not a question but ive read all your tubatu fics and i wanted to drop by and tell you how well written it is! i absolutely love every single one of them ☝️ literally thank you for publishing those !!
will be patiently waiting for more ❤️🩹 love u ^^
okay i have been heavily slacking lately and just lurking on here so seeing this truly has given me motivation
thank you so much for ur support, it truly does make an impact on me and i promise a new fic will be out soon ❤️
Of course this would not be a true appreciation post if we did not mention all of the nominated writers and fics that we received. Here are all the fics and writers you guys sent in, listed in no particular order! Happy new year to moablr and thank you to all the writers and readers on here ❤️
The Terrible Half-Truths Of The Undead King by @hyukascampfire
Love, In Translation by @filmsbyun
Next Exit: Mine by @kaimerae
Rope Burn by @hyukascampfire
Newfound Discoveries! by @fairyofshampgyu
Metamorphosis by @filmsbyun
I'll See You There Tomorrow by @gyuzies
Equilibrium by @taexual
Unfiltered by @izzyy-stuff
Spilled Milk by @soobvns
To: Someone From A Warm Climate by @hyukascampfire
Criminal Conscience by @beomiracles
The Truce Of The Chois by @beomiracles
Equilibrium by @taexual
Out Of Tune by @heejamas
Mirror, Mirror On The Wall by @filmsbyun
A Bookworm's Guide To Smut by @tyunningism
Play with me by @izzyy-stuff
1980s Horror Film by @heejamas
Meet Me In Montauk by @biteyoubiteme
Foxy by @yourfavtangerine
Kiss List by @tyunningism
Assigned To You by @cbeargyu
Upside Down Kiss by @gyuuberryy
On Hiatus by @fairyofshampgyu
No Fair by @allbeoms
When The Night Comes by @cursedhvn
Clementine by @niningtori
Best Friend's Brother by @starstrucktae
By A String by @delugyu
Best Friends Are For Kissing by @izzyy-stuff
Rope Burn by @hyukascampfire
Bro, you good? by @gyuuberryy
Ultraviolence by @beomiracles
Lane Seven by @nanilis
Thread The Line by @urfavmaknae
Fuck Me Like You Mean It! by @tyunningism
Next Exit: Mine by @kaimerae
The Troubles Of Choi Beomgyu by @beomiracles
How To Hex A Heart by @heesmiles
Back For More by @faeyun
Of Snow And Shattered Wings by @beomiracles
The Virgin Formula by @tyunningism
Blood In The Water, Everyone Wants Her by @dr-solomon
Things You Do That They Find Attractive by @markbigdicklee
We want to thank all the writers on here once again, this would have never been possible without you!
summary: in which joining your uncle on tour as part of TXT’s crew leads to late nights, playful chaos, and an unexpected connection with the group’s quiet leader.
w/c: 13.5k
warnings!!!: light swearing, idol industry pressures, slowburn pining
a/n: tbh i completely forgot about this for like 5 days and then spent 2 hours debating on what to name it, kinda same au as thread the line, mixed thoughts on this one, yes ik the text colour doesnt rlly match but i have set colours for each member now and im not changing it
The first thing I noticed was how loud the building was.
Not in a bad way, not even in a way that made me want to turn around and leave, but in the kind of way that told me people lived here. Laughter carried down the corridor, broken up by bursts of singing—off-key, and dramatic enough that I half-wondered if someone was doing it on purpose. Sneakers squeaked against polished floorboards. Somewhere, a door slammed.
“Don’t look so nervous,” my uncle said beside me. He was the one who had pulled me into this, after all. Tour manager, career workaholic, and apparently convinced that bringing his niece along to help the staff team would be a great idea. “They’re just kids.”
I wasn’t sure “kids” was the right word for one of the biggest boy groups in the country, but I didn’t say that out loud.
Instead, I clutched the clipboard he’d shoved into my hands like it was armour and followed him into the rehearsal room.
—
The first impression of TXT was motion. They didn’t sit still, even when they were resting. Beomgyu was hanging half off a folding chair, feet kicking the air. Hueningkai bounced a basketball against the wall with one hand, phone in the other. Yeonjun stretched dramatically across the floor, whining about sore muscles in a tone that made Taehyun roll his eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck.
