mon, tiny,” he murmurs, voice dipped lower than usual, softer in a way that feels reserved only for moments like this. “Almost out.”

You nod, even though your throat still feels tight, your breathing still not quite right. Your fingers curl a little more firmly around his without meaning to, as if your body is clinging before your mind can catch up and tell it not to.

The front door opens and cool air rushes over you, crisp and open, cutting cleanly through the warmth and noise you just left behind. It fills your lungs differently and for the first time since the bathroom, your breath doesn’t catch halfway through.

You didn’t realize how suffocating it felt in there until now.

Wooyoung exhales beside you, like he’s been holding something in too, like he’d been holding onto some kind of phantom twin panic and could only calm down once you did. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly now that you’re outside, though he doesn’t let go.

“Yo, you’re dipping already?” someone calls from the porch, voice slurred slightly with alcohol and laughter.

Wooyoung barely turns, just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah— text me,” he tosses back, easy and dismissive in a way that says he doesn’t have the energy to entertain anything else right now.

“Bring her tomorrow!” another voice calls, louder, more curious.

Wooyoung glances back just long enough to flash a grin, sharp and effortless. “Obviously,” he shoots back, like it’s a given, already decided.

Your chest tightens slightly at the reminder that you’re still going to have to go through with this stupid plan, but it fades quickly as he tugs you gently towards the driveway.

The Jeep is parked a little off to the side, dark under the streetlight. He lets go of your hand only to open the passenger door for you, one arm braced against the frame as he looks at you, really looks at you, his expression softening just slightly at whatever he finds.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod and you’re not sure if you’re telling the truth.

He studies you for half a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to push or not, then just nods once and steps back, letting you climb in. The interior smells faintly like his cologne and something so distinctly him, and the familiarity of it settles around you. You curl slightly into yourself as you settle in, your hands slipping into your sleeves, your fingers brushing against your own skin.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the door shutting with a soft thud, you’re staring straight ahead. The engine hums to life and for a while, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s just quiet in an intentional kind of way, giving you space without abandoning you to your thoughts completely.

The road stretches out ahead, quiet and dimly lit, streetlights passing in slow intervals that cast fleeting shadows across his face. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift, tapping absently like he’s thinking.

You watch the city pass by in fragments through the window, all familiar streets and familiar turns, until he doesn’t take one of them.

Your brows knit faintly, “Wait,” you murmur, your voice still a little soft from earlier. “Where are we going?”

Wooyoung shrugs, like you’re the weird one for even asking. “Gonna cheer you up.”

You blink at him. “That’s not an answer,” you point out, a little more present now, though the exhaustion still clings to you.

He just grins, quick and easy. “Relax.” That’s all you get.

The roads get quieter the further he drives, the glow of campus fading behind you until it’s replaced with something dimmer and less populated. Buildings grow older, less maintained, shadows stretching longer across cracked pavement.

He pulls up in front of what looks like an abandoned building. It’s tall, looming, the windows dark and hollow, parts of the structure worn down by time and neglect. There’s graffiti along the lower walls, the entrance half-blocked by a rusted gate that’s been forced open just enough to slip through.

It’s kind of scary.

“…Um,” you start slowly, turning to look at him. “How is this supposed to cheer me up?”

Wooyoung laughs, actually laughs, the sound warm and unbothered as he kills the engine and glances over at you. “It gets better, I promise,” he says, already pushing his door open.

He rounds the front of the car, opening your door before you can even decide whether you’re getting out or not.

“Trust me,” he adds, offering you his hand like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and that’s how it starts to feel, you realize. Life is easy with Wooyoung, never too many thoughts or too much panic or too much fear, or if there is, it never lasts long. That’s something you think you really like about him.

There’s always something about the way he carries himself, easy and confident and so certain without a doubt in his mind, and it’s a soothing balm to your anxious nature. If he weren’t so into Karina, you think to yourself, you think a real relationship with him would be good for you.

The inside of the building is worse than the outside, when you enter. It’s quieter, the air cooler in that stale, forgotten way, and your footsteps echo faintly as he leads you through, your hand still in his, his grip steady as he navigates like he’s done this many times before.

“Have you been here a lot?” you whisper, instinctively lowering your voice like this place is haunted and the ghosts are sure to hear you.

“Enough,” he replies, glancing back at you with a small grin.

You don’t know if that’s reassuring or not.

He pushes open a heavy door at the end of the stairwell, and suddenly everything opens up, stretching beyond the eye can see.

The rooftop stretches out in front of you, wide and unobstructed, the night air rushing in to meet you, cooler and cleaner than anything below. The city unfolds beyond the edge, lights scattered endlessly in every direction, glowing gold and white like constellations pulled down to earth.

You stop walking completely, because it’s beautiful in a way that steals the breath you just fought so hard to get back.

