the day winds down slow, like honey sliding down the inside of a jar, and you’re already drowsy by the time the sun dips below the skyline. the living room is quiet, touched with that soft amber glow that only comes in the early evening—lamp light mixing with the last bits of daylight clinging to the windows. it’s peaceful, the kind of calm that settles deep into your bones.
you’re curled up on the couch with nicholas, legs tangled together beneath a faded blanket that smells like home—like detergent, a little bit of his cologne, and something warm and familiar you can’t quite name. your head rests against his chest, tucked right under his chin, where you can hear his heartbeat thumping slow and steady. that sound alone could send you drifting.
his hand is under your shirt, resting lightly against the bare skin of your back. his fingertips move in slow, lazy circles—soft and rhythmic. up, down, a gentle scratch, then a soothing drag of his palm. it makes your eyes flutter shut for a moment, then open again. not because you want to stay awake, but because you want to hold on to this. the softness. the quiet. the way he touches you like you’re something precious.
nicholas' other hand is in your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with all the care in the world. he twirls a piece gently, then lets it fall, then combs through again, repeating the motion over and over like it brings him some kind of peace too. it feels like he’s anchoring you—like as long as he’s touching you, the world can’t pull you too far away.
“you tired?” he murmurs, voice low and close to your ear.
you hum something in response, not quite a word, just a small sound that says yes, but don’t stop. and he doesn’t. he chuckles quietly, presses a kiss into your hairline, and keeps tracing those slow patterns on your back like he’s drawing lullabies into your skin.
your breathing slows to match his, syncing with the rise and fall of his chest. you let your hand rest on his ribcage, fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the way he breathes, the way his heart beats. it’s steady. grounding. and suddenly, everything else—the noise of the day, the thoughts in your head, the weight behind your eyes—just begins to slip away.
the only thing that exists is the warm press of nicholas' body against yours, the way his thumb draws a soft line up your spine, the brush of his lips against the top of your head every so often, like he can’t help but kiss you, even in the quiet.
“go ahead,” he says softly. “i’ve got you.”
and you do. you let go. you let your body melt into him, your muscles relaxing one by one until you’re nothing but softness in his arms. your breath evens out. your lashes flutter against his shirt. you feel him shift just slightly to pull the blanket up higher, wrapping you tighter into him.
his fingers are still moving through your hair as your mind drifts into the haze of sleep. even when your thoughts stop forming, your body still feels the comfort of his touch, like a memory it knows how to hold onto even in dreams.
and just before everything fades to black, you hear him whisper something you don’t quite catch. maybe your name. maybe i love you. maybe both.
but it settles into your chest like a weightless stone, grounding and soft, and you fall asleep like that—wrapped in nicholas' arms, safe in his warmth, your back scratched gently, your hair played with lovingly, the world outside fading to nothing.
you sit cross-legged on the floor of jiseok’s room, snoopy awkwardly balanced on your lap. he grins at you from where he’s sitting, tuning 가오나시, his other guitar, with casual ease.
“okay, first things first,” jiseok starts, scooting closer until your knees almost touch. “how do you feel? intimidated? excited? terrified?”
“um, all of the above?” you laugh nervously, adjusting the strap that’s slipping off your shoulder.
“good,” he says, giving you a wink. “means you respect the instrument.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. he reaches over and gently adjusts your hands.
“left hand here,” he murmurs, curling your fingers around the fretboard. “and right hand… just chill, yeah? no death grip.”
“this feels so weird,” you mutter, flexing your fingers awkwardly.
“it always does at first,” he assures you. “trust me. i was a disaster my first month.”
“somehow i don’t believe that,” you say, raising an eyebrow.
“i have witnesses,” jiseok laughs. “okay, here. let’s start with a simple chord. g major. classic.”
jiseok positions your fingers carefully, his hands warm and steady. his touch is patient, not rushed. he leans back to admire your awkward pose.
“okay, now… strum.”
you make a noise that sounds more like a dying bird than a chord. jiseok immediately claps dramatically.
“beautiful. a true masterpiece,” he says with a mock-serious expression.
“shut up,” you groan, hiding your face in your hands.
“no, seriously, it’s better than my first time,” jiseok insists, gently pulling your hands away so you’ll try again. “c’mon. again. and relax. snoopy can smell fear.”
you give him a flat look, but he just grins wider, his high-pitched giggle causing his shoulders to shake.
“you’re so annoying,” you say.
“and you love me,” he sing-songs, nudging your shoulder.
“sure,” you mutter, but you’re laughing now.
he picks up the guitar in his lap and strums the same g chord, his fingers flying over the strings effortlessly.
“hear that?” he says. “yours will sound like this soon. just gotta build those calluses.”
“calluses?” you repeat, horrified.
“oh yeah. your fingers are gonna hate you for a bit. but it’s worth it.” he flashes you a thumbs-up. “battle scars.”
you shake your head in disbelief, but you reposition your fingers like he showed you. you strum again—this time, a little clearer. a little less like a dying bird.
“there we go!” jiseok cheers. “that’s it! see? you’re basically a rockstar already.”
“yeah, okay,” you laugh.
“seriously. you’re a natural.” jiseok leans forward, his eyes bright. “next time, you’re playing at our concert.”
“never happening.”
“we’ll see about that,” he teases, bumping your knee with his.
you try the chord again, and he nods proudly.
“look at you,” he says. “you’re killing it.”
you glance at him, his face so full of genuine excitement, and you can’t help but smile.
“only because you’re a good teacher,” you say softly.
he pretends to flip his hair dramatically. “i mean… i am pretty amazing.”
"okaaaay, taking the compliment back."
jiseok laughs.
“okay, rockstar,” he says, standing up and offering you his hand. “break’s over. next chord!”
“already? i just got this one!” you whine, taking his hand anyway.
he pulls you to your feet with a mischievous grin.
“no mercy,” he says. “this is guitar boot camp.”
“i’m suing.”
“you can’t. you signed up for this the moment you started dating a guitarist.”
mitochondria: the powerhouse of the cell (intak) - nav
synopsis — who need's a's in biology when you have a boyfriend like intak?
you’re supposed to be studying.
supposed to be.
instead, intak is lying across your bed, flipping your notebook upside down, pretending to be very, very serious.
“you spelled mitochondria wrong,” he says, squinting exaggeratedly.
you groan, flopping onto the bed next to him. “i didn’t.”
“you did,” he insists. “but don’t worry. i still believe in you.”
you turn your head to glare at him, but he’s already grinning, boyish and unbothered. it’s unfair how easily he makes you forget about everything—deadlines, grades, the way the world feels too heavy sometimes.
“you’re a distraction,” you mutter, poking his cheek.
“the best kind,” he says proudly, catching your hand before you can pull away.
you stare at him—messy hair, soft smile, heart in his eyes—and suddenly studying feels like the least important thing in the universe.
“what?” intak asks, voice dipping lower.
“nothing,” you say, cheeks heating.
he doesn’t buy it. he shifts closer, still holding your hand. “tell me.”
you swallow, nerves crawling up your spine. “just… i like this. us. you.”
intak’s whole face softens.
he tugs you even closer until your forehead bumps his. “me too,” he whispers. “i’m crazy about you.”
you laugh, breathless. “even if i spell mitochondria wrong?”
he pretends to think very hard. “i guess i can forgive you.”
“how generous,” you tease.
“hey,” intak says, grinning wider, “you’re dating a future spelling bee champ.”
“pretty sure that’s false advertising,” you giggle.
he kisses you before you can say anything else—soft, lingering, sweet enough to make your toes curl.
“false advertising or not,” he murmurs against your lips, “you spelled mitochondria wrong, i didn't."
synopsis — you and woonhak grew up side by side, but somewhere along the way, you grew into each other too.
ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ childhood friends to lovers
you’ve known woonhak for as long as you can remember.
he was the boy who moved in two doors down the summer you turned eight, all scraped knees and sunburned cheeks, lugging a cardboard box that was almost bigger than him. you watched him from your front porch, popsicle melting down your hand, curiosity tugging at you until you couldn’t help but wave.
he waved back.
and that was it—a single, clumsy hello that stretched into years of sleepovers, secret codes, and promises whispered into the night air.
you grew up tangled in each other’s worlds, a thousand little moments blurring into something you couldn’t name back then. he was the one who held your hand the first time you snuck into the woods behind your neighborhood. the one who helped you build a treehouse out of old planks. the one who carried your books when your backpack broke and laughed when you threatened to punch him for teasing you.
woonhak has always been there.
always.
but lately… it feels different.
you notice it one lazy afternoon in late spring. the two of you are sprawled out in the grass behind his house, a soft breeze lifting strands of your hair, the sky stretching wide and endless above you.
he’s talking—about school, about the summer plans he keeps making and remaking—and you’re listening, you swear you are, but it’s hard to focus when the sunlight keeps catching the angles of his face just right. when his smile, familiar as your own heartbeat, suddenly feels like something dangerous.
you look away quickly, pretending to pluck at the grass beside you.
you don’t know when it changed.
you only know it has.
you start noticing everything.
the way his voice drops when he says your name. the way he remembers exactly how you like your eggs without asking. the way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s memorizing you without meaning to.
it’s terrifying.
and it’s thrilling.
and it’s hopeless.
because he’s your best friend.
because you’re scared to lose him.
because you’re not sure he could ever feel the same way.
you try to bury it—the flutter in your chest, the stupid, impossible hope. you try to be the same version of yourself you’ve always been around him.
but it gets harder every day.
especially today.
today, woonhak drags you to a street festival downtown, claiming you’ve both been “too boring lately” and need “serious fun therapy.” he says it with that bright, reckless grin of his, the one that’s always been your undoing.
you don’t even put up a fight.
the streets are alive with music and laughter, colorful banners fluttering from every lamppost. food stalls line the sidewalks, filling the air with the warm, dizzying smell of roasted corn, sweet pastries, and fried everything.
woonhak buys you a lemonade without asking and immediately steals a sip, wrinkling his nose when it’s too sour. you laugh and shove him playfully, and he catches your wrist without thinking, his fingers warm against your skin.
you freeze.
so does he.
for a heartbeat, the world tilts—the music fades, the crowds blur—and it’s just the two of you, tethered together by a touch so small it shouldn’t mean anything.
but it does.
he lets go first, clearing his throat and mumbling something about finding the games.
you follow him, heart pounding.
you tell yourself you’re imagining it.
you have to be imagining it.
the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in streaks of pink and orange. you end up at a booth lined with prizes—giant stuffed animals, glittering keychains, tiny glass bottles filled with sand.
woonhak stops, studying the shelves.
“you want something?” he asks, voice easy.
you shake your head, but he’s already fishing coins out of his pocket.
“too bad,” he says, flashing a grin. “you deserve a prize for putting up with me today.”
you watch, half amused, half horrified, as he attempts the ring toss. he’s terrible—truly, hilariously terrible—but he’s determined, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
on the fifth try, somehow, he wins.
he picks the prize without hesitation: a small, delicate charm shaped like a star.
he hands it to you with a crooked smile, a little sheepish. “thought it looked like you.”
you stare at it, too stunned to speak for a second.
it’s nothing. it’s everything.
you close your fingers around the charm carefully, holding it like it might break.
“thank you,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the noise.
woonhak shrugs, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck.
“you’re welcome,” he says, and then, after a pause, quieter, “you deserve all the stars, you know.”
you don’t know how your heart survives that.
later, when the festival winds down and the sky is a deep velvet blue, he suggests one last stop: the rooftop of the parking garage overlooking the city.
you climb the stairs together, your shoulders brushing now and then. neither of you moves away.
the rooftop is almost empty. the city stretches out below you, glittering and alive, the river snaking through it like silver.
woonhak sits down, legs dangling over the edge. he pats the spot next to him without looking at you.
you sit.
you sit so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
for a while, neither of you says anything.
it’s not uncomfortable. it’s never uncomfortable with him.
but tonight, the silence feels heavier. charged.
you toy with the charm still tucked into your palm, its edges pressing into your skin.
“hey,” he says suddenly, voice rougher than usual.
you turn to look at him—and find him already looking at you.
his eyes are serious, shining under the city lights.
“can i tell you something?” he asks.
you nod, afraid to speak.
he laughs under his breath, a little shaky. “i’m scared.”
you blink. “of what?”
he bites his lip, glancing out at the city, then back at you.