And in the middle of it all was Soobin—tall, neat, folded into himself in a way that looked almost practiced. He was scrolling his phone, expression unreadable, though he glanced up the moment the door opened.
“Everyone, this is my niece,” my uncle announced, ushering me in like I wasn’t seconds away from bolting. “She’ll be around for the tour, helping the staff. So behave.”
That last part earned him a chorus of groans and laughter.
Yeonjun sat up immediately, grinning wide. “Welcome! Don’t worry, I’m the only one you need to watch out for.”
“That’s a lie,” Beomgyu said, pointing at him like he’d just exposed a criminal. “You’re the worst.”
“Hyung, you’re definitely the worst,” Hueningkai chimed in, tossing the basketball straight up and catching it again without looking. “You made us practice that dance three extra times yesterday.”
“That’s called leadership.”
“That’s called torture,” Taehyun corrected flatly, earning another round of laughter.
I couldn’t help it—I smiled. The energy in the room was chaotic, but it wasn’t unkind. If anything, it felt like walking straight into the middle of a family argument that was more love than conflict.
—
Introductions blurred. Beomgyu cracked a joke about my clipboard making me look scarier than the manager. Hueningkai asked if I liked basketball before Yeonjun cut him off to insist I liked him more. Taehyun, ever the straight-man in the comedy routine, warned me not to let them distract me from “actual work.”
And through it all, Soobin stayed quiet.
Polite. He nodded when my uncle said my name, even offered a quick smile when everyone else was talking over each other. But it was restrained, the kind of courtesy you’d give a stranger on an elevator. Not cold, exactly, but measured. Careful.
It shouldn’t have stood out, not with so much else happening. But somehow it did.
—
While the choreographer called the boys back to the floor, I hung by the wall with the other staff, pretending I was comfortable. Clipboard clutched, pen tapping against the edge. The music started up again, heavy bass filling the room, and they moved into formation.
That was when it happened.
Soobin’s eyes flicked up—just for a moment, just in between counts—and landed on me. Not a quick glance, not the absentminded sweep of the room he’d done before. It lingered. A fraction too long, enough to make me wonder if I’d imagined it, enough to make my chest tighten with something I couldn’t name.
Then he looked away. Perfectly composed, leader mask firmly in place.
And I told myself it was nothing. Just awareness. Just habit. Nothing at all.
Except… it didn’t feel like nothing.
—
By the end of rehearsal, I’d learned two things.
One: TXT were exactly as loud and funny as they seemed from the outside, maybe more.
Two: Soobin was polite, reserved, and for reasons I didn’t want to examine, impossible not to notice.
Tour prep moved fast. Too fast. Days blurred into nights, and before I knew it, the rehearsal space and backstage corridors had become a second home.
At first, my role was small: stand quietly beside my uncle, hand over the clipboard when asked, keep out of the way. But slowly, inevitably, I was pulled into the rhythm of things. Someone needed help tracking set lists, so I scribbled notes. Someone misplaced a water bottle, so I found another. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough to make me part of the scenery.
Part of their scenery.
And with TXT, scenery never stayed unnoticed for long.
—
The first real test of that came backstage.
I’d been stacking empty cups when Beomgyu spotted me and lit up like he’d discovered a new toy. “Hey! You're the manager’s niece, right?”
I nodded cautiously.
“Do you like pranks?”
Before I could answer, Yeonjun appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm dramatically around Beomgyu’s shoulders. “Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to recruit you. That’s how it starts—first a prank, then a lawsuit.”
Beomgyu shoved him off. “Hyung, you literally started half of them!”
“And look where it got me. International stardom.” Yeonjun smirked, striking a ridiculous pose that earned an eye-roll from Taehyun, who was half-listening from the corner.
“More like international embarrassment,” Taehyun muttered.
Hueningkai nearly choked on his snack laughing, crumbs spraying the floor. Beomgyu pointed triumphantly. “See? Even the baby agrees!”
“I’m not a baby,” Hueningkai said around a mouthful, still grinning wide. “But he’s right, you do embarrass yourself a lot.”
Yeonjun gasped, clutching his chest. “Mutiny. Betrayal. My own members turning against me.”
The whole exchange was so ridiculous I couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out. Beomgyu noticed instantly.
“There! She laughed. I win.”
“You win what?” I asked, still smiling.
He paused, eyes narrowing like he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh… the satisfaction of being right?”