The skyline cuts sharp against the dark sky, buildings rising and falling in uneven patterns, windows lit like tiny flickers of life stacked on top of each other. Cars move like slow trails of light below, red and white threading through the streets, constant but distant enough that it all feels still despite the fact that you know they’re moving.

Above it all, the sky stretches wide and endless, deeper than it looked from the ground, scattered faintly with stars that somehow manage to exist despite the city’s glow.

“…Oh,” you breathe.

Wooyoung watches you instead of the view. There’s something quieter in his expression now, like he thought your awed reaction was the whole point and he’s happy to have made it happen.

“Told you,” he hums lightly in that cocky Wooyoung kind of tone, and it’s tugging a smile at your lips before you realize it.

You don’t respond right away, just taking in every detail, every flicker of light, every distant sound that barely reaches this height. Your chest feels different now, not tight or suffocating anymore, but full in a way that feels so starkly pleasant compared to the earlier feelings of the night.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Isn’t it?” he replies, and when you turn to look up at him, he’s already looking at you. He nudges you gently, not giving you time to process that before he’s walking.

“C’mon.”

He guides you toward the edge, slow enough that you don’t feel rushed, and then sits first, like he’s proving it’s safe. His legs dangle over the side without hesitation, completely at ease.

After a moment, you finally mimic him, lowering yourself to sit. Your legs dangle over the edge, the height noticeable but not overwhelming, not with him there, not with the city stretching out so beautifully in front of you that it distracts from everything else.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You’re not scrambling to fill the silence like you usually do, content instead to listen to the quiet inhale and exhales of the man beside you.

You really like spending time with him, you think. You can be calm in a way you never were able to before, because he makes you everything feel so easy and simple and he makes any atmosphere he’s in feel the furthest thing from judgmental. He’s the kind of person to make jokes of everything, yet he never makes a joke out of you, nothing beyond teasing. He doesn’t look at you like some pariah when you stutter or take too long to finish a thought.

You think that’s why it’s so easy to talk with him so freely, because the words are coming out of your mouth before you realize, “Do you take all of your girls here?”

Wooyoung snorts, his head turning toward you with an incredulous grin, before nudging your shoulder with his. “What other girls?” he shoots back, teasing. “Love at first sight, remember?”

You laugh. It slips out before you can stop it, light and genuine and uninhibited in a way that surprises you. “You were laying it on way too thick,” you tell him, shaking your head slightly, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

“Hey,” he protests, though he’s still smiling, “they believed it.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

You huff softly, your gaze drifting back out to the city, the corners of your mouth still lifted just slightly.

The quiet settles back in around you again, but it’s different now. It’s not the suffocating kind from earlier, the kind that pressed in on your ribs until breathing felt like work. This silence feels like it’s giving you space instead of taking it away.

The city stretches endlessly in front of you, lights blinking and shimmering like they’re alive, like each one holds a story you’ll never hear. A car passes far below, headlights trailing like slow-moving stars, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails faintly before dissolving into nothing. The air is cooler up here, brushing softly against your skin, tugging gently at the ends of your hair. It feels clean in a way the inside of the party never could.

Beside you, Wooyoung shifts just slightly, leaning back onto his hands, his posture loose and unguarded. His head tilts up toward the sky for a second, like he’s taking it in too, even though he’s probably been here a hundred times before. There’s something easy about him like this, something unperformed.

“You laugh different up here,” he says after a moment, voice hushed now, not teasing in the same loud, exaggerated way it usually is. It’s almost thoughtful.

Your brows knit faintly as you glance over at him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, his lips curving just slightly like he doesn’t fully have the words for it. “Dunno. Just… less like you’re thinking about it.”

Your chest tightens a little at that, not uncomfortably, just enough to make you aware of it. You look away again, your gaze falling back out over the city, your fingers curling slightly against the concrete of the ledge.

“I think I think about everything,” you admit, quieter than you mean to be.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, like it’s obvious, not something you needed to confess. “I know.” You blink, turning your head toward him again, a little caught off guard by how certain he sounds.

He glances at you then, just briefly, his expression more tender than you expect, before it shifts again into something lighter, something more familiar. “It’s kinda your thing.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh at that, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “That’s not a good thing.”

“Says who?” he counters immediately.

You hesitate, because you don’t actually have an answer for that. You sit with that for a second, your lips parting like you’re about to argue, but nothing comes out. The city hums below you, steady and indifferent, like it has no opinion on whether you think too much or not. For once, you don’t feel like you have to justify it, or explain it, or shrink it into something more acceptable.

Wooyoung watches you out of the corner of his eye, not in that sharp, observant way that makes you feel picked apart, but in something looser, something that feels like he’s just there with you, letting you take your time.