“of ruining this,” he says. “ruining us.”
your heart stutters.
he takes a breath, steadying himself.
“but if i don’t say it,” he continues, “i think i’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
you barely breathe.
“i like you,” he says simply. “more than a friend. way more.”
the world slows.
the stars tilt.
and in the quiet between heartbeats, you realize he’s been feeling it too.
all along.
you reach for his hand without thinking, fingers curling into his.
he looks down at your joined hands like he’s afraid he’s dreaming.
you squeeze gently.
“me too,” you whisper.
the relief on his face is almost painful to look at.
he laughs, soft and disbelieving, and then he’s pulling you closer, wrapping you in a hug so tight you can feel the way he’s trembling.
you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing him in—the smell of soap and sugar and something purely, unmistakably him.
you stay like that for a long time, swaying slightly, the city a blur around you.
when you finally pull back, he cups your face in his hands, searching your eyes.
“can i-?”
you don’t let him finish.
you lean in and kiss him.
it’s clumsy, your noses bumping, teeth clicking slightly—but it’s perfect. it’s years of friendship, of trust, of love spilling over.
it’s everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.
he kisses you back, laughing a little against your lips, and you realize you’re crying.
he wipes the tears away with his thumbs, smiling so wide it hurts.
“wow” he says, that goofy smile on his lips.
you laugh, shaky and breathless.
"you're making it weird."
he kisses you again, slow and sure, like a promise.
the next morning, woonhak shows up at your door with a single daisy clutched in his hand, looking sheepish and ridiculously proud of himself.
“for you,” he says, cheeks pink.
you take the flower, laughing as you pull him inside.
you spend the whole day doing nothing—eating cereal straight from the box, watching terrible movies, building a blanket fort like you’re still kids.
except now, he kisses you whenever he wants.
except now, you belong to each other in a way you always dreamed of but never dared to hope for.
as the sun sets, you curl up beside him, tracing lazy patterns on his arm.
“you know,” he says, voice muffled against your hair, “you’re still my best friend.”
you smile, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
“good,” you say. “because you’re still my best friend.”
he grins, pulling you even closer.
“i wouldn’t want it any other way.”
and you know, with absolute certainty, that neither would you.
synopsis — beneath an old willow tree, you and theo fall in love.
you meet taeyang beneath the old willow tree that crowns the hill behind your family’s farmhouse. it's a place stitched into the fabric of your childhood—a place for scraped knees and whispered secrets—but today, it feels different. the air hums with the heavy breath of late summer, and the sunset spills golden light across taeyang's face as he leans against the rough bark.
you wonder if he knows how beautiful he looks like that, with his arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, the way his dark hair catches the last glints of daylight.
“you're late,” he says, teasing, but there’s no real accusation in his voice. just warmth. just that boy you’ve known for what feels like forever.
you jog up the hill, a little breathless. “you're always early,” you shoot back, letting yourself fall onto the grass beside him.
he doesn’t say anything for a moment. you feel him watching you, and the weight of his gaze stirs something inside you that you don’t know how to name.
taeyang shifts closer. “i like waiting for you."
you glance at him, your chest tightening around the confession. there's something about the way he says it...
you should say something back, but the words catch in your throat. so instead, you bump your shoulder lightly against his. taeyang laughs under his breath, and the sound is the kind of thing you wish you could bottle up and keep with you forever.
the two of you sit there, side by side, as the sky fades from gold to violet to deep, endless blue. fireflies spark in the tall grass, and a chorus of crickets rises from the woods below.
it feels like a night for promises. for the kinds of words that don’t come easy.
taeyang lies back, arms folded behind his head, and you mimic him, staring up at the tiny pricks of starlight beginning to pierce the sky.
“you ever think about leaving?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile spell of the moment.
you turn your head toward him. his profile is all shadows and soft edges, beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache.
“all the time,” you admit.
he smiles without looking at you. “yeah. me too.”
you both fall silent, but there’s a different kind of electricity between you now, buzzing just beneath your skin.
“where would you go?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.
taeyang turns his head to meet your gaze. “anywhere you want,” he says.
the world tilts a little beneath you. maybe it’s the way he says it—steady, sure—like it’s the simplest truth in the world. or maybe it’s the way his hand finds yours in the dark, his fingers threading through yours like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.
you squeeze his hand back, heart hammering against your ribs.
maybe leaving wouldn’t be so scary, after all.
not if you had taeyang beside you.
the days that follow are the same as always—lazy afternoons spent sprawled out in the grass, secret glances exchanged across crowded rooms, long drives with no destination except away. with taeyang, everything feels lighter. easier.
sometimes you wonder if you’re dreaming; if you’ll wake up and find that this version of life, with all its golden edges and soft laughter, will have slipped through your fingers like sand.
but taeyang is solid and real, especially when he wraps his arms around you from behind, tucking his chin over your shoulder. especially when he presses a kiss to your temple like he’s claiming you for the thousandth time.
one evening, you find yourselves back under the willow tree, just like you have so many other nights.
taeyang lies on his stomach, sketching something into the dirt with a twig. you sit cross-legged beside him, weaving a crown out of the long, bendy willow branches.
he glances up and grins when he sees what you’re doing. “you look like a fairy,” he teases, reaching out to tug playfully on a strand of your hair.
you stick your tongue out at him and place the finished crown atop his head.
taeyang looks absolutely ridiculous—but somehow still heartbreakingly beautiful—with the lopsided wreath sliding down over one eyebrow.
“you're the fairy now,” you declare.
he gives you a mock-serious look. “i'll wear it if you kiss me.”
you laugh and lean in before he can say anything else.
taeyang meets you halfway, his hand finding your cheek, thumb stroking your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his mouth is warm against yours, soft but sure, and you lose yourself in the moment, in the taste of him, the smell of crushed grass and sunshine lingering on his skin.
when you pull back, you’re both smiling like idiots.
he presses his forehead against yours. "you're magic."
you close your eyes and just breathe him in. if this is magic, you think, then you don’t ever want the spell to break.
a week later, taeyang shows up outside your window at midnight.
you almost scream when you see the shadow moving, but then you recognize his familiar silhouette—messy hair, worn hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets—and your heart leaps into your throat for an entirely different reason.
you push the window open, hissing, “taeyang! what are you doing?”
he grins up at you, utterly unrepentant. “stealing you.”
you blink. “stealing me?”
“yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “come on. get dressed.”
you glance over your shoulder at your bedroom door; behind, the darkened hallway, where your family is sleeping, then back at taeyang.
there's mischief in his eyes, a spark you can’t resist.
five minutes later, you’re shimmying down the tree outside your window—something you haven’t done since you were twelve—and landing clumsily beside him. taeyang catches you with a soft oof, steadying you with both hands on your waist.
“hi,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
you let out a breath, cheeks burning. “hi.”
he grabs your hand and pulls you toward his truck, the two of you running barefoot through the dewy grass like fugitives.
taeyang drives with the windows down, the night air cool and sweet, whipping through your hair. he doesn’t tell you where you’re going, and you don’t ask. you just trust him.
you end up at a lake.
the stars are so thick overhead that they blur together into a shimmering river of light. the water stretches out in front of you, smooth and dark, reflecting the sky like a mirror.
taeyang kills the engine and hops out of the truck, jogging around to your side to open your door with a gallant little bow.
“my lady,” he says, and you roll your eyes but take his hand anyway.
you kick off your shoes and wander down to the edge of the lake. the grass is cold and soft beneath your toes, and the water laps gently at the shore.
taeyang stands beside you, so close that your shoulders brush.
without a word, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, tosses it into the bed of the truck, and starts wading into the water.
you gape at him. “you're insane."
he glances back over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “come on, scaredy-cat.”
you hesitate for half a second, then peel your own shirt off and follow him in, jeans and all.
the water is shockingly cold at first, stealing the breath from your lungs. you shriek and splash taeyang, and he laughs, diving under and coming up behind you to grab you around the waist.
you shriek again, struggling half-heartedly, but taeyang only holds you tighter, spinning you in the water.
you laugh so hard you almost forget to breathe.
when he finally sets you down, you’re both dripping, gasping, grinning at each other like fools.
taeyang cups your face in his hands, droplets of water rolling down his arms, and kisses you under the stars.
it's different this time—deeper, hungrier, like he’s pouring all of himself into you. and you kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his wet hair, your heart beating wildly against your ribs.
when you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads pressed together.
"i love you,” taeyang says suddenly, voice rough with emotion.
the world tilts again, but you don’t feel like you’re falling.
you feel like you’re flying.
“i love you too,” you whisper back.
you don’t know who moves first, but you end up clinging to each other, standing knee-deep in the cold lake, wrapped up in a love so big it feels like it could swallow the whole world.
and for the first time in your life, you believe in forever.
@astro-doll-the-star @soubeomies
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synopsis — when you follow gunil out of a coffee shop and into a hidden corner of the city, you realize that sometimes love feels less like falling and more like finding where you’re meant to be.
you never thought you’d be the kind of person who falls in love in a coffee shop, but here you are. the air smells like roasted beans and warm pastries, and the soft clink of ceramic mugs is the only thing that fills the space between you and him. gunil. he’s sitting across from you, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the side of his cup, a melody you swear you can feel in your chest.
you don’t even remember how it started. maybe it was the way he smiled the first time you accidentally bumped into him at the counter, both of you reaching for the same croissant. or maybe it was the way he said your name, soft like a secret only he was allowed to know. either way, you fell, and you fell hard.
today, he’s wearing that navy blue sweater you love, the one that makes his brown eyes look even warmer. he catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“what?” he asks, voice low, teasing.
you shake your head, smiling into your latte. “nothing,” you lie, but he knows better. he always knows.
he reaches across the table, his hand brushing against yours, and it sends a shiver up your spine. you wonder if he feels it too. you hope he does.
“you’re a bad liar,” he says, lacing his fingers with yours. his hand is bigger than yours, his skin rough in places, calloused from years of drumming.
“maybe,” you whisper, feeling the words catch in your throat.
the world outside the window moves fast—cars honking, people rushing—but inside this little coffee shop, time slows down. it’s just you and gunil, a universe of two.
“i was thinking,” he says, tapping your knuckles gently, “we should go somewhere.”
“somewhere?” you echo, tilting your head.
he nods, eyes sparkling. “somewhere just us. no phones, no distractions.”
your heart trips over itself. it sounds perfect. it sounds dangerous. it sounds like love.
“okay,” you say, and his grin widens.
you don’t even bother finishing your coffee. he pulls you out the door, laughing when you nearly trip over your own feet. he catches you, steady and sure, and you wonder when you started trusting him with things bigger than your balance. like your heart. like your whole future.
the air outside is cool, almost crisp, and gunil leads you down streets you don’t recognize. he doesn’t let go of your hand. not once. you don’t ask where you’re going because it doesn’t matter. not when he’s the one leading you.
finally, you reach a small park tucked between two towering buildings. it’s quiet here, like a secret carved out of the city. there’s a little pond, a few ducks paddling across the surface, and a bench under a massive oak tree. gunil tugs you toward it and you sit down, your shoulders brushing.
he leans back, tilting his head to look up at the sky. you watch him, the way the sunlight kisses the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose. you memorize the moment, tucking it away somewhere safe.
“i’m glad i met you,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.
your heart stumbles again. you don’t know how he does that—says the exact thing you’re feeling before you even know you’re feeling it.
“me too,” you whisper.
he finally turns to you, eyes searching, and you wonder what he sees. the vulnerable parts you’ve tried to hide? the dreams you’ve been too scared to say out loud? the messy, complicated pieces of you that you thought no one could ever love?
you think maybe he sees all of it. you think maybe he loves you because of it.
“i don’t wanna rush you,” he says carefully, “but… i’m serious about you.”
your breath catches. the world tilts, just a little. not in a way that feels scary. in a way that feels right.
“i’m serious about you too,” you say, and you mean it with every piece of you.
he smiles then, that full, beautiful smile that makes you feel like you’re standing in the sun. that beautiful smile that hides his eyes. he reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“can i kiss you?” he asks, voice barely more than a breath.
you nod, and before you can even think, he’s leaning in, and his lips meet yours.
it’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. then he deepens it, one hand cradling your face, the other still wrapped around your fingers. you taste coffee and sweetness and something that’s purely, undeniably him.
when he finally pulls back, you open your eyes to find him already watching you, forehead resting against yours.