“Groundbreaking,” Taehyun deadpanned.
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh again.
This was what it was like around them—loud, chaotic, but never mean. I found myself lingering longer than I meant to, clipboard forgotten somewhere in the corner.
—
Soobin, though, was different.
He was there. Always there—quietly efficient, following the schedule, helping where he could. But while the others pulled me into their noise, Soobin kept his distance. He wasn’t rude, never cold, just… reserved. A polite nod when our paths crossed, a brief smile when thanks were exchanged.
Sometimes it felt like he was actively avoiding me.
Like earlier, when Beomgyu tried to drag me into a card game and Soobin suddenly decided the vending machine at the far end of the hall needed his attention. Or when Yeonjun offered me a seat beside him, and Soobin quietly shifted further down the bench. Subtle things. Easy to miss if I wasn’t paying attention.
But I noticed.
Which only made it worse when he failed to avoid me.
—
It happened at rehearsal. The choreographer had stopped the group mid-song, pointing out adjustments, and in the shuffle Soobin’s mic pack came unclipped. He tried to fix it himself, but the cord tangled, twisting against the back of his shirt.
Before I thought twice, I stepped forward. “Hold still.”
He froze. I reached up, careful not to brush too close, and untangled the wire with quick fingers. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just practical. But when I clipped the mic back in place and stepped back, our eyes met.
For a second too long.
Something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or something softer he didn’t mean to show. And before I could name it, he looked away, shoulders stiff, face smoothing back into neutrality.
The choreographer clapped, dragging everyone’s attention back to the dance. The music started again.
But my hands still tingled where they’d brushed the wire, and my chest felt tight with the weight of a moment I wasn’t supposed to notice.
The rehearsals stretched late into the evening, the arena empty except for the low hum of stage lights and the soft echo of movement across the polished floor. Most of the crew had packed up for the night, but she lingered, stacking cables with her uncle while the boys wound down. Beomgyu was strumming a half-tuned guitar, Yeonjun and Hueningkai were arguing over a video game sprawled across the couch, and Taehyun sat cross-legged on the floor, calmly scrolling through his phone.
Soobin was on the other side of the room, head bent over a sheet of stage notes. From a distance, he looked composed — focused, quiet — but his eyes betrayed him every now and then. He’d look up, just for a second, to where she crouched by the monitor rack, holding a roll of tape between her teeth as she wrestled a stubborn cable into place. His gaze lingered too long before he caught himself and looked away.
He told himself it was just awareness — a leader making sure everyone was working safely, keeping track of the crew. But that reasoning felt thinner each time. Especially when she laughed at something Beomgyu said, that unguarded sound echoing off the walls. He found himself smiling without meaning to.
When the clock edged past ten, most people had already left, and the arena grew quieter. Her uncle was still somewhere backstage finishing up a call, and she sat on the edge of the stage, swinging her legs over the side. The others had filtered out — Yeonjun’s loud voice faded down the corridor, Beomgyu’s laughter trailing behind.
Soobin noticed he was the only one left inside.
He could’ve left too. Should’ve. But instead, his feet carried him toward the stage.
“Long night,” he said softly, the words sounding rough in the stillness.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Guess I’m getting the full behind-the-scenes experience.”
He hesitated, then climbed up beside her, careful to keep a comfortable distance. The seats stretched out before them like a dark ocean — thousands of empty chairs waiting for noise, for life.
“You don’t find it… overwhelming?” he asked after a moment.
She shrugged lightly. “It’s a lot to take in. But kind of amazing too. I’ve never seen what it’s like before a show — all the work that goes into it.”
He nodded, eyes fixed ahead. “It used to scare me. All those empty seats. You can feel them even before anyone’s there — like they’re watching, waiting for you to be enough.”
She turned to look at him. “You don’t still feel that way, do you?”
His lips curved faintly. “Sometimes. But once the lights come up, it’s easier to pretend it’s just about the music. Like it’s not me they’re looking at.”
“I think it’s you too,” she said quietly.
Soobin blinked, thrown off by the softness in her tone. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t — just looked back out into the dark. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, though. It was steady. Familiar somehow.
She leaned back on her hands, gazing up toward the ceiling lights where tiny motes of dust shimmered in the glow. His eyes drifted toward her again — the way her hair caught the light, the relaxed curve of her mouth.