Then, inevitably, because he’s him, he breaks the silence. “Besides,” he adds, nudging your knee lightly with his, “if you didn’t overthink everything, you probably wouldn’t have agreed to fake date me.”

You turn your head toward him immediately, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he insists, lifting one hand like he’s making a very valid point. “A normal person would’ve said no. Immediately.”

“I did say no,” you shoot back.

“Yeah, and then you thought about it,” he grins, as if he’s already won, “and then you said yes.”

“That’s not—” you stop, because… that is exactly what happened.

He raises his brows, waiting. You squint at him slightly. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “you’re here. On a rooftop. With me.”

You huff, but there’s no real bite to it, your shoulders relaxing as you shake your head. “I take it back. You’re insufferable, actually.”

“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased with himself, leaning back again onto his hands. “You like it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

He turns his head toward you again, eyes narrowing just slightly in mock suspicion before he leans a little closer, like he’s trying to inspect you. “You smiled when you said that.”

You freeze for half a second, caught completely off guard by how close he suddenly is. He’s not too close — he’s not invading your space in a way that makes you want to pull back — but close enough that you can see the tiny details you wouldn’t normally notice. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth like he’s holding back another grin, the way his eyes narrow just slightly when he’s amused, the mole on his cheek, the soft movement of his hair shifting with the breeze. It makes your stomach do something you don’t entirely appreciate.

“I did not,” you argue, but it comes out weaker than you intend, your voice betraying you just slightly.

His grin widens immediately, like he’s the cat who got the cream. “You did,” he insists, leaning in just a fraction more, as if proximity alone will prove his point. “Right there, just now. You smiled.”

“I didn’t,” you repeat, but now you can feel it, the way your lips are still threatening to curve, the way your face feels a little warmer than it did a second ago.

He studies you for a beat longer, dragging it out in a way that makes you increasingly aware of yourself, before he leans back again with a soft, victorious hum. “That’s crazy,” he says lightly. “You’re lying to my face.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, your hand coming up to push lightly at his shoulder, not enough to actually move him, just enough to create space again. “You’re actually unbearable.”

“Mm,” he hums again, completely unbothered, shifting his weight so he’s angled slightly toward you now, one knee bending just a little. “And yet, you still came to the party with me.”

You glance at him, then out at the city again, your fingers curling against the edge of the concrete. The wind brushes past again, softer this time, like it’s settled into something quieter along with you. “…You didn’t really let me have a choice,” you point out, though there’s no real accusation in it.

“That’s true,” he admits easily, not even pretending otherwise. “I’m very persuasive.”

You huff softly, but there’s a small smile pulling at your mouth again, stubborn as it is unintentional. “That’s one way to put it.”

He nudges your knee again, lighter this time, almost absentminded. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it? And the night’s not all bad. I mean, I am cheering you up a little now, aren’t I?”

You tilt your head slightly, considering that for a second longer than you mean to. Your chest doesn’t feel as tight anymore. Your breathing has evened out, your thoughts quieter, no longer tripping over each other in a rush to be heard. The panic feels distant now, like something that happened to someone else, hours ago instead of minutes.

“…Yeah,” you admit quietly.

Something in his posture shifts at that, subtle but noticeable. He straightens just a little, like that answer mattered more to him than he was letting on when he asked it.

“Told you,” he replies, but it’s softer now, less teasing and more satisfied, in a quiet kind of way.

The silence that follows settles easily, not empty, instead just full in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you. Your shoulder brushes his when you shift slightly, and this time you don’t overthink it, don’t immediately pull away or try to correct it.

“You’re kind of, like… a really bad actor.” Wooyoung finally says.

For a second, you don’t even process what he’s said. It lands lightly, almost lazily, like he just plucked the thought out of the air and dropped it between you without much consideration, but the moment it settles, your head turns toward him, your brows pulling together in immediate offense.

“…What?”

Wooyoung doesn’t even look at you right away. He stays leaned back on his hands, gaze tipped up toward the sky like he’s contemplating something far more important than the insult he just threw at you. There’s a pause, just long enough to make you feel it, before the corner of his mouth starts to lift again.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, like he’s being completely reasonable, “for someone who’s supposed to be my girlfriend, you look at me like I just asked you to solve a math equation every time I touch you.”

Your jaw drops slightly, your disbelief immediate and unfiltered. “No, I don’t!”

He finally turns his head then, his expression already betraying him, amusement sitting too comfortably on his face for him to even attempt to hide it. “You do,” he insists, nodding once like this is a confirmed fact. “There’s, like, a visible buffering moment. Right here,” he gestures vaguely toward your face, circling a finger in front of you, “where you’re processing it.”

You make a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, your hand coming up to cover your face for a second like that might somehow shield you from the accuracy of what he’s saying.

“I’m just being honest,” he shrugs, though there’s a grin tugging at his mouth again, clearly pleased with himself. “Transparency is important in a relationship.”