“everything feels right when i'm with you,” he says quietly.
you believe him. you believe him in the way the earth believes in the sun rising. in the way the ocean believes in the pull of the moon.
you smile, feeling something inside you settle, like you’ve found the place you were always meant to be.
“me too,” you whisper back.
and right there, under the wide open sky, with the city humming softly in the distance and gunil’s hand in yours, you know you’ve found something rare. something real.
something that feels like coming home.
@ezlynkisses @deerdosie
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he’s standing in your doorway, smiling like nothing is wrong, like he doesn’t know you’ve been thinking about this conversation for days now, holding it in until it feels like it’s clawing out of your chest.
“sweetheart,” he says, stepping inside. “i missed you so much.”
you let him hug you, let him bury his face in your neck, breathing you in like he’s been starved for you.
and maybe that’s what breaks you—the way he acts like everything's okay when you've been drowning alone.
“sanghyeok,” you whisper, voice shaking. “we need to talk.”
he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to see your face. the smile drops from his lips in an instant.
“what’s wrong?” he says, already sounding scared.
you step back, putting space between you because you know if he touches you again, you’ll lose your nerve. you swallow hard, hands trembling.
“i think…” you begin, forcing the words out through the tightness in your throat, “i think we should break up.”
silence.
like the whole world just stopped moving.
he blinks at you, stunned. “what?”
you bite your lip, trying to stay strong. “you’re so busy, sanghyeok. and that’s okay, it really is. you’re chasing your dream. but i miss you so much it hurts. and i hate feeling like i’m just… waiting around for you.”
his mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“i don’t want to be clingy,” you say, voice cracking. “i don’t want to make you feel guilty for working hard. i love you too much for that. so it’s better if i just–"
“no,” he says suddenly, fiercely, cutting you off. “no. no, no, no.”
you flinch at the desperation in his voice.
he crosses the space between you in two steps, grabbing your hands like he’s terrified you’re going to disappear.
“please,” he whispers, voice breaking. “y/n, please don’t leave me.”
you can see the tears pooling in his eyes, his whole body trembling with the force of it.
“sanghyeok–"
“i’m sorry,” he says, choking on the words. “i’m sorry i made you feel like you’re second place. you’re not. you’re never second. you’re everything to me.”
tears stream down his cheeks, and your heart shatters.
“i missed you too,” he says, voice raw and shaking. “i missed you so much it made me sick. every night, every morning, every time i got five minutes to breathe, i thought about you. i just… i thought i had to pretend it didn’t hurt, because i didn’t want to seem like i couldn’t handle it.”
he lets out a broken laugh, wiping at his face uselessly. “turns out i can’t handle it at all.”
you stare at him, at the boy you love more than anything, standing in your living room crying for you, begging you to stay.
“i never wanted to hurt you,” he whispers. “i'm so sorry, y/n. i– i fucked up, but please. please don't leave me.”
he drops to his knees in front of you, forehead pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.
“i’ll do anything. anything you need. just… just stay," he begs again, voice muffled.
you sink to your knees too, cupping his face in your hands, wiping at the tears streaming down his face.
“sanghyeok,” you say, voice cracking, “i love you.”
he sobs, eyes squeezing shut.
“i love you, too,” he gasps. “i love you so much that i don't know who i am without you.”
you kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his trembling lips, feeling your own tears fall freely now.
“i don’t want to break up,” you whisper against his skin. “i just… i didn’t know how to keep hurting like this.”
“let me fix it. please. i’ll be better. i’ll show you you’re my priority. i swear. just give me another chance," he says, desperate
you pull back just enough to look into his eyes—red, puffy, but shining with so much love it makes you ache.
“okay,” you whisper.
he lets out a broken sob of relief, pulling you into his chest so tightly you can barely breathe, but you don’t mind. you cling to him just as hard, burying your face in his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat pounding wild under your palm.
“thank you,” he keeps whispering. “thank you, thank you.”
you stay like that for a long time, tangled up in each other on the floor, until the tears dry and the silence turns soft instead of heavy.
later, when you’re curled up together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, he pulls you even closer.
“i’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. “for every night you felt alone.”
you shake your head. “i’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”
he kisses the side of your head. “we’re learning. together."
you close your eyes, breathing him in, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the way his hand never stops moving across your back like he’s reassuring himself you’re still there.
“we’ll make this work,” he promises. “no matter what. you’re my everything.”
synopsis — during your college's music festival, you take a behind the scenes job helping your best friends’ band—only to clash (and eventually fall for) the sharp-tongued lead singer who’s nothing like you expected.
ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ enemies to lovers, female reader, 8k word count
the lounge is half-empty when you get there, which is a miracle considering how popular it usually is this close to festival week. the old leather couches sag in the middle, the vending machines buzz in the corner, and the sun slants in through the big windows, making everything look a little softer, a little more tired.
nicholas spots you first. he’s perched on the arm of one of the couches, his red hair catching the sunlight like a flare. his fox-like eyes narrow a little when he sees you, but there’s nothing sharp behind it—just the usual mix of mischief and excitement. when he grins, all teeth and warmth, you know immediately he’s up to something.
euijoo’s sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, brown hair falling into his wide, open eyes as he scrolls through his phone. he’s the tallest of all of you, but right now he looks like a kid waiting for his turn at an arcade game.
harua is slumped in the corner of the couch, blond hair messy, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, pretending he’s not awake even though you saw him glance up when you walked in.
“you’re late,” nicholas says, even though you’re not.
“you’re annoying,” you say back, dropping your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud.
“good, we’re starting strong,” euijoo says brightly. he tosses a small bag of chips at you, which you catch one-handed without thinking.
“where’s kazuha?” you ask.
“physics exam,” euijoo supplies.
you sink into the chair across from them, cracking the bag open. “gotcha, so what’s the emergency?”
nicholas exchanges a look with euijoo, and you immediately regret asking.
“so,” nicholas starts, drawing the word out like he’s crafting a master plan. “you know how the festival showcase is coming up.”
“yeah,” you say. “you’ve only been talking about it nonstop for the past month.”
“good, good,” he says, nodding seriously like he’s checking something off a list. “well, juju and i are playing, obviously. drums,” he says, pointing at himself. “keyboard,” he says, clapping euijoo on the back.
“band of the year,” euijoo says proudly, even though you’re pretty sure they haven’t even named their group yet.
“still working on a name,” nicholas adds, not missing a beat. “anyway. we’re kind of… short on help.”
you narrow your eyes. “what kind of help.”
“stage managing,” nicholas says, too quickly.
you immediately look at harua, who is now aggressively pretending to be asleep. you throw a chip at him. he flinches but doesn’t open his eyes.
“rua,” nicholas says, voice rising, “please. you’d be so good at it.”
“no,” harua says flatly, eyes still closed.
nicholas clutches his chest like he’s been stabbed. “you didn’t even let me finish.”
“because i know how your ‘help’ works,” harua says, finally cracking one eye open. “you’ll end up on fire and somehow it’ll be my fault.”
“he’s not wrong,” euijoo says under his breath.
nicholas glares at him.
euijoo just grins, wide-eyed and unbothered.
“so that leaves you,” nicholas says, turning to you with the full force of his bright, almost-too-charming smile. it’s dangerous, how nice he looks when he wants something.
you lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “stage managing, huh?”
“easy stuff,” euijoo says quickly. “just make sure our set starts on time. talk to the sound guys. keep jo from running away. you know. simple.”
“you say that like it doesn’t sound like babysitting a bunch of toddlers,” you say.
nicholas holds up his hand solemnly. “we’re very well-behaved toddlers.”
“no they’re not,” harua says immediately.
you consider it for a second, crunching a chip between your teeth. there’s a part of you that knows this is going to be a mess. there’s also a part of you that’s already buzzing with the kind of restless excitement that only festival week can bring.
besides, someone has to keep nicholas from fucking punching a bitch.
you sigh dramatically. “fine.”
nicholas cheers loud enough that a group of students across the lounge glance over. euijoo fist-pumps like they’ve just won the lottery.
“i knew you were the one we could count on,” euijoo says, beaming.
“bitch,” you say. “i’m just doing this for service hours.”
“same thing,” nicholas says cheerfully.
harua just shakes his head like he’s watching a slow-motion disaster unfold. “you’re gonna regret it.”
“probably,” you say.
but you’re smiling as you say it.
outside the lounge windows, you can see people starting to string up banners across the campus lawn, the colors snapping bright against the blue sky. the first chords of a guitar echo faintly from somewhere down the quad. the whole world feels like it’s tilting forward, toward something you can’t quite see yet.
the rehearsal room smells like old amps, sweat, and that weird lavender cleaner the janitors love. cables snake across the floor in every direction, half the equipment buzzing faintly, and someone’s left an empty water bottle balancing precariously on a speaker.
you’re standing awkwardly by the door with nicholas and euijoo, trying not to trip over anything expensive-looking.
“don’t look so nervous,” nicholas says, nudging you with his elbow. his hair is a mess from hauling in drums earlier, and his usual fox-like grin is turned up to full wattage. “they’re nice.”
“mostly,” euijoo adds under his breath, brown hair flopping into his eyes as he beams at you.
“so reassuring,” you mutter.
nicholas claps his hands loudly, getting the attention of the three other guys already scattered around the room.
“alright, everyone, listen up,” he says. “this is our new stage manager.”
all eyes turn to you.
you give a small, awkward wave.
“y/n, meet the rest of the circus,” nicholas says proudly. he points to the shortest guy first—pastel pink hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, snaggletooth flashing when he smiles. “that’s yuma. rhythmic guitar.”
“hey,” yuma says brightly, voice a little louder than necessary. he waves enthusiastically, like you’re old friends already.
he’s got that weird kind of energy that’s half ‘talks a lot’ and half ‘hiding in a corner the second no one’s looking.’
“hi,” you say back, a little startled by the force of his friendliness.
nicholas moves on, pointing at a taller guy with black hair falling softly over his forehead, clutching his bass like it’s a safety blanket. his face is gentle, almost doll-like, and he gives you a tiny, polite bow.
“jo,” nicholas says. “bass. shy, but lethal.”
jo immediately flushes bright red at the introduction. “hi, uh… it’s nice to meet you,” he says quietly.
you smile at him, already feeling a little more at ease.
and then.
“and this,” nicholas says, dragging out the word like he’s announcing a villain, “is maki. lead guitarist. lead vocals. also… pain in my ass.”
maki doesn’t move from where he’s sitting on one of the amps, guitar balanced casually across his lap. he’s tall—almost as tall as euijoo—and built lean, all sharp angles and casual confidence. his black hair is slicked back, a few rebellious strands falling forward. his brows are dark and chiseled, his jawline stupidly sharp, and his lips are full enough to look like they belong in some annoying cologne ad.
he doesn’t smile.
instead, he looks you up and down once, slow and deliberate, and says, “great. another manager wannabe.”
you blink.
“maki,” nicholas says immediately, warning in his voice.
euijoo jumps in too, still smiling but a little strained. “dude, chill. it’s not that serious.”
maki shrugs, utterly unbothered, and plucks a few lazy notes on his guitar.
“i’m just saying. last one bailed after two rehearsals.”
“maybe because you were a dick,” yuma says from across the room.
maki smirks but doesn’t deny it.
you shift your weight, unsure whether you should be offended or not. it’s not like you came here begging to manage their band. nicholas and euijoo practically dragged you into this.
nicholas catches your expression and quickly leans in. “don’t worry about him,” he mutters. “he warms up eventually. like, in a year.”
“or never,” yuma calls helpfully.
jo looks horrified. he glances between you and maki and gulps. “maki’s just… passionate. about music.”
you raise an eyebrow. “yeah, i can tell.”
maki hears you. you know he does, because there’s the faintest twitch of his mouth—not a smile exactly, more like he’s biting it back. but he doesn’t say anything else. just goes back to fiddling with his guitar like you’re not even there.
nicholas claps his hands again, loudly. “okaaay! now that introductions are over and nobody’s dead, let’s get started.”
you step carefully around the tangle of cables, finding a spot against the wall where you can watch without getting in the way.
yuma shoots you a quick thumbs-up and a wide grin. jo gives you an awkward smile. even euijoo throws you a goofy wink before sitting down at his keyboard.
the only one who doesn’t look your way is maki.
good, you think stubbornly.
you didn’t come here to make friends.
you came here to keep this chaos from falling apart long enough for nicholas and euijoo to have their moment onstage.
it’s been a few weeks, and somehow you’re still standing.
you’ve got the rhythm of everything now—running between light cues, managing equipment changes, fixing tech issues before anyone notices.
the chaos doesn’t scare you anymore. if anything, it feels almost… good. like you belong here.