He shouldn’t have been looking. He knew that. But he couldn’t seem to stop.
When she shifted slightly, her hand slipped closer to where his rested against the edge of the stage. It wasn’t intentional — just a natural move — yet somehow their fingers brushed. A feather-light touch. Barely there.
He froze.
The contact lasted less than a breath, but it burned all the same. A quiet spark of something that he shouldn’t want — that he already did. He didn’t pull away immediately, caught in the strange stillness of it, the way the world seemed to shrink down to that single point of contact.
Then he drew back, pulse unsteady. “I should—uh—grab my bag,” he murmured, standing too quickly.
She looked over, a small flicker of surprise — maybe something else — before she nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
He turned away, trying not to think about how that tiny, meaningless touch had felt like too much.
And maybe, deep down, how part of him already wanted it to happen again.
The morning after rehearsal was all fluorescent lights and half-finished coffee cups. Everyone looked tired but wired, that strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline that always clung to the start of tour season.
Her uncle had been darting between calls since dawn, leaving her stationed near the dressing rooms with a clipboard that wasn’t technically her responsibility but somehow ended up in her hands. The crew moved in and out in short bursts — stylists with armfuls of clothes, makeup artists with brushes tucked behind their ears, staff with headsets murmuring into mics.
And in the middle of it all stood Soobin, tall and calm, except for the way his fingers tapped restlessly against a paper cup.
She hadn’t spoken to him since the night on stage — the near-touch, the quiet conversation that had hung between them like something fragile. He’d been polite since then, his usual careful self, though there was something different now. Every glance carried a hesitation that hadn’t been there before.
Her uncle’s voice broke through the noise. “Hey, could you grab the coffee order from the truck outside? Soobin, you go too — make sure it’s the right one, please.”
And just like that, the universe seemed to have a sense of humour.
Soobin blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Sure.”
She stood, smoothing down the hem of her hoodie. “Alright.”
The air outside was sharp with morning chill. The sun hadn’t fully burned through the clouds yet, and the car park was still half-shadowed. They walked side by side in silence, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.
Soobin cleared his throat softly. “You didn’t have to come. I could’ve—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupted lightly, glancing at him. “I needed some air anyway.”
He nodded, eyes forward. They reached the catering truck, exchanged quiet greetings with the barista, and waited for the trays to fill. The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. There was something almost peaceful about it — the calm before the noise of the day.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked finally.
He huffed a small laugh. “A little. You?”
“Barely,” she admitted. “I kept thinking about everything that needs to be done. I don’t know how you guys do this all the time.”
Soobin glanced at her then, eyes softening. “You get used to it. Or maybe you just stop thinking about how tired you are.”
“Not sure that’s comforting.”
He smiled faintly — a small, real one that reached his eyes for the first time all morning. “Maybe not.”
They loaded up the drink trays carefully. When she reached to grab one, her sleeve brushed against his arm. The brief touch made her stomach twist — a reminder of that night on stage. She didn’t look up, afraid he’d catch the expression she couldn’t quite hide.
But he’d already frozen, gaze fixed on the ground. He wanted to say something — anything to break the strange gravity between them — but his mind felt scattered. She wasn’t supposed to be someone he noticed like this. She was part of the tour. His manager’s niece. Off-limits in every way that mattered.
Still, he found himself watching the way her hands steadied the cups, the small crease of focus in her brow.
“Careful,” he murmured, reaching out instinctively when one of the trays tilted. His hand covered hers before he could stop himself.
They both froze.
The warmth of his touch was immediate — grounding, familiar, dangerous. The world narrowed to the space between them, the quiet rush of breath, the sound of the generator humming behind the truck. Her eyes met his, and for one suspended heartbeat, it felt like the air itself had gone still.
Then someone’s voice called out across the lot — Yeonjun’s, loud and oblivious. “Hey, are you two gonna bring that coffee before it freezes out here?”
They jumped apart instantly.
“Coming!” she shouted back, voice a touch higher than usual. Soobin busied himself with straightening the tray, avoiding her gaze completely.
The walk back was silent again, but this time it wasn’t easy. Every step felt like it carried something unspoken — something that neither of them had the courage to name.
When they reached the door, she handed him one of the trays and offered a small, polite smile. “Thanks for the help.”
He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. No problem.”