“This is not a relationship,” you shoot back automatically.

“Wow,” he exhales, placing a hand over his chest like you’ve genuinely wounded him, “breaking my heart, tiny.”

You drop your hand just enough to glare at him. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back without missing a beat, nudging your knee again.

You swat at his arm this time, a little more force behind it, though it still barely does anything. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing you,” he laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained, carried off slightly by the wind. “I’m observing.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It’s accurate,” he corrects.

You huff, turning your gaze away from him again, back out toward the city like it might side with you instead. But there’s a smile there again, small and stubborn, tugging at the corners of your mouth no matter how much you try to fight it down.

There’s a shift beside you, subtle but enough that you notice. Wooyoung moves just slightly closer, not enough to crowd you, not enough to make it feel like something you need to react to, just enough that his shoulder presses a little more solidly against yours.

The contact is light, almost incidental, like it could be explained away as nothing more than a shift in balance, but it lingers in a way that makes it feel intentional.

You notice it immediately, not in the sharp, panicked way you might have earlier, where every touch felt like something to analyze and survive, but in a softer, more aware way. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of your sleeve, grounding in a way that feels almost unfair after everything your body just put you through.

For a second, your instinct is still there, to pull away and create space and overcorrect, but it doesn’t win this time.

Beside you, Wooyoung doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t look at you to check if you noticed, doesn’t tease you for not immediately flinching away. If anything, he does the opposite. He lets the moment exist without touching it, as if he knows that if he calls attention to it, you might retreat again.

His head tilts back slightly, gaze drifting up toward the sky again, and you follow it without thinking.

There aren’t many stars tonight — not with the city glowing as brightly as it does — but there are a few, faint and stubborn, barely visible past the haze of light pollution. You find yourself focusing on them anyway, tracing the dim points with your eyes.

“They’re kinda underwhelming,” he murmurs after a moment, like he’s reading your mind, his voice more hushed now and threaded with something thoughtful. “The stars, I mean.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh, your shoulder still pressed to his. “Yeah, it’s… kind of sad.”

“I know,” he sighs dramatically. “Expected better. I was sold a false bill of goods.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “By who?”

“The me who’s been here when the stars were prettier,” he says like it was obvious, a grin tugging at his lips again.

You shake your head, a quiet laugh slipping out, the sound softer than it was before, less guarded. “You set your own expectations too high.”

“Yeah,” he hums, nudging your shoulder lightly this time, just enough to make you sway a fraction toward him before settling again. “Happens.” He says it like there’s some deeper meaning there.

The quiet that follows stretches out gently, not awkward, just wide enough to hold both of you without asking anything in return. The city hums below, distant and constant, a heartbeat you’re no longer trying to match. Up here, everything feels just slightly removed from consequence, like the world can’t quite reach you.

You let your gaze drift back up, searching for those faint, stubborn stars again, but your thoughts don’t stay there for long. They slip, unsteady, circling back to earlier whether you want them to or not — to the party, to the noise, to the sharp, suffocating moment your chest gave out on you.

Your fingers curl slightly against the rough edge of the concrete, grounding yourself in something real before you speak. “I saw someone,” you admit finally, your voice lacking the usual edge of defensiveness you lean on. It feels fragile, the way it leaves you, and it feels like it might fall apart if you don’t handle it carefully.

You swallow, your throat tightening slightly as you try to find a version of the truth that doesn’t unravel everything. “One of the… people I wrote to,” you add, placing the words down one at a time instead of letting them spill.

The admission hangs there, suspended between you. Wooyoung’s brows knit faintly, his head tilting just slightly as he turns to look at you properly now. There’s no judgment there, just confusion, open and unfiltered in a way that feels very him. “Okay,” he says after a second, drawing the word out like he’s trying to follow the thread. “But…” he pauses, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly, not teasing, just genuinely puzzled, “wasn’t that kinda the whole point?”

“What?”

“The whole fake dating thing,” he clarifies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, his hand brushing the air like the concept itself is something tangible. “So they’d see you with me.”

You let out a small, uneven breath, your gaze dropping to your hands, watching the way your fingers twist together like they don’t quite know where to settle.

“I know,” you murmur, the words softer now, almost frustrated with yourself. “I just— I didn’t think it would actually feel like that. I didn’t think about… how it would look,” you continue, your voice quieter still, your thoughts slipping out a little easier now that you’ve started. “Or how they’d react. Or how I’d react.” You let out a small, breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it — just disbelief, maybe a little embarrassment. “I just thought it would be simple,” you admit. “Like— ‘oh, look, I have a boyfriend now, problem solved.’”