“y/n, mic two’s giving feedback again!” someone shouts from the sound booth.
“on it!” you yell back, already moving.
you crouch at the front of the stage, adjusting cables and fiddling with the mixer settings.
out of the corner of your eye, you see a pair of boots stop a few feet away. you don’t have to look up to know who it is.
“amazing,” maki says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “you’re actually useful. didn’t think we’d ever see the day.”
you straighten up slowly, wiping your hands on your jeans.
he’s standing there, arms crossed, guitar slung across his back like he’s posing for a magazine cover. his mouth is curled into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“hi to you, too,” you say, keeping your voice light.
you plaster a bright, fake smile on your face, even though you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.
“you know,” maki continues, voice low enough that only you can hear, “we probably would’ve finished this soundcheck thirty minutes ago if we didn’t have a stage manager who needs a map just to find the on-switch.”
your jaw tightens.
you turn back to the mixer, pretending to fiddle with the settings just so you don’t say something you’ll regret.
instead, you laugh, short and airy.
“lucky for you, i’m a fast learner,” you say sweetly. “otherwise you’d be stuck doing actual work.”
you hear yuma snort from where he’s adjusting his pedalboard. even jo—quiet, polite jo—looks like he’s fighting back a smile. nicholas wanders over, sensing the tension immediately.
“maki, play nice,” he says, clapping a hand on maki’s shoulder.
maki shrugs him off with a roll of his eyes.
“just pointing out the obvious,” he says, flashing that signature too-sharp grin.
the rest of the afternoon isn’t much better. everywhere you go, maki finds some way to comment.
when you trip slightly over a coiled cord:
“graceful. like a drunk baby giraffe.”
when you check the mic levels for the third time:
“triple-checking? bold of you to assume it’ll make a difference.”
when you relay notes from the sound team to the band:
“translation: everything’s still a mess and it’s probably your fault.”
each time, you feel your teeth grit tighter, but you never give him the satisfaction of reacting.
you just smile—wide and bright—and keep doing your job like he’s not even there.
you can tell it pisses him off, too. every time you brush him off without a real reaction, his smirk tightens just a little. his eyes follow you longer, sharper. by the end of rehearsal, you’re bone-tired but proud. you survived another day, another barrage of maki’s insults, without snapping.
you’re stacking mic stands when he strolls past you, guitar case slung lazily over one shoulder.
“see you tomorrow, stage manager extraordinaire,” he says, heavy on the mockery.
you flash him a smile so sweet it practically drips sugar.
“can’t wait, lead singer who thinks he’s funny.”
he chuckles low under his breath — and for the first time today, it’s not entirely mean. you watch him walk away, the knot in your chest loosening just a little. you’re not sure what exactly is happening between you two — but you know this much:
whatever game maki’s playing, you’re not losing.
maki’s become even more unbearable at practice. and you’re fucking done.
always late, always half-assing the setups, always finding a way to make your life harder.
“is it that hard to plug in an amp properly?” he drawls one afternoon, after you’ve spent fifteen minutes untangling a cable knot from hell.
you whip around, face burning. “if you think it’s so easy, why don’t you get off your ass and do it yourself?”
he just smirks, propping his boots up on the nearest chair like a king surveying his ruined kingdom.
“watch and learn, princess.”
you bristle at the nickname, fists clenching so hard your nails dig into your palms.
when he saunters over and fixes the cable with two infuriatingly fast flicks of his wrist, you hate him a little more.
you also hate the stupid, traitorous flip your stomach does at how easy he makes it look.
you swear he’s doing it on purpose.
one night, you’re trying to fix a broken light rig by yourself — the rest of the crew long gone — when maki strolls in, spinning a guitar pick between his fingers.
he watches you struggle for a minute before saying, way too loudly:
“don’t hurt yourself. pretty sure they’d rather replace the lights than replace you.”
you slam the wrench down on the stage, metal clanging.
“god, you are insufferable!” you yell, spinning on him.
he smirks, unbothered. “takes one to know one.”
you stalk toward him, stopping only inches away, rage making your hands shake.
“i don’t know why everyone here kisses your ass,” you snap. “you’re not special. you’re just a dick with a guitar.”
for the first time, something flickers in his expression — something almost vulnerable.
but it’s gone before you can name it.
“better a dick with talent,” he says flatly, “than a wannabe clinging to a clipboard.”
it’s a low blow.
it hits harder than you expect.
you step back like he’s slapped you, heart in your throat.
maki watches you for a second longer, jaw tight, before turning and walking out.
the silence he leaves behind is deafening.
the fighting gets louder.
“your setlist makes no sense,” you snap at a late-night meeting.
“because clearly, you know more about music than i do,” he says lazily, arms folded across his chest.
“this isn’t just about you, maki. you’re not the only one performing.”
he shrugs. “could’ve fooled me.”
you glare at him across the crowded table. he stares back, unbothered, until you’re the one who looks away, teeth grinding.
the rest of the team watches with a mix of amusement and fear, staying carefully out of the blast radius.
the worst part isn’t the fighting.
it’s how you notice things about him anyway.
like the way he always shakes out his hands before playing, like he’s releasing something heavy he doesn’t want to carry.
like the way his eyes go distant sometimes, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.
like the way he never lets anyone touch his guitar—ever.
you file these observations away in the back of your mind, furious with yourself.
you don’t care. you don’t.
one night, you’re the last two in the practice room. you’re shoving chairs back into place, muttering curses under your breath, when he says, without looking up:
“you’re not bad at this, you know.”
you freeze.
he doesn’t say it like a compliment. just a statement of fact.
still—coming from him, it feels like a grenade lobbed straight into your chest.
you clench your jaw. “don’t flatter me.”
“wasn’t trying to,” he says, shrugging.
you hate how much your heart stutters anyway.
things get worse before they get better. during a soundcheck, you argue so loudly the entire crew hears.
“how dense can you be?” you shout, throwing your arms up.
he rolls his eyes dramatically. “keep yelling. maybe you’ll fix the mic that way.”
you step right into his space, close enough that you could shove him if you wanted. (and you want.)
“god, you’re insufferable.”
he leans down, not backing away. not even a little.
“likewise,” he murmurs, low and dangerous.
for a second, the air between you crackles—not just with anger, but something hotter, sharper. you’re the one who flinches back first. you tell yourself it’s because you’re better than this. not because of whatever the hell just sparked under your skin.
you slam your lunch tray onto the table so hard the water bottle nearly topples over.
“who hurt you?” kazuha asks, amused, peeling the lid off her yogurt.
“guess,” you mutter darkly, stabbing your salad like it personally wronged you.
harua leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.
“if it involves a certain stage manager gig…” he says slowly.
you point your fork at him.
“ding ding ding.”
kazuha gasps dramatically.
“already? you’ve only been at it, what, two months?”
“three weeks,” you correct. “three weeks of pure hell.”
harua snorts. “let me guess. maki?”
you nearly drop your fork. “you knew?” you splutter.
harua shrugs like it’s obvious. “i tried to warn you! that’s why i bailed when nicholas asked.”
harua nods grimly. “yeah. we ran in the same circles for a while. he’s… a handful.”
“understatement of the year,” you mutter, stabbing a tomato viciously.
“what’s he doing now?” kazuha asks, swirling her spoon in her yogurt.
you groan, dropping your fork. “being an asshole for sport. like—he goes out of his way to make everything harder.”
kazuha tilts her head. “maybe he’s flirting.”
you nearly choke. “no,” you say firmly.
“trust me. there’s no flirt. just…insults. comments. side-eyes. every time i open my mouth he looks at me like i’m stupid.”
harua leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “he’s like that with everyone,” he says, more gently. “he doesn’t even realize half the time.”
“oh he realizes,” you snap. “he realizes and he enjoys it.”
kazuha hums thoughtfully. “maybe he’s just intimidated.”
you bark out a laugh. “of me?” you gesture to yourself. “please.”
“you’re scary when you want to be,” harua says mildly.
kazuha nods in agreement. “cute but terrifying,” she says brightly.
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling a little despite yourself. still—the frustration buzzes just under your skin. you pick up your sandwich, ready to launch into another rant—when a shadow falls over the table.
“talking about me again?”
you freeze mid-bite.
maki stands there, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable.
great. perfect. how much had he heard?
harua’s face shifts instantly—calm but cold.
kazuha presses her lips together like she’s fighting a smile.
you set your sandwich down carefully. “do you eavesdrop on everyone,” you say sweetly, “or am i just special?”
maki smirks lazily. “you’re very loud,” he says. “hard not to overhear.”
“maybe walk faster next time,” harua says under his breath.
maki glances at him, expression tightening slightly. but instead of arguing, he shrugs.
“don’t worry,” he says, looking right at you. “wouldn’t want to waste my precious time listening to that again.”
you feel your hands curl into fists in your lap. before you can think of a comeback, someone else calls out:
“oi, maki!”
nicholas comes jogging over, euijoo at his heels, both balancing plates of food.
maki straightens up a little as they approach, like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to.
“what’s going on here?” nicholas asks cheerfully, plopping his tray down next to yours.
euijoo raises an eyebrow at the tension in the air. “you guys fighting again?”
“technically,” kazuha says, smiling sweetly, “they weren’t fighting. they were complaining.”
“important distinction,” harua adds.
nicholas looks at maki. maki shrugs, looking bored.
“just passing by,” maki says.
“right,” euijoo says, dragging out the word.
nicholas claps maki on the back. “come sit,” he says.
maki doesn’t say anything right away, just slides into the seat across from you like he belongs there. nicholas barely glances up before launching back into conversation.
“man, i swear my professor fucking hates me,” nicholas says, waving a fork dramatically. “she gave me a 70 on my paper and said i was ‘too casual.’”
“maybe don’t start your essays with ‘yo, listen up,’” euijoo says dryly.
nicholas gasps. “it was creative writing!”
harua snickers under his breath. “creative doesn’t mean criminal.”
“it was an artistic choice,” nicholas insists, dramatically clutching his chest.
kazuha giggles, picking at her fruit cup. “i kind of wanna read it now.”
“i’ll sell copies,” nicholas says proudly.
“no one’s paying for that shit,” maki says, deadpan, finally speaking.
nicholas grins and flicks a piece of lettuce at him. “jealous.”
maki smirks but doesn’t argue, reaching lazily for a carton of chocolate milk from his tray.
it strikes you—how easy it is between them. no sharpness. no biting tension. just lazy, familiar teasing. kazuha glances at maki, curious.
“wait—you’re doing the showcase too, right? i don’t think we’ve met.”
maki glances up at her, pausing mid-sip. “yeah,” he says casually. “part of the band.”
he offers the smallest shrug—like it’s no big deal.
kazuha smiles. “welcome to the chaos.”
“already regretting it,” maki says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
you watch, almost disbelieving. he’s not cold with her. not cutting. just… normal. borderline polite, even.
“you’ll survive,” harua says, resting his chin on his hand.
maki scoffs. “barely.”
“rua only says that because he bailed,” kazuha teases.
harua shrugs, unapologetic. “self-preservation.”
“coward,” nicholas coughs.
“genius,” harua corrects him smoothly.
euijoo leans in. “you missed rua’s grand speech last week about how he’s ‘too emotionally fragile’ to handle backstage drama.”
“it wasn’t a speech,” harua protests.
“it was a single, dignified sentence.”