He watched her disappear into the hallway before letting out a quiet exhale, pressing a hand to the back of his neck.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not from something so small. Not from her.
But it did. And that terrified him more than he could admit.
By the end of the week, she had somehow become part of the furniture.
Not literally — though Beomgyu did joke once about reserving her a chair in the dressing room — but in the quiet, everyday way people stop feeling like guests. She’d learned where the backup chargers were hidden, which vending machine actually worked, and how to tell when Yeonjun was about to start another dramatic monologue just by the sound of his sigh.
Her uncle had been roped into back-to-back production meetings, which meant she floated between the crew and TXT most days. It wasn’t intentional; she just had a way of filling empty spaces.
“Here,” she said one afternoon, passing Hueningkai a pack of tissues as he sneezed for the third time.
He looked up, eyes watery. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“She’s the only reason we survive on tour,” Taehyun muttered, deadpan. “Last week she found my missing earpiece in a shoe.”
Beomgyu gasped. “Wait— you were the one who rescued it from my sneaker?”
She groaned. “You’re welcome?”
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Soobin, perched quietly on the arm of a couch, felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
He tried not to let it show too much.
She’d slipped so naturally into their rhythm that it scared him sometimes — the way she softened the edges of the group, balanced their chaos. He’d catch himself scanning for her without meaning to, tracking the sound of her voice between conversations.
It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone else. Or so he thought.
“Hyung,” Beomgyu said later, eyes narrowing over the top of his phone. “You’re doing it again.”
Soobin blinked. “Doing what?”
“Looking at her like she’s a lost puppy you’re trying not to adopt.”
Yeonjun, sprawled upside down on the couch, burst out laughing. “Oh my god, he is.”
“I’m not—” Soobin began, flustered, but Beomgyu cut him off.
“Sure. Totally. You just happen to know her favourite snack, her coffee order, and that she bites her lip when she’s nervous—”
Soobin froze.
Beomgyu’s grin widened. “Oh, you didn’t think I noticed that?”
He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words tangled up somewhere between denial and panic. He glanced toward her instinctively — she was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Hueningkai, laughing over some video. Completely unaware of the quiet interrogation happening behind her.
“I pay attention to everyone,” Soobin muttered finally.
“Right,” Beomgyu said, unconvinced. “Because you definitely stare at me like that when I’m nervous.”
Soobin threw him a flat look. “You’re never nervous.”
“Touché,” Beomgyu said with a smirk, settling back. “Still. Just saying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our leader’s got a crush.”
“Beomgyu,” Taehyun warned from across the room, without even looking up. “Don’t start.”
“What? I’m just observing!”
Yeonjun laughed again. “You live for chaos.”
Beomgyu shrugged, grinning. “Someone has to keep things interesting.”
Soobin groaned quietly, rubbing his temple, but the teasing stayed light — nothing mean, nothing sharp. Still, his stomach felt like it was tied in knots. The idea of anyone noticing — of her noticing — made his chest tighten.
He slipped out a few minutes later, mumbling something about checking schedules, though really he just needed a breather. The hallway outside was cool and dim, lined with posters from past tours. He leaned against the wall and exhaled.
Maybe Beomgyu was exaggerating. Maybe he was just being a good leader — making sure she was settling in, looking out for her because she was new. That’s what he told himself. Over and over.
But then she appeared at the end of the corridor, holding two bottles of water.
“Hey,” she said, walking toward him. “You looked like you needed one.”
He blinked, startled. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” she said simply, pressing the bottle into his hand. “You take care of everyone else. Someone should return the favour.”
He looked down at the bottle, then at her. There was a warmth behind her words — nothing romantic, not exactly, but gentle in a way that made it hard to breathe.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“No problem.” She smiled, starting to turn away before hesitating. “Oh, and… maybe don’t let Beomgyu bully you too much. He’s just bored.”
Soobin blinked. “You heard that?”
“Hard not to,” she laughed, tapping her ear. “Thin walls.”
He flushed immediately. “Right.”
Her grin widened. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s sweet. The way you notice things.”
Soobin opened his mouth, then closed it again, entirely at a loss for words. She gave a small wave before walking off, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and the bottle still cold in his hand.
The teasing didn’t matter. The logic didn’t matter.
He could deny it to himself all he wanted — but something inside him had already shifted.