Wooyoung huffs softly beside you, not quite a laugh, but close — more like he’s acknowledging how naïve that sounds without making you feel stupid for it. “Yeah,” he mutters, “life would be a lot easier if it worked like that.” He says it like he wasn’t half the reason you had that stupid thought, framing it that way when he proposed the plan. You suppose you can’t blame him for your own naivety, though.

You glance at him briefly, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself, before your expression softens again, something more vulnerable settling in.

“But then I saw him,” you say, your voice dipping like the memory itself weighs something. “And it just—” You stop, your brows pulling together faintly as you try to put a feeling into words that don’t quite fit. “It all hit at once,” you finish finally. “Like I did something wrong.”

For a moment, Wooyoung doesn’t respond. He leans back slightly on his hands again, his gaze drifting out over the city.

“You didn’t,” It’s simple. Firm, but not forceful, not trying to convince you as much as he’s just stating something he believes.

You don’t look at him right away. Your fingers tighten slightly instead, your shoulders drawing in just a fraction. “It feels like I did,” you admit, keeping it purposefully vague because admitting you slept with one of the letter recipients feels like too much right now, too open in a way that makes it too easy to ruin this vulnerable moment with him, to make him think of you like some kind of heart-breaking player (even if that’s how you feel these days).

There’s a pause, and then you feel it, his shoulder pressing a little more deliberately into yours, no longer able to be brushed off as an accidental shift.

“That’s just ‘cause you think too much,” he says lightly, “You’re connecting like, ten different things at once and deciding they all mean something bad.”

You let out a small breath, your lips pressing together as you consider that. “They might,” you mumble weakly.

He snorts quietly at that, shaking his head. “Or,” he counters, turning his head just enough that you can feel his gaze on you even if you’re not looking back yet, “you’re just a nice person who doesn’t like hurting or, like, confusing people.”

For a moment, you just sit there like that—shoulder to shoulder, the city stretched out in front of you, the night wrapping around the two of you in something quieter than before.

Then, after a second, he nudges you again. “Also,” he starts, his tone lighter, and you can already tell he’s about to try to make you feel better in that usual Wooyoung fashion, “kinda rude that you saw another guy and still chose to have a panic attack over him instead of me, or, like, how overwhelmingly honoring it must be to be my girlfriend.”

You turn to him immediately, incredulous. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, completely serious in a way that makes it worse, “if you’re gonna spiral, at least make it about your current fake boyfriend. I have a reputation to maintain.”

You stare at him for a second, then let out a disbelieving laugh, your hand coming up to push at his shoulder again, “Shut up.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he mocks a salute at you, and you smile at that.

The both of you settle into a comfortable silence again, and the thought crosses your mind that Wooyoung is a good friend. Karina’s lucky he’s so in love with her.

The next morning comes quieter than you expect. It’s not peaceful, definitely not, just muted, like everything’s been turned down a notch after last night, the world still moving but not quite as loudly as it should. Your body feels heavy in that strange, hollow way that follows a panic attack, even after the nice nightcap you had with Wooyoung. It feels like you barely had time to recover, barely had time to let your body settle after the panic and to let your thoughts stop ricocheting off the inside of your skull.

You sit across from Yunho like you always do on Saturday mornings, notebook open, pen in hand, your posture just right, like if you hold yourself together physically, everything else might follow. The table between you is scattered with your notes, his handwriting neater than yours where he’s corrected things or added small clarifications in the margins.

“…so if you move this over here,” he’s saying, his voice calm, “you’ll get—”

Your phone buzzes. Your hand stutters because nothing good has come from your iMessage since last Saturday, pen dragging slightly across the page and leaving a thin, crooked mark that doesn’t belong there. You still, your breath catching just enough to notice.

Yunho stops talking, but you don’t look up yet. Slowly, bracing yourself, you reach for your phone and turn it over in your hand. The screen lights up, and the moment you see the name, something in your chest drops out completely.

Hongjoong. Of course it is.

You stare at it for a second too long, your thumb hovering just above the screen as if touching it might trigger something you can’t undo, but you open it anyway.

come over this afternoon? like 3?

There’s no weight to it on the surface; no indication that anything is wrong, no sign that he knows anything he shouldn’t. It reads exactly like it would have a week ago, like Sunday night never unraveled into something complicated, like Friday didn’t happen at all.

He doesn’t know about you and Wooyoung — about the fake relationship, about the fact you were at the party, or about the way you stood there tucked into someone else’s side while he was across the room, completely unaware. The realization sits heavy in your chest, pressing down in a way that makes it harder to breathe.

I have to tell him, you realize with a clarity so stark against the harsh collision of the rest of your thoughts. What do you even say? Do you start with Wooyoung? Do you explain the letters?

Your breath shifts, catching slightly as your fingers curl around your phone.

“You okay?”

Yunho’s voice is quiet, but it lands cleanly, cutting through everything else without effort. You blink, like you’ve been pulled back into your body.