“and then you ran away,” nicholas says, laughing.
harua holds up two fingers. “peacefully withdrew.”
kazuha laughs so hard she almost drops her spoon. maki chuckles under his breath too—a real sound, not mocking—and leans back in his chair, looking genuinely amused.
you stare at your tray, picking at the corner of your sandwich. they’re all so relaxed.
he’s so relaxed.
but not with you.
with you, it’s a constant cold edge. a target painted on your forehead. you sneak a glance at maki.
he’s tossing grapes into his mouth, listening to nicholas and euijoo argue about whether anyone actually reads the club newsletter. his whole body language—slouched, loose, unbothered—is completely different than when he’s talking to you.
like you’re a switch that flips him straight into defensive mode.
you fold your hands in your lap tightly.
maybe it’s not him.
maybe it’s you.
you knew today was going to be hard.
yesterday at lunch, watching maki laugh and joke around with nicholas, harua, and euijoo, and even kazuha, who he didn’t even fucking know. easy, effortless smiles. teasing without any edge. soft nudges to the shoulder. head thrown back laughing at harua’s bad jokes.
he was… good with people.
friendly. warm, even.
and not once had he looked at you.
you told yourself not to overthink it.
you told yourself you didn’t care.
but the feeling had stuck to your ribs like glue.
so now, standing in the middle of the rehearsal hall with your clipboard clutched tight in your hands, you brace yourself for another day of pretending you’re fine.
the band is setting up. cables snake across the stage, the drum kit gleams under the spotlights, and your headset buzzes faintly against your ear. you’re double-checking the mic setup when maki wanders past you, twirling a guitar pick between his fingers.
“still here?” he says, voice light but sharp. “thought maybe you finally got tired of embarrassing yourself.”
you don’t even blink. you just finish taping down the mic cord and move to the next one, pretending you didn’t hear him.
maki frowns, slowing a little as he watches you.
normally, you’d have snapped something back by now. rolled your eyes. shoved him with your shoulder.
you don’t.
you just move quietly, efficiently, like he doesn’t exist. nicholas catches the shift first.
you see him glance between you and maki from where he’s setting up his drum kit, his brow furrowing slightly. euijoo notices next, pausing halfway through organizing his keyboard cables, his eyes wide and a little worried.
“mic three’s good,” you say into the headset, keeping your voice even. “moving on to bass line.”
you don’t look at anyone.
especially not maki.
for the rest of rehearsal, the pattern stays the same.
every time maki makes a comment—
“don’t trip over the cables, superstar.”
“maybe check the speakers this time, stage manager of the year.”
“you sure you’re not just pretending to know what you’re doing?”
—you don’t respond.
not with a glare, not with a joke, not even a glance. you keep your head down and your work clean, heart pounding way harder than it should.
at the end of rehearsal, as everyone’s packing up, you slip toward the equipment table, organizing spare batteries and gaffer tape with trembling hands. you hear footsteps behind you.
“hey,” nicholas says, voice low. “can we talk?”
you turn, forcing a neutral smile. “sure. what’s up?”
euijoo hovers just behind him, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.
nicholas crosses his arms. “you ‘kay?”
“yeah. fine,” you say automatically.
“you seemed… out of it,” euijoo says gently. “like… not you.”
you shrug, tapping a loose roll of tape against your palm. “just tired.”
nicholas gives you a look—the don’t lie to me one he’s perfected as the oldest. “it’s about maki, isn’t it?” he says.
your throat tightens. “no,” you lie, too quickly. “i mean, he’s always like that. i’m used to it.”
euijoo steps closer, voice soft. “y/n… you don’t have to be.”
you stare at the floor, feeling a lump form at the back of your throat. “he’s nice to everyone else,” you mumble. “maybe it’s just me he doesn’t like.”
nicholas exhales slowly, raking a hand through his messy red hair. “that’s not it.”
“then what is it?” you ask, finally looking up at them, voice cracking slightly. “because i’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me.”
euijoo’s face twists. he hates seeing you upset.
nicholas steps closer, squeezing your shoulder.
“you’re not the problem,” he says, firm and sure. “he’s just an idiot. we’ll talk to him if you want.”
“no,” you say quickly, wiping your hands on your jeans. “i don’t want it to be a big thing. i can handle it.”
euijoo hesitates, then nods slowly. “if you change your mind, we’ve got your back.”
you give them a small, real smile. it doesn’t fix everything, but it helps. a little.
out of the corner of your eye, you catch maki watching you from across the room. something tight in his jaw, something almost… uncertain.
you tear your gaze away before he can catch you looking.
you were getting better at pretending it didn’t bother you.
maki still kept his distance, and you still kept yours.
the comments had almost stopped altogether now—a quiet truce neither of you spoke about. around the others, you let yourself laugh, tease, exist. jo’s shy smiles, yuma’s loud jokes, euijoo’s constant encouragement—it all chipped away at the heavy weight in your chest.
but when it came to maki, you held the line.
it was easier that way.
especially now, with the showcase only two weeks away. no one had time for personal problems. rehearsals were full-speed, no breaks, no excuses.
today was supposed to be a full run-through. it started fine—a few minor hiccups you handled without blinking. but halfway through the set, one of the amps blew out, sending a horrible crackle through the sound system.
then the lights glitched.
then jo’s bass strap broke clean off mid-song.
it spiraled faster than you could stop it.
you scrambled between the stage and the tech booth, trying to fix one disaster after another while nicholas and euijoo did damage control. everyone was frustrated. you could see it—the tension tight in their shoulders, the way yuma shook out his hands, the way jo wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
you could feel it like a weight on your skin. when nicholas finally called it for the day—his voice rough with exhaustion—you were left picking up the mess. most of the others drifted out, dragging their instruments and gear behind them, murmuring tired goodnights.
you stayed behind, crouched on the stage, coiling cables and locking equipment cases.
your body ached.
your head throbbed.
you were halfway through unplugging a monitor when you heard footsteps.
you didn’t even bother looking up.
probably one of the crew, checking to see if you needed help. instead, someone cleared their throat awkwardly. you looked over your shoulder to see a crew guy—a second-year you vaguely recognized—holding a bag of takeout.
“uh… this is for you,” he said, a little confused.
he held the bag out like it might explode.
you blinked, slowly standing up and wiping your hands on your jeans. “me?” you said.
he nodded. “yeah. someone told me to give it to the stage manager. had your name on it.”
you frowned, confused. you didn’t remember ordering anything. but sure enough, when you took the bag, there was a folded piece of paper taped to it.
your name scribbled across it in messy handwriting.
no message.
no signature.
just your name.
you pressed your lips together, heart thudding a little too fast.
you didn’t open the bag right away. you just clutched it awkwardly, glancing around the hall.
nicholas was packing up his drums, laughing tiredly at something euijoo said.
jo had already disappeared, yuma’s guitar case slung over one shoulder.
maki was across the room, sitting on one of the amps, lazily scrolling through his phone.
no one looked at you. no one acted like they’d just sent you dinner. you frowned slightly, confused. the crew guy who’d given it to you had already disappeared too. you had no idea who it was from.
still, the bag was warm in your hands. and after the day you’d had, you weren’t about to turn down free food.
you finished packing up your things, tucking the takeout carefully into your backpack, and headed home without another word.
your apartment was dark when you stumbled through the door.
you didn’t bother turning on the lights—just dropped your stuff in the entryway and kicked off your shoes. the bag of takeout was still clutched in your hand, the smell hitting you properly for the first time. it made your stomach twist painfully—you hadn’t even realized how hungry you were.
you sat down on the floor right there, pulling the bag open with tired fingers. inside was a neatly packed container of food. nothing fancy.
your heart squeezed a little.
you dug deeper and found a small folded napkin tucked into the side of the bag. you opened it half-expecting another note, but it was blank.
just the napkin.
whoever sent it didn’t want you to know. they just wanted you to eat.
you blinked hard, throat tightening for a second before you forced yourself to breathe through it. you picked up the fork, scooping a bite of food into your mouth.
it tasted better than it had any right to. you sat there on the floor, tired but somehow a little less heavy, eating quietly in the dark.
no music. no noise.
just you.
and a silent, invisible kindness that you didn’t know how to repay yet.
it was monday. five days until the showcase.
and it felt like the world was balancing on a wire that could snap at any second.
nicholas was already behind his drum kit, twirling his sticks with a frown you weren’t used to seeing.
euijoo hovered by the keyboard, adjusting his settings over and over again.
jo sat cross-legged on the floor, tuning and re-tuning his bass.
yuma was pacing near the amps, muttering to himself.
and maki—
maki leaned against the wall with his guitar slung over his shoulder, arms crossed.
watching everything.
watching you.
you dropped your bag by the stage, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. you had a checklist a mile long:
mic checks, monitor levels, cable tests, backup batteries, light cues.
you hadn’t even taken your jacket off yet when maki’s voice cut through the hum of the room.
“you look like you’re about to cry already,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear.
you stiffened, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. you turned slowly, forcing a smile that felt glued to your face.
“good morning to you too, maki,” you said, voice light. because what else could you do?
he raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “just saying. if you break down before thursday, we’re screwed.”
“thank you for your concern,” you said sweetly, and shoved your bag under the tech table a little harder than necessary.
euijoo shot maki a look from across the room—subtle, but definitely annoyed.
nicholas banged his sticks together, trying to get everyone’s attention back. “alright,” nicholas said, voice a little too loud. “let’s run it from the top. we’ll do two full sets today if we can. no pressure.”
you swallowed hard and yanked your headset into place. you could do this. you had to do this.
still, even as you ran through your checklist, you could feel maki’s gaze lingering.
he wasn’t laughing.
he wasn’t smiling.
and for some reason, that made it worse.
you ignored him. you ignored everything but the work in front of you. but as rehearsal dragged on, the pressure built until you felt like your whole body was vibrating. one of the lights wouldn’t respond to the cue. the wireless mic kept cutting out. someone unplugged a monitor by accident.
and through it all, maki’s voice kept finding you.
“maybe if you actually knew what you were doing—”
“someone’s gotta teach you how to fix that faster—”
“at this rate, you’ll be the reason we bomb—”
each comment was like a pinprick under your skin.
small enough to brush off at first.
but they were stacking.
heavy.
nicholas called five. everyone scattered off. you and the crew got to fixing every fucking problem that went wrong, and five minutes turned into twenty-five minutes.
and just when you were calming down, here comes your favorite person on the whole fucking planet.
you don’t know what sets him off this time.
maybe you breathe wrong. maybe you blink at the wrong angle. whatever it is, maki latches onto it like blood in the water.
“didn’t realize clumsiness was a talent,” he says, after you accidentally drop a mic stand while resetting.
his voice is light, almost lazy—but every word lands like a slap.
nicholas mutters something under his breath from across the stage, trying to keep things moving.
euijoo flashes you an apologetic look.
jo and yuma awkwardly fiddle with their gear.
you pretend you don’t feel the heat crawling up your neck.
you keep working. and maki keeps going.
“seriously, at this rate, we’ll be lucky if the stage doesn’t collapse.”
your hands shake around the cable you’re coiling.
you force yourself to breathe evenly.
“maybe you should stick to handing out water bottles or something,” he adds, voice low and mocking.
you slam the cable down without meaning to.
it rattles loudly against the metal floor.
everyone stops.
the silence is thick and ugly.
your throat burns.
your vision blurs.
your whole body buzzes with rage and shame, a horrible mix you can’t untangle.
you don’t want to cry.
god, you don’t want to.
but the tears are already spilling over, hot and furious.
you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, humiliated.
“leave me the fuck alone,” you snap, voice cracking.
it sounds pitiful even to your own ears.
maki steps back like you hit him. he looks…wrong. not smug. not triumphant. just stunned. and maybe—for the first time—scared.
“chill, i didn’t—” he starts, but you cut him off.
“just shut up, maki,” you choke out, grabbing your things.
you push past him, bumping shoulders hard, and disappear backstage.
you lock yourself in a storage closet.
sit on a crate. bury your face in your hands.
it’s not just him. it’s everything.
the stress, the pressure, the way you’ve been trying so hard for so long just to be enough. and somehow maki always knows exactly where to dig the knife.
you breathe in shaky gasps, trying to wrestle yourself back under control. behind the door, you hear footsteps.
soft. hesitant.
a knock.
“…hey.”
you squeeze your eyes shut. “what,” you bite out.
pause.