“Yeah,” you answer quickly, your gaze dropping back to your notebook. “I’m fine.” It sounds like a lie even to your own ears. The silence stretches, present in a way that makes it harder to pretend you didn’t just spiral in front of him.

“…You sure?” he asks after a moment, clearly not believing you.

You nod faintly, even though you don’t look at him. “It’s nothing.” It’s another bad lie, and you feel it sit there between you before Yunho shifts slightly in his seat, leaning back just a fraction, his attention still on you but less like a tutor trying to guide you somewhere and more like the friend he was so happy you’d let him be.

“You don’t have to pretend with me. We’re friends, right?” His tone is painfully earnest, not prying just to pry but because he really wants to help, to take the burden off your shoulders.

Something in your chest gives way, sudden and silent, a thread snapping under too much tension. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding everything in until now. It slipped past your awareness just much you’ve been managing, redirecting, avoiding, and patching things together just enough to get through each moment without actually dealing with any of it.

No one’s asked you if you’re alright quite like that, without expectations attached and without pressure, or assumptions, or something you’re supposed to perform in return.

Your hand slackens slightly around your pen, your gaze fixed stubbornly on the page because you still can’t look at him, especially not as you admit everything.

“…I messed up,” you admit.

Yunho doesn’t interrupt, so you continue.

“You know about the letter,” you start, your voice small but steady enough to continue. “The one you got.”

There’s a faint shift in his posture at that, “Yeah,” he confirms softly, a soft confusing tone lacing his words as if he’s wondering where this can go.

“There was… more than one,” you admit, the words coming a little faster now, uneven at the edges. “Not just yours. I wrote a few, and I didn’t send any of them, I wasn’t supposed to, I just— I wrote them and kept them, and then my roommate sent them all at the same time and now everything’s just—” You exhale shakily, your hand coming up briefly to press against your temple. “—like this,” you finish weakly.

“…How many is ‘more than one’?” He inquires after a moment.

You hesitate, “…Four.”

There’s the faintest shift in the his posture, surprise, maybe, but not judgmental. “Okay,” he finally says, motioning gently for you to continue.

“And I didn’t know what to do after that,” you start again, your words picking up speed now that they’ve started. “Because suddenly you all knew, and I didn’t mean for that to happen, and I panicked and—” You force yourself to stop, swallowing before you continue, “…that’s why I kissed you,” you admit, your voice dropping slightly. “In the library.”

There’s a small silence after that, and you force yourself to keep going before you can think too hard about it. “One of the others was there,” you explain, your fingers curling into the edge of the table now. “I saw him and I just— I panicked, and you were there, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I just—” you gesture uselessly between the two of you, because you’re both so painfully aware of what you mean that saying it out loud would only make it worse. “I’m sorry,” you add, softer. “I didn’t mean to… use you like that.”

The words feel awful in your mouth and there’s a beat before Yunho speaks, “Hey,” he begins, and you look up to find that he doesn’t seem angry in the slightest. If anything, there’s something gentler in his expression now, something that makes your chest ache in a completely different way. “It’s okay,” he placates, and he means it, you can hear it in his voice, “I mean, I figured it wasn’t… random.”

There’s the faintest hint of something else under that, something he doesn’t say, but he smooths over before it can surface.

“I still should’ve explained,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” he allows gently, “but… you were overwhelmed.” He gives you more grace than he should, you think, but you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He doesn’t push it further than that, and he doesn’t make you sit in it longer than you already have.

“And then—” you continue, because you’re not done, because somehow it gets worse, “I slept with one of them.”

The confession drops heavily into the space between you. His fingers, which had been resting loosely around his pen, tighten just slightly before he sets it down altogether, as if he knows he’s not going to be able to focus on anything academic anymore. He shifts, his movements subtle in the way his shoulders slide back a fraction like he’s absorbing more than he expected to this morning.

“And I’m… dating another one,” you add quickly, your words tumbling now, tripping over each other. “But it’s fake, it’s not real, he just needed something, and I said yes, and now everyone thinks it’s real and I don’t know how to fix it because I didn’t think it would actually turn into anything like this—” Your breath catches again, your chest tightening. “And now the one I slept with just texted me to come over today,” you finish, lamely, the confession stiff in the air, “and he doesn’t know about any of it.”

You watch Yunho process it, the way his gaze dips briefly to the table before coming back to you, steady and thoughtful. “…That’s a lot,” he manages finally, his voice soft but anchoring, and something about the way he says it, so simple, so understanding, makes your chest ache.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit, your voice fraying slightly at the edges, your forehead coming down to rest against the table. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

For a second, Yunho doesn’t say anything, but he leans forward slightly, just enough to close some of the distance between you, “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” he offers tenderly. There’s something thoughtful in the way he speaks, choosing each word carefully so it doesn’t push you further into yourself. “But you probably should tell him,” he adds after a moment, “the one who texted you.”

“I know,” you murmur, not even having to think about how right he is.

He watches you for a second longer, like he can see the way your thoughts are already starting to spiral again. “And for what it’s worth…” he starts, then pauses briefly, like he’s deciding how to phrase it, “you didn’t ruin anything with me.”

Your lift your head to look at him, caught off guard. His expression is soft, steady in that usual Yunho kind of fashion, but there’s something quieter underneath that he doesn’t let fully surface.

“I meant what I said before,” Yunho continues, a little more lightly now, easing the weight of everything you just dropped on him. “I like our sessions.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And I still think we’d make good friends.”

You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on your face for half a second longer than it needs to, or the way he leans back again after, like he’s putting that distance back on purpose. You just choose to ignore it, attributing it to your making-romance-where-there-isn’t-any mind again.

The walk to Hongjoong’s apartment feels longer than it should.

Every step is measured, slow in a way that doesn’t match the pace of the world around you. The afternoon is bright, almost offensively normal; people passing by in small groups, laughter spilling across the sidewalks, the distant hum of campus life continuing on like nothing is about to implode.

You keep thinking about what you’re going to say. Hey, so I slept with you and now I’m fake dating someone else—

No. Absolutely not.

By the time you reach his door, your heart has already picked up again, not quite panic, but something close enough to it to make your breathing feel shallow if you let it.

Your hand lifts, hesitates, and then finally knocks. You barely have time to second-guess it before the door swings open.

Hongjoong looks exactly the same.

That’s the first thing your brain latches onto, stupidly. He’s wearing the same loose style of long-sleeve he usually does, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his wrists, rings catching the light when he moves. His hair is slightly mussed, like he ran a hand through it one too many times, and his expression shifts the second he sees you, something bright and easy settling into place.

“Hey,” he greets, like this is normal, like you’re normal and right where you belong outside of his door.

“Hi,” you manage.

His gaze lingers on you for just a second longer than necessary, like he’s taking you in properly, then he steps back, pulling the door open wider, “Come in.”

The door closes softly behind you, the sound almost silent but final in a way that makes something in your chest tighten. You slide your shoes off when he motions toward the stack of shoes near the door. You barely register Hongjoong moving further into the apartment, barely process the familiar warmth of the space — the low hum of something playing faintly from a speaker, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something citrusy lingering in the air —because your attention snags immediately.

Seonghwa sits on the couch like he belongs there, like this isn’t the most disorienting, universe-playing-a-joke-on-you moment you’ve experienced in the last week.

He sits on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, his posture relaxed in a way that feels eerily familiar, so similar to the way he looked at San’s apartment that it almost makes your stomach drop. He’s mid-motion when he notices you, something in his expression shifting immediately as recognition hits.

“…Oh,” he says finally, the word slightly muted but laced with something you can’t quite place. His gaze flicks between you and Hongjoong, like he’s trying to piece something together that doesn’t quite make sense. “You’re—”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong cuts in easily, completely unaware of the undercurrent snapping into place around the two of you. There’s something almost proud in the way he gestures toward you, like he’s been waiting for this introduction. “This is her.”

“What are you doing here?” you blurt toward Seonghwa before you can stop yourself. It comes out too fast, too unfiltered, your voice catching on the last word because your brain hadn’t approved the sentence before it left your mouth.

Seonghwa blinks at you, clearly thrown — not just by the question, but by the fact that you’re here at all. His gaze flicks over you once, swift but thorough, like he’s checking if you’re real, if this is actually happening. “Um, I live here?”

This has to be some kind of cruel joke. How could you not know two of your crushes are roommates? You almost wish you’d been more of an obsessive, stalker-type crusher so you’d at least have known this ahead of time.

Hongjoong’s head turns between the two of you, brows knitting slightly, confusion settling in as he picks up on the tension that neither of you managed to hide. “…Wait,” he starts slowly, looking from you to Seonghwa and back again. “You guys know each other?”

Seonghwa sits up a little straighter, his arm dropping from the back of the couch as his attention sharpens, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight. “She’s San’s sister,” he explains slowly, like he’s not sure what it means in this context.

Hongjoong blinks, “Wait, seriously?” he questions, surprised, his attention snapping back to you with something almost amused lighting behind it. “You never mentioned that.”

Of course you didn’t. You didn’t mention a lot of things.

“I didn’t— it just never came up,” you manage weakly, your voice thinner than you’d like.

Seonghwa’s gaze doesn’t leave you. It’s not harsh or accusatory, but it’s searching, confused. There’s something unsettled in it now, something that wasn’t there before, like he’s replaying something in his head and not liking what he’s finding.