“can i come in?”
you don’t answer. the door creaks open anyway.
maki steps inside, awkward and stiff, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. he closes the door gently behind him.
for a second, neither of you speaks.
then:
“i’m…” he clears his throat. “i’m sorry.”
you stare at him. not because you don’t believe him, but because you can’t remember the last time maki apologized for anything.
he rubs the back of his neck, not meeting your eyes. “i didn’t mean to— i wasn’t trying to—” he breaks off, frustrated. “you’re not useless,” he says finally, voice rough. “i was being a dick.”
you let out a bitter laugh, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve. “yeah. no kidding.”
maki flinches like you slapped him. he moves closer, then stops like he’s afraid of spooking you. “i’m not good at…” he gestures helplessly. “this. people. being…not an asshole.”
you snort, exhausted. “obviously.”
for a moment, you just stare at each other. the harsh fluorescent light hums overhead.
he looks wrecked—hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, shadows under his eyes. and he’s looking at you like you’re something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.
you don’t know what to do with that. so you look away.
he sits down on the floor in front of you, cross-legged. like he’s planting himself there and refusing to leave.
you don’t tell him to go.
after that, things shift.
slowly. awkwardly. like learning to walk after forgetting how.
maki still teases you. but it’s different now—lighter, edged with something almost fond.
you roll your eyes at him. but sometimes you smile too, against your will.
he starts carrying extra water bottles. tossing you one without a word during long rehearsals.
you start saving the good headphones for him. pretending it’s because he’s “too annoying to listen to otherwise.”
the others notice.
of course they notice.
euijoo nudges nicholas during meetings, grinning.
yuma whispers too loudly to jo, who giggles behind his hand.
you glare at them. maki flips them off without even looking up from his guitar.
and somehow—impossibly—it doesn’t feel bad.
it feels like breathing again.
you catch him friday night after everyone’s gone home, sitting on the edge of the stage, strumming quietly. you lean against the wall, arms crossed.
“you’re not terrible, you know,” you say.
he looks up, startled. then he grins—real and soft, not smug. “high praise coming from you.”
you roll your eyes. but your mouth twitches upward. you walk over, hesitating only a little before sitting next to him.
your shoulders brush.
neither of you move away.
you had thought the nerves would hit earlier. during soundcheck. or call time. or when you helped lay the last cable across the stage.
but somehow, it waited until now—ten minutes before showtime—to slam into you all at once.
you stood backstage, headset looped around your neck, hands clenched into fists at your sides.
your clipboard was tucked under your arm, crumpled and worn from how many times you’d flipped through it tonight. the band was huddled together a few feet away—nicholas twirling his sticks, euijoo stretching his fingers, jo tuning for the fifth time, yuma bouncing on his toes.
they looked nervous. but not like you. not like you were about to come apart at the seams.
you squeezed your eyes shut for a second, forcing yourself to breathe. you could do this. you had done all of this before.
rehearsals. tech runs. stage calls.
but this was different.
this was real.
“hey.”
you jumped slightly, snapping your eyes open. maki was standing in front of you, guitar slung across his back, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
he looked… calm. ridiculously calm.
“you good?” he asked, voice low enough that only you could hear.
you swallowed hard, forcing a nod. “yeah. totally. great.”
he tilted his head, studying you for a second longer than was comfortable. then he shifted his weight, glancing over his shoulder toward the others.
“you know,” he said casually, “you’re more stressed out than the people actually performing.”
you huffed out a weak laugh. “thanks. that makes me feel so much better.”
maki cracked the smallest grin—quick, barely there, but real. he stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.
“i’m serious,” he said. “you’ve already done everything. there’s nothing else to screw up now.”
you opened your mouth to argue—because there was always something that could go wrong—but he cut you off.
“you kept this whole thing from falling apart. rehearsals, equipment, keeping yuma from throwing his guitar at jo…” he paused, smirking when you let out a choked laugh. “you did that. you.”
you stared at him, thrown off balance. he never talked to you like this.
not before.
not even after everything that happened.
“why are you being nice to me?” you blurted before you could stop yourself.
maki shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. like he hadn’t spent the last two months making your life harder than it had to be.
“because you deserve it,” he said simply. “and because i don’t want you running off five minutes before we play.”
you rolled your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosened just a little. you hugged your clipboard tighter to your chest, trying to will yourself to believe him.
he bumped your shoulder lightly with his own.
“hey. look at me.”
you hesitated, then tilted your head up. his eyes—dark, sharp, familiar—were steady on yours.
“you’ve got this,” he said, softer this time. “seriously. we’re lucky you’re here.”
your throat tightened again, but not in the way it had earlier — not like you were about to cry.
this time, it felt different.
steady. grounding.
before you could say anything back, a stagehand waved from the wings, giving you the two-minute warning.
you blinked, snapping back into focus. you nodded sharply and turned toward the others, calling out the final checks. and just before he followed the rest of the band toward the stage entrance, maki paused.
he leaned in, voice low and teasing against your ear. “don’t cry from stress. i’ll laugh.”
you snorted, shoving him lightly toward the others. “shut up and go.”
he grinned—real and wide and easy—and disappeared into the shadows with the rest of them.
you stood there for a second longer, heart hammering, the weight in your chest finally lifting.
you weren’t alone in this. not anymore.
you adjusted your headset, squared your shoulders, and called the first cue.
the second they played the last chord, the stage lights dropped and the room exploded into cheers. you barely had time to process it before nicholas came barreling offstage, red hair plastered to his forehead, huge grin splitting his face.
“holy shit,” he gasped, immediately pulling you into a hug so tight you thought your ribs might crack. “we did it!”
“nico, juju, you killed it!” you laughed, patting his back as he swung you in a circle.
euijoo stumbled after him next, still catching his breath, his brown hair sticking up everywhere. he didn’t even say anything—he just leaned his entire body weight into you like a human pillow.
“i’m dying,” euijoo mumbled into your shoulder.
you laughed as you shoved him off lightly. “you guys were insane.”
“you sounded so good,” kazuha said, popping up beside you, practically bouncing in her sneakers. “like, i knew you guys were good, but that was insane.”
harua nodded, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie, a lazy grin on his face. “nicholas almost fell off his stool though.”
“i did not,” nicholas shot back, mock-offended. “i recovered. it’s called being a professional.”
“right, right,” harua teased, bumping his shoulder against yours. “very professional.”
you laughed, feeling the kind of high that only came after surviving something huge together. they were all sweaty, messy, loud—but they looked so happy it made your chest ache. you were about to say something when you felt someone step up beside you. you turned—and almost stumbled.
it was maki.
his black hair was pushed back, messy from the stage lights and sweat, his guitar slung carelessly across his back. he looked unfairly good for someone who had just screamed his lungs out for an hour.
for a second, he just stared at you. his hooded eyes unreadable, mouth set in a tight line.
“hey,” he said finally, voice rough.
“hey,” you echoed, feeling suddenly way too aware of yourself.
he shifted a little, like he was nervous. his fingers twitched against the strap of his guitar.
“i, uh,” he started, then stopped, glancing at nicholas and euijoo, who were pretending very badly not to eavesdrop.
he scowled and turned his attention back to you. “i just wanted to say… thanks,” he said, low. “for everything. like — really. we would’ve been screwed without you.”
you blinked, caught off guard by how serious he sounded. maki was many things — snarky, competitive, impossible sometimes — but he wasn’t fake.
“you guys did all the work,” you said, smiling a little.
he shook his head. “nah. you kept it together. even when i was… you know.” he grimaced slightly. “being an asshole.”
you laughed under your breath. “you were pretty bad.”
his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. then he ducked his head for a second, almost shy.
“so,” he said, kicking at the ground. “i was wondering if, maybe, after the after party… if you wanna go out with me?”
you barely had time to react before–
“she’s busy,” nicholas cut in loudly, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “busy going on a date with you.”
yuma, who had just wandered over, snorted so loudly it echoed backstage. “bro, you’re sweating more now than you were on stage,” he said, practically doubled over laughing.
maki turned bright red, glaring at them like he was weighing whether murder was a reasonable option. you bit your lip hard to keep from laughing—not at maki, but at how genuinely flustered he looked.
maki muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “i’m gonna kill them” before focusing back on you. his voice was quieter now, just for you. “i’m serious. do you wanna go out with me?”
you felt your heart skip in your chest—and this time, it wasn’t just the post-show adrenaline. you smiled—small, a little shy. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”
maki exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. his mouth pulled into this crooked, boyish smile that made your stomach flip.
“good,” he said.
nicholas and yuma immediately burst into obnoxious cheering, harua and kazuha high-fiving like they’d just witnessed history.
euijoo laughed quietly, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“this is so embarrassing for you,” yuma teased maki gleefully.
“shut up,” maki muttered without any heat, still looking at you like you were the only person in the room. “after party first,” he added, voice low, a little more confident now. “then our date.”
you grinned, your heart racing. “deal.”
and somehow, through all the noise and laughter and chaos of backstage, it felt like you and maki were standing in your own little world:
synopsis — one fall, one glance, and suddenly, the world reshapes itself around him.
you meet him on a thursday.
it’s not special—just another exhausting day of class and part-time work, the city blurring past you as you trudge home. you’re juggling your bag, your umbrella, and a bag of groceries when the heel of your boot catches on the curb and everything flies out of your hands.
you swear under your breath, dropping to your knees, trying to gather your apples before they roll into the gutter. that’s when another hand appears, steady and sure, scooping up your runaway fruit.
“careful,” a voice says, laughing softly.
you look up and see him.
he’s tall, with hair pushed back in a beanie and a sweatshirt a little too big for his frame. there’s something effortless about him, like he belongs to the world in a way you never have. but right now he’s crouched on the sidewalk, grinning at you like you’re the only interesting thing in the whole city.
you mumble a thank you, trying not to sound breathless. you reach for the apples he’s holding out to you, but he doesn’t let go right away.
“you okay?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners.
you nod, cheeks burning.
“good,” he says. “i was worried the apples were the real victims here.”
you laugh before you can stop yourself. it’s an awkward, startled sound, but he seems pleased.
“i’m yudai,” he says, standing and brushing off his jeans.
"y/n," you say and he repeats it under his breath like he wants to memorize it.
he ends up walking you to your building, groceries safely tucked under his arm. you don’t know why you let him—you should be more cautious—but something about him feels easy, trustworthy.
you part ways at the front door, but not before he asks if he can see you again.
you say yes. you don’t even hesitate.
your first “official” meeting is at a tiny art museum hidden between two office buildings. you didn’t know it existed until yudai texted you the location with a simple trust me.
you find him waiting by the entrance, hands shoved deep into his pockets, bouncing slightly on his heels like he can’t stand still. when he sees you, his face lights up like you’re the person he’s been waiting for his whole life.
he pays for your ticket without asking and leads you through the galleries like he’s been here a thousand times before. he stops at a huge canvas splattered with chaotic colors and stares at it thoughtfully.
“what do you see?” yudai asks you.
you tilt your head, squinting. “a mess.”
he laughs. “me too. but sometimes a mess is beautiful, right?”
you look at him then, the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way his head is tilted slightly.
yeah, you think. sometimes a mess is the best thing you’ll ever find.
you spend the afternoon like that, wandering from painting to painting, making up ridiculous backstories for the portraits, arguing over which sculptures look like they belong on an alien planet.
at some point, your hand brushes against his.
and then, like magnets, your fingers tangle together.
he doesn’t look at you. he just holds your hand tighter.
after that, you see him all the time.
sometimes he shows up outside your building with takeout and a grin.
sometimes he texts you a single word—coffee?—and you find yourself running down the street to meet him.
sometimes you don’t go anywhere at all. sometimes you sit on your floor, surrounded by empty snack wrappers, watching stupid tiktoks until you’re both laughing too hard to breathe.
you find out little things about him.
he loves tteokbokki.
he's athletic, but his dream is to be a singer.
he hums under his breath when he’s thinking, soft and almost tuneless.
you tell him little things too.
how you secretly like sad songs even though they make you cry.
how you used to dream of being a singer, too, but soon you realized your passion elsewhere.
how sometimes, when the world feels too heavy, you just want someone to sit with you and say nothing at all.
he listens like every word matters.
like you matter.
one night, months after that first clumsy meeting, you’re sitting on the rooftop of his apartment building.
it’s freezing cold, but neither of you cares. you’re wrapped in one giant blanket, huddled close enough that you can feel his heartbeat.
the city sprawls out below you, glittering and alive.
“i used to be scared of big cities,” you admit, your breath forming little clouds in the air.
“why?” yudai asks, voice low.
“too many people,” you say. “too easy to get lost.”
he’s quiet for a long moment. then he turns to you, his nose almost brushing yours.
“but getting lost led you here,” he says softly.
you don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s both of you—but suddenly he’s kissing you.
it’s gentle at first, like he’s asking permission.
then it’s deeper, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have.
his hands are in your hair, and yours are clutching the front of his hoodie, and the city blurs into nothing because all you can feel is him.
when you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“you scare me,” he admits, voice trembling.
you pull back slightly, startled.