Hongjoong doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t understand why. “Huh,” he hums, rubbing the back of his neck lightly before letting his hand drop. “Small world, I guess.”

The moment should end there, but it doesn’t, because Hongjoong looks at Seonghwa again, something lighter slipping back into his expression, something fond, and he gestures loosely toward you like he’s about to bridge the gap in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“This is her, by the way. The one I was telling you about.”

Seonghwa’s gaze flicks to him, then back to you. “You were,” he agrees slowly.

There’s something off in his tone, but Hongjoong doesn’t catch it. If anything, he leans into it, clearly far more interested in talking about you than whatever shift just happened in the room.

“She wrote me this letter,” he continues, and your stomach twists so violently it almost makes you lightheaded. “It was…” he exhales, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth, “honestly one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

Seonghwa goes still, not in a way that anyone else would clock immediately, but you see it. It’s clear in the way his posture locks just slightly, the way his gaze flickers back to you, something new settling into it.

“…A letter,” he repeats.

Hongjoong nods, still unaware. “Yeah. Didn’t even know it was her at first. All I knew was it was from someone with her name, but we’d only talked at a few parties before that, so I couldn’t really put a name to a face, but,” he pauses, glancing at you again, something softer in his expression now. “Kinda glad I figured it out.”

Your chest is so tight it almost hurts.

Seonghwa exhales lightly through his nose. “…Right,” he says, his tone so plainly unusual in a way that makes Hongjoong finally seem to pick up on it, his brows pulling together faintly as he glances over.

“What?”

Seonghwa’s gaze drifts back to you, lingering in a way that feels like he’s trying to piece something together that he doesn’t quite have all the information for yet.

“Do you wanna tell him or should I?”

It doesn’t feel like a choice so much as it feels like a countdown.

Your chest tightens so sharply it almost steals the air from your lungs again, your pulse loud and uneven in your ears as both of their attention settles fully on you now.

“…Tell me what?” Hongjoong’s voice is quieter than before, confusion threading through it, but there’s something else underneath now that you don’t have the bandwidth to try and place.

You can feel Seonghwa’s gaze on you, steady and unmoving, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d just said it himself. “He should know, _____.”

“I… I didn’t just write one letter,” you finally manage, the words coming out thinner than you intended, like they’re being pulled from you instead of offered.

Hongjoong’s brows knit slightly.

“…What?”

You force yourself to keep going, even as everything in you resists it. “I wrote… more than one,” you clarify, your fingers curling tighter into your palm, the digging of your nails in the skin grounding in its pressure.

Hongjoong glances at Seonghwa briefly, then back to you, something not quite settled in his expression anymore. “…Okay,” he says slowly. “And?” You think he must think you mean you wrote more than one about him, and that’s why he’s not pissed yet. It’s the only thing that makes sense to your guilt-riddled mind.

“I wrote one to you,” you continue, your voice quieter now, more fragile, “and I wrote one to him.”

Silence follows immediately, thick enough that it presses in around you. Hongjoong doesn’t react right away and it’s almost worse because you can see him thinking, see the way he’s trying to process that, to fit it into the version of things he had in his head just moments ago.

Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, but you feel the way his attention sharpens, the way the weight of what you just admitted settles differently now that it’s out in the open.

Hongjoong exhales slowly, a hand coming up to drag back through his hair, the movement more deliberate than usual.

“…So the letter—” he starts, then stops, like he has to recalibrate mid-thought. “The one you emailed me…”

“I didn’t send it,” you cut in quickly, the words rushing out before he can finish, before he can land on the wrong conclusion. “I wasn’t going to send them. My roommate found them and she— she sent them without telling me.” Your voice dips at the end, something smaller slipping into it despite your effort to keep it steady.

His eyes drift, just for a second, back to Seonghwa. Something unspoken passes between them that you don’t fully understand but can feel all the same.

“Um, I think… I should probably let myself out—“ You try, taking a step backwards.

“Stay,” Seonghwa speaks, and there’s something different in his tone now, the confusion gone and replaced with something eerily similar to command.

You think Hongjoong found whatever he was looking for in his silent, conversation-with-their-eyes thing he was doing with Seonghwa, because he’s stepping forward slowly, maneuvering himself around you to press at your back. He brings his lips to your ear and you don’t fight it despite the confusion pulling at your mind, body tensing under his touch as his hands land on your hips.

“Greedy little thing for us, aren’t you?”

taglist | @j4mergy @yuki-sama6 @sinn6rs @rhea-sylvea @simpupyun @minkieater @haechanhues @fancypeacepersona @kimhongjccng @no-lmao-world @petsuccube @tiramishoon

im very sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged! i tagged those who replied under previous ttbico chapters and expressed interest, if you’d like to be removed from the taglist please tell me!

masterlist | part one , part two , part three , part four

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