“why?”
he smiles, small and broken and beautiful. “because i didn’t know it could feel like this. like… like i belong somewhere. like i belong with someone.”
you reach for his hand and squeeze it tightly.
“you do,” you whisper. “you do with me.”
yudai kisses you again, slower this time, like a promise.
days turn into weeks. winter melts into spring.
you and yudai build something small and quiet and strong—inside jokes whispered in crowded rooms, soft kisses on street corners, fingers intertwined beneath tables.
you argue sometimes—about stupid things, like whose turn it is to pick a movie or whether the fan should be on or off when one of you sleeps over. you argue sometimes about serious things—like yudai overworking himself or you distancing yourself when your mindset gets rougher—but you always manage to talk it through.
you fall in love without even realizing it.
you fall in love like breathing.
one afternoon, you find yourself lying on his couch, head in his lap, while he absentmindedly braids tiny sections of your hair.
he looks down at you and smiles, slow and dazzling.
“you’re my favorite adventure,” he says.
you laugh, batting at his hand. “that’s so cheesy.”
“yeah,” he agrees, grinning. “but it’s true.”
and you believe him.
because somewhere between spilled apples and stolen kisses, between rainstorms and rooftops, you stopped being scared of getting lost.
because with yudai, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
summer sneaks up on you.
one minute you’re tugging sweaters over your head and blowing on your frozen hands, and the next you’re lying on a blanket at the park, the sun painting everything gold.
yudai is stretched out beside you, one arm thrown lazily over his eyes to block the light. he’s humming again—something soft, something familiar—and you realize it's the same song he always hums when he's around you.
your heart feels too big for your chest.
you roll onto your side and poke his cheek until he peeks at you, pretending to be annoyed.
“what?” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.
“i was thinking,” you say, voice playful.
he raises an eyebrow. “dangerous.”
you laugh and poke him again.
“i was thinking,” you continue, “that you’re stuck with me now.”
yudai pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking at you with a seriousness that steals the air from your lungs.
“i’m not stuck,” he says. “i chose this. i chose you.”
you open your mouth to reply, but he’s already leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss so soft it feels like a secret.
and you know, in the center of your bones, that he’s not going anywhere.
synopsis — beneath an old willow tree, you and theo fall in love.
you meet taeyang beneath the old willow tree that crowns the hill behind your family’s farmhouse. it's a place stitched into the fabric of your childhood—a place for scraped knees and whispered secrets—but today, it feels different. the air hums with the heavy breath of late summer, and the sunset spills golden light across taeyang's face as he leans against the rough bark.
you wonder if he knows how beautiful he looks like that, with his arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, the way his dark hair catches the last glints of daylight.
“you're late,” he says, teasing, but there’s no real accusation in his voice. just warmth. just that boy you’ve known for what feels like forever.
you jog up the hill, a little breathless. “you're always early,” you shoot back, letting yourself fall onto the grass beside him.
he doesn’t say anything for a moment. you feel him watching you, and the weight of his gaze stirs something inside you that you don’t know how to name.
taeyang shifts closer. “i like waiting for you."
you glance at him, your chest tightening around the confession. there's something about the way he says it...
you should say something back, but the words catch in your throat. so instead, you bump your shoulder lightly against his. taeyang laughs under his breath, and the sound is the kind of thing you wish you could bottle up and keep with you forever.
the two of you sit there, side by side, as the sky fades from gold to violet to deep, endless blue. fireflies spark in the tall grass, and a chorus of crickets rises from the woods below.
it feels like a night for promises. for the kinds of words that don’t come easy.
taeyang lies back, arms folded behind his head, and you mimic him, staring up at the tiny pricks of starlight beginning to pierce the sky.
“you ever think about leaving?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile spell of the moment.
you turn your head toward him. his profile is all shadows and soft edges, beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache.
“all the time,” you admit.
he smiles without looking at you. “yeah. me too.”
you both fall silent, but there’s a different kind of electricity between you now, buzzing just beneath your skin.
“where would you go?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.
taeyang turns his head to meet your gaze. “anywhere you want,” he says.
the world tilts a little beneath you. maybe it’s the way he says it—steady, sure—like it’s the simplest truth in the world. or maybe it’s the way his hand finds yours in the dark, his fingers threading through yours like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.
you squeeze his hand back, heart hammering against your ribs.
maybe leaving wouldn’t be so scary, after all.
not if you had taeyang beside you.
the days that follow are the same as always—lazy afternoons spent sprawled out in the grass, secret glances exchanged across crowded rooms, long drives with no destination except away. with taeyang, everything feels lighter. easier.
sometimes you wonder if you’re dreaming; if you’ll wake up and find that this version of life, with all its golden edges and soft laughter, will have slipped through your fingers like sand.
but taeyang is solid and real, especially when he wraps his arms around you from behind, tucking his chin over your shoulder. especially when he presses a kiss to your temple like he’s claiming you for the thousandth time.
one evening, you find yourselves back under the willow tree, just like you have so many other nights.
taeyang lies on his stomach, sketching something into the dirt with a twig. you sit cross-legged beside him, weaving a crown out of the long, bendy willow branches.
he glances up and grins when he sees what you’re doing. “you look like a fairy,” he teases, reaching out to tug playfully on a strand of your hair.
you stick your tongue out at him and place the finished crown atop his head.
taeyang looks absolutely ridiculous—but somehow still heartbreakingly beautiful—with the lopsided wreath sliding down over one eyebrow.
“you're the fairy now,” you declare.
he gives you a mock-serious look. “i'll wear it if you kiss me.”
you laugh and lean in before he can say anything else.
taeyang meets you halfway, his hand finding your cheek, thumb stroking your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his mouth is warm against yours, soft but sure, and you lose yourself in the moment, in the taste of him, the smell of crushed grass and sunshine lingering on his skin.
when you pull back, you’re both smiling like idiots.
he presses his forehead against yours. "you're magic."
you close your eyes and just breathe him in. if this is magic, you think, then you don’t ever want the spell to break.
a week later, taeyang shows up outside your window at midnight.
you almost scream when you see the shadow moving, but then you recognize his familiar silhouette—messy hair, worn hoodie, hands shoved into his pockets—and your heart leaps into your throat for an entirely different reason.
you push the window open, hissing, “taeyang! what are you doing?”
he grins up at you, utterly unrepentant. “stealing you.”
you blink. “stealing me?”
“yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “come on. get dressed.”
you glance over your shoulder at your bedroom door; behind, the darkened hallway, where your family is sleeping, then back at taeyang.
there's mischief in his eyes, a spark you can’t resist.
five minutes later, you’re shimmying down the tree outside your window—something you haven’t done since you were twelve—and landing clumsily beside him. taeyang catches you with a soft oof, steadying you with both hands on your waist.
“hi,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
you let out a breath, cheeks burning. “hi.”
he grabs your hand and pulls you toward his truck, the two of you running barefoot through the dewy grass like fugitives.
taeyang drives with the windows down, the night air cool and sweet, whipping through your hair. he doesn’t tell you where you’re going, and you don’t ask. you just trust him.
you end up at a lake.
the stars are so thick overhead that they blur together into a shimmering river of light. the water stretches out in front of you, smooth and dark, reflecting the sky like a mirror.
taeyang kills the engine and hops out of the truck, jogging around to your side to open your door with a gallant little bow.
“my lady,” he says, and you roll your eyes but take his hand anyway.
you kick off your shoes and wander down to the edge of the lake. the grass is cold and soft beneath your toes, and the water laps gently at the shore.
taeyang stands beside you, so close that your shoulders brush.
without a word, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head, tosses it into the bed of the truck, and starts wading into the water.
you gape at him. “you're insane."
he glances back over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. “come on, scaredy-cat.”
you hesitate for half a second, then peel your own shirt off and follow him in, jeans and all.
the water is shockingly cold at first, stealing the breath from your lungs. you shriek and splash taeyang, and he laughs, diving under and coming up behind you to grab you around the waist.
you shriek again, struggling half-heartedly, but taeyang only holds you tighter, spinning you in the water.
you laugh so hard you almost forget to breathe.
when he finally sets you down, you’re both dripping, gasping, grinning at each other like fools.
taeyang cups your face in his hands, droplets of water rolling down his arms, and kisses you under the stars.
it's different this time—deeper, hungrier, like he’s pouring all of himself into you. and you kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his wet hair, your heart beating wildly against your ribs.
when you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads pressed together.
"i love you,” taeyang says suddenly, voice rough with emotion.
the world tilts again, but you don’t feel like you’re falling.
you feel like you’re flying.
“i love you too,” you whisper back.
you don’t know who moves first, but you end up clinging to each other, standing knee-deep in the cold lake, wrapped up in a love so big it feels like it could swallow the whole world.
and for the first time in your life, you believe in forever.
@astro-doll-the-star @soubeomies
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babe and baby are def his go-tos — babe more so than baby. he calls you sexy and mamas when he's feeling goofy. if you ever are ignoring him or don't hear him, he calls you in that order: "babe! baby? sexy? mamas? y/n? schnookums? pookie? apple of my eye?". . . etc.
THEO
٠࣪⭑ baby, sweetheart
honestly, i don't see taeyang as really being one for pet names? if you see him as that guy that's totes fine! but to me, he just doesn't give off that vibe. he'd probably just find some sort of nickname with your name, and if your name's too short, then baby and sweetheart would be likely. taeyang strikes me as someone who would be embarrassed to call you a pet name in public or in front of others, but if he were to use one, it would be baby: sweetheart is for behind closed doors where absolutely no one can hear. and he will deny ever calling you that. ever.
JIUNG
٠࣪⭑ honey, my love, darling
jiung is the sweetheart. he's just the cutest and the loveliest man to ever walk this earth. his pet names for you are very soft and the way he says them are just so pure and sweet and sweet and sweet and he's so sweet and ahhhhh. no but imagine it! y'all know that soft voice he has when talking to his chocochips AGH! HIM SAYING THESE WITH THAT VOICE?! dead.
INTAK
٠࣪⭑ baby, bubs, prince/princess
intak is also such a cutie, and i feel he's very romantic. bubs is probably his go-to, but baby is a close second. sometimes bubs is your name and baby is your nickname. similar to taeyang, i feel he would only call you prince/princess when it's just you two, almost like it's a secret nickname. ( it's his favorite but he's embarrassed. )
SOUL
٠࣪⭑ love, bubs
this cutie pie right here would come up with so many different names to call you. obviously i don't have that smart, cutie, unique brain of his, so i can't supply you with any of them, but just know that you're in for it with him. ( like how he calls keeho snucky. ) but on the 'normal' side of things, love and bubs were the first two that came to mind when i thought about nicknames.
JONGSEOB
٠࣪⭑ darling, angel, babe
he's young, but he's so sweet with pet names. jongseob also strikes me as someone who would be embarrassed to call you pet names in front of people, so he'd probably call you babe in front of the guys and anyone else. but he absolutely LOVES calling you darling and angel. ( he was plotting that shit before y'all even got together. ) angel is def his go-to, and he says it so delicately. <\3
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synopsis. you bump into a stranger on the street while trying to save a kitten.
“are you alright?” you hear a voice ask. the voice sounded soft, and when you turned to meet the stranger’s face, your assumption was true — the boy did look sweet.
“there's a kitten,” you say, sounding rather panicked. “it's on the road.” the boy looks to where you’re pointing. squinting slightly, he notices a tiny, white kitten on the small, yet busy street.
“i've been trying to call him over for minutes. he was almost hit by a car!” as you start to become more anxious, you bend down, your knees to your chest, and reach out your hand — rubbing your pointer and middle finger, trying desperately to call the kitten over.
luckily, the kitten starts getting closer towards you. the stranger had mirrored your position, and now you were both trying to get the kitten to come. when it had come a little closer, close enough to be grabbed, the boy reached over to grab the kitten. in the corner of your eye, you had noticed a vehicle coming by quickly, and in a panic, you pulled the boy back, landing on your back as the boy fell slightly onto you.
you're quick to regain yourself. “oh my god, are you okay?!”
the boy’s head is down, but he nods anyway. he turns to look at you, a smile growing onto his face. his arms lift up, revealing the tiny, white kitten. at the sight, you feel your own face begin to lighten with a smile.
“we saved it,” he says, gently caressing the kitten’s head. when you stand up, you reach out a hand to the boy, which he takes, and pull him up.
“thank you for helping...” you drag out, realizing you hadn’t asked for the stranger’s name. the kitten in his arms meows — reminding you of the soft-spoken boy in front of you.
“seungmin,” the boy replies, the same smile from before present on his face.
you nod, reciprocating the smile. “seungmin. that's a cute name. i've never heard of it before.”
seungmin laughs softly, his cheeks reddening. “i'm from korea.”
“oh, so you speak korean?” seungmin nods.
“why didn’t you say so?” you ask, switching to korean. in your high-school, it was mandatory to take a language, so you chose korean for the fun of it. you'd never thought it would benefit you later in life.
“oh?” seungmin's noticeably surprised and flustered by the sudden switch in language, but his shock is covered by that adorable smile of his.
“i'm y/n.” you smile at the boy, and he nods his head slightly.
“y/n. that's a cute name. i've never heard of it before,” he says, repeating what you had told him. you laugh at his words. he opens his mouth to say something, but the call of his name stops him.
“seungmin!” someone calls in a sing-song voice. the boy has dark brown hair, almost black, and he’s skipping over towards the two of you. beside him, a boy that looks rather meek.
you don’t fail to notice the way seungmin tenses slightly — as if he’s preparing himself for the seemingly hyper boy. when the other is close enough, you understand why seungmin reacted that way.
“seungmin ~ who’s your friend– is that a kitten?!” the boy hurries towards seungmin, reaching for the kitten. he's cooing, and talking to it in a high-pitched voice. you find it adorable.
you look up at seungmin, and he silently words an apology, but you smile at him, shaking your head. seungmin clears his throat and the boy backs away, though he’s still caught up on the kitten.
“jooyeon, hyeongjun, this is y/n.” seungmin gestures towards you, and you smile slightly, waving your hand.
the brunette’s attention is away from the kitten now, and you start to wonder how young he is.
“hello! i'm jooyeon! wait– do you speak korean?! seungmin introduced us in korean... you don’t look korean. is that offensive?” he rambles on.
“jooyeon,” the quiet boy, hyeongjun, says — placing a hand on his shoulder. jooyeon seems to get the memo, as he nods and smiles at you, returning his attention to the kitten.
“it's nice to meet you, too, hyeongjun.” you turn towards jooyeon. “and you, too, jooyeon.”
at your words, jooyeon's posture straightens, and he smiles brightly. seungmin and hyeongjun both notice this and simultaneously roll their eyes.
“okay, anyway,” seungmin attempts to change the subject, and to focus his attention on you, but another person joins the group.
“HEY! jooyeon! hyeongjun!” the voice yells, seemingly louder than jooyeon was. seungmin sighs, pursing his lips together into a pout — tiny dimples forming at the corners of his mouth.
“didn't realize this was a reunion,” he whispers under his breath, causing you to smile.
the kitten meows, pushing itself further into seungmin's arms, towards his inner elbow(?). petting it’s head gently, you disregard the loudness of seungmin's friends as you make small talk with him.
“i wonder if he’s a boy or a girl. then we can give him a proper name.”
seungmin nods, gently lifting the kitten into the air to check its gender. his lips pucker as his eyebrows furrow; eyes squinting slightly.
“a girl...?” he drags out. you laugh.
“i'll take your word on that.”
seungmin smiles, placing the kitten back in her original position, his eyes looking to you. he goes to say something, but hyeongjun interrupts.
“i don’t mean to interrupt, but we have to finish our schedule.”
seungmin nods, humming. “right.” he turns to you, smiling, and hands you the kitten.
“here, i'll give you my number and we can name her together later.”
“so i'm keeping her? i don’t remember agreeing to this,” you raise a brow, a soft smile on your face. seungmin smacks his lips, sucking in a breath as he brings his finger to his lips, and looks up — as if in deep thought.
“hm, i could’ve sworn we agreed to be her parents.”
you can’t help but let out a breath at his response. seungmin pulls his phone out from his pocket, unlocking it, and handing it to you with the contact form pulled up.
“i'll message you when i get back to my hotel.” you nod.
“see you sometime, y/n.”
“see you sometime, seungmin.”
as if on cue, the kitten meows at seungmin, causing him to laugh.
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synopsis. hyeongjun portrays his feelings through music.
the room is filled with gentle chords—the occasional piercing screech of fingers readjusting their position feeling your ears. melodies are strummed effortlessly, like they’ve been played countless of times before; flowing smoothly from one note to the next, leaving an almost somber feeling. it's typical for the heaviness of the world to be shown through his guitar—for the worries that have trotted into his mind to find their release through his melancholic tunes.
it's around five in the afternoon, and the sky casts a gray tint to the world, seemingly matching hyeongjun's mood. his bedroom light is off, and his curtains are opened for the light to pass through.
the melody, which had started as a slow-flowing pace, has increasingly sped up, the chords causing your body to become tense.
“wanna talk about it?” you watch from your spot on his bed, the comforter made perfectly underneath your body as your head is laid on his freshly washed pillowcase. he sits at his desk, the lower bout of the guitar facing towards you.
“hm?” the boy turns his head softly, his melody becoming rather syncopated. his eyes meet yours, and you notice his pursed lips; a sign of stress, but also a sign of focus.
“your strums sound sad,” you say, pointing to his guitar. “you only play sad tunes when you’re feeling upset.”
"oh.”
hyeongjun looks down at his guitar, running his fingers softly down the frets. he inhales shakily. “i don’t know how to talk about it.”
sitting up from your position in his bed, you tilt your head to look at him, reaching out to caress his shoulder. you can feel the tension in his body.
“it's okay to not know. talk to me through music.”
hyeongjun's head turns slowly. he gulps, nodding. so, you pull your hand back, watching as hyeongjun gathers his thoughts. Inhaling deeply, he positions his fingers in their starting positions, strumming the first chord.
the same tune from before starts, but this time the build-up is different, and he seems more into it—like he’s sure of the emotions he’s feeling. when he reaches the end, he gulps again, looking up at you with quivering lips. your eyes meet, and you stand to hug him. he places his guitar against his desk, and embraces you tightly, breathing heavily into your chest.
“i'm sorry,” he cries, his tears soaking through your shirt. his grip around you tightens.
“don't be, hyeongjun. please don’t be sorry.” you rub his back as the room is filled with broken sobs.
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synopsis — things have seemingly not been going your way, and it's all beginning to take a toll on you. a stranger lends you some comfort and support.
lost your job because you stood up for yourself. your cat ran away. your nail broke. everything's going perfectly fine for you. haha. how could things end up being this terrible?
you sigh, leaning your head back against the wall of your bathtub. a nice bath would get your mind off of things, right? oh, how wrong were you.
the silence was actually making you think more of it. besides, bath time was usually when your cat would climb up and accompany you.
there is no cat.
"fuck this," you groan, draining the bath water and stepping out of the tub—goosebumps forming onto your skin upon feeling the brisk air touch your skin. throwing your sweatshirt over your greasy hair, as well as some black puma joggers. facing the mirror above the sink, you take in your appearance; stressed.
eye bags, chapped lips, acne. every worst possible feature. things are surely looking up for you.
gripping the sides of the counter, your head hangs low as you desperately fight the urge to cry. the silence overtakes you again once the water finishes draining.
gulping, you grab your phone to check the time: 12:34am. you shove your phone in your pocket and make your way towards the front door.
you don't know how long you've been walking, but it must've been a while because you find yourself at a park. it's obviously empty at this hour. a single streetlight is keeping the park awake.
reaching the swing-set, you sit on it slowly, the dampness felt through your joggers, but you didn't care. sighing, you slouch as your feet move the swing slightly, never leaving the ground.
it's quiet, but the soft sounds of the wind rustling through the trees is relaxing; therapeutic. closing your eyes, you inhale deeply, releasing a shaky breath.
"you seem stressed."
the voice catches you off guard, your eyes opening quickly. you see the stranger, a man, walking towards you, and take a seat in the swing next to you. his presence is oddly comforting.
"it must be something that was bothering you all day," he says, staring off at whatever was in front of him. he sighs, pursing his lips into a smile as he turns to you; small dimples on display. "when i have days like that, i always remember the saying 'everything happens for a reason.'"
your eyes search his. the dim light from the streetlight allows you to make out most of his face, but it's still hardly visible. his eyes, seemingly dark, hold sincerity. everything happens for a reason.
"whatever happened to you, whatever's been in your head all day, there has to be a reason for it. things don't just happen just to happen."
you hum, leaning onto the chain of the swing. he's looking out again.
"i like to think that our lives are already planned out. that every decision, every obstacle, every... path you cross with others, it was destined. fate, i guess." he turns to you. "like now. here we are, in an empty park, at god knows what time, just talking. what are the odds we both found ourselves at the very same park?"
he smiles after noticing your hesitation. inhaling through his teeth, he leans back into the swing. "i talk too much."
"no," you say, fiddling with the part of the swing that attaches to the chain. "i like hearing you talk. your voice is comforting." he lets out a breath.
"i'm y/n," you say, reaching out a hand. the boy looks at you, the same smile from earlier present on his face. he takes your hand. "jungsu."
"well, jungsu," you start, grabbing your phone from your pocket and opening spotify. "let's let whatever's bothering us subside for now. if everything happens for a reason, then us listening to taylor swift at 1:58am must mean something, right?"
jungsu laughs at your remark. his laugh has so much life in it. "yeah, definitely."
you shuffle your swiftie playlist and toss your phone in the rocks between you and jungsu. gripping the sides of the swing, you rock back and forth.
"i bet i can go higher than you."
jungsu scoffs. "you're on."
and you laughed and talked until the sun joined you both.
it's been two weeks since everything happened, and you're desperately trying to find a new job, and your cat.
you've sent out so many fliers, and every night you walk around calling for him, but he's nowhere.
and your job hunting is getting nowhere. you've saved up the money to set up your own hair salon, but there are no places available for rent, or to buy. working with others isn't an option, obviously. seriously, how did you manage to get yourself in this predicament? you had one fall out with your coworker, and now no one wants to hire you.
groaning, you toss your phone onto your bed. a knock on your door, interrupts your thinking. walking out of your room towards the door, you open the door as they knock again.
"i'm coming, damn, who is it-?"
jungsu?
"hello, i saw your fliers. i found this. . . cat. y/n?"
your eyes shift to his arms. coco.
"coco! oh my goodness! my baby!" you take coco from jungsu's arms and cradle him closely towards you.
"thank you so much, jungsu. i've missed him so much."
jungsu smiles. "yeah, of course. is he the reason you were upset that night?"
you nod. "part of it." he stands there awkwardly. "would you like to come in?"
"if you don't mind."
you motion for him to come in, and lead him towards the kitchen. he takes a seat at your barstool.
"would you like something to drink? eat?"
"water?"
you nod, fixing him a glass. "so, how've you been? have you fixed the thing that was bothering you?"
he nods, placing the glass down onto the counter. "yeah, things worked out for me. i didn't think being in a band would be that enjoyable."
"oh? a band?"
"long story, but it wasn't my plan to be in one. but like i say, everything happens for a reason-"
"-everything happens for a reason," you overlap.
jungsu smiles. "have you been thinking that way?"
"trying to. it must be true, though, because my cat running away brought us back together again."
"cheers to coco."
you laugh. "cheers to coco."
"what do you do? as a job?"
you sigh, placing coco on the ground, and leaning against the counter.
"should i have not brought that up? i'm sorry."
"no, it's fine. i used to work as a hair stylist, but a lot of shit went down, and now i'm trying to start my own salon, but things aren't working out too good."
"salon?" he asks. "my friend wants to start a salon, but she doesn't have anyone else to help with her."
his eyes widen, a smile on his face. "hey! maybe you could work with her?! i could message her about you, and even give you her number."
"seriously?! you would do that?!"
"obviously. what are friends for?"
you roll your eyes, your smile widening. are you friends?
"i'll do it under one condition, though: you have to dye my hair on my first visit."
you raise a brow, crossing your arms. "that's it?"
"and, you have to accompany me on a date this weekend. if you're free, of course." jungsu smiles, leaning forward slightly.
you bite your lip to try to hide your smile, but ultimately give up once you feel your cheeks heat up.
"okay, deal."
"all right!" he yells, high-fiving you. "can i schedule my appointment now?"
"jungsu, the salon isn't even open."
"there's gonna be a line of costumers. i want to be the first one!"
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