The hotel was quiet in that way that only tour nights could be — heavy with exhaustion but alive underneath, like the city outside was still breathing against the glass. Down the hall, muffled laughter leaked from Beomgyu and Yeonjun’s room. Someone’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. The air smelled faintly of fabric softener and room service fries.
You’d tried to sleep. You’d even turned your phone face down, counting seconds in the dark until the rhythm of your own heartbeat started to irritate you. But the silence pressed too close, and the echo of the day — the long rehearsal, the lights, Soobin’s quiet glances — kept looping through your mind until you gave up and padded into the hallway barefoot, hoodie pulled tight.
It was only supposed to be a walk to clear your head.
You didn’t expect to see him there.
Soobin sat on the carpet against the wall outside his room, long legs folded awkwardly, hood half up, a paper cup of something steaming in his hands. For a second, you thought maybe he was a ghost — too still, too soft in the half-dark. But then he looked up, eyes wide, surprised.
“Oh—” his voice came out rough, a little startled. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You shook your head, rubbing the sleeve of your hoodie between your fingers. “You either?”
He gave a breath of a laugh. “I tried. Beomgyu snores like he’s been possessed.”
You smiled at that, easing closer before realizing how weird it might look, lingering outside his room at two in the morning. “I didn’t think idols were allowed to admit things like that.”
Soobin’s mouth twitched — half a smile, half surrender. “We’re not supposed to admit a lot of things.”
You sat down a few feet away, the carpet scratchy beneath your legs. The silence wasn’t awkward this time. It settled slowly, comfortably, as if you’d both agreed not to ruin it.
“What’s in the cup?” you asked after a minute.
“Chamomile,” he said, glancing down. “Helps me unwind. Supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It just tastes like hot grass.”
You laughed quietly, and he glanced over at you then — really looked — like the sound caught him off guard. It was the kind of look that lingered. The kind that stretched the air between two people into something unspoken.
After a while, the conversation drifted. About small things, first. Rehearsal mishaps. Hueningkai’s obsession with vending machines. How Taehyun hated when Beomgyu sang the same song line for an hour straight. But then, without either of you noticing when it shifted, the words grew slower, heavier.
“My uncle used to do this too,” you murmured. “Stay up late during tours. Said the quiet helped him remember why he loved it in the first place.”
Soobin’s expression softened. “He’s a good manager. Tough, but… fair.”
You nodded. “He’s been like that since I was little. I think the job’s all he really has.”
You didn’t mean for the last part to come out so quiet. But it did.
Soobin hesitated, fingers tapping the rim of his cup. “You don’t see your family much?”
“Not really.” You leaned your head back against the wall. “I think I got used to the idea that some people are easier to love from far away.”
He looked at you for a long time then — not pitying, but like he understood something too well to say it aloud. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “It’s the same for me. Except… there’s a lot of people around, so it doesn’t look like loneliness. But it still is.”
That silence again. Heavy, but shared.
You could hear the hum of the vending machine at the end of the hall, the thrum of your own pulse.
You turned your head to meet his eyes — dark, steady, tired in the way that comes from carrying too much. “Do you ever regret it?” you asked softly. “The job, I mean.”
Soobin’s lips parted, like he hadn’t expected the question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not the music. Just… the way it changes things. How you start watching people instead of being with them.” He gave a small laugh. “It makes you cautious.”
“About what?”
His eyes dropped to the floor. “About letting anyone close enough to ruin the calm.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You just looked at him — at the boy everyone saw as composed and unshakable, sitting on a hotel hallway floor in the dark, speaking like the quiet might break him open if he wasn’t careful.
And maybe he saw something similar in you, because when his knee brushed yours — barely, accidentally — he didn’t move away right away. Neither did you.
The hallway light flickered once. A door opened somewhere far down the hall.
The world kept going. But it felt like the two of you had stepped out of it — just for a moment — into something softer, suspended.
Then someone’s voice echoed from a nearby room, muffled and groggy. Beomgyu, complaining about the air conditioning. You both startled, breaking apart a fraction too quickly.
Soobin cleared his throat, fumbling with the cup. “You should get some sleep,” he said, a little too fast, a little too formal again.
You smiled faintly, rising to your feet. “You too.”
He nodded, still avoiding your eyes. But as you turned to leave, you heard him exhale quietly — a sound you might have imagined, but one that carried something like longing.
You didn’t look back.
But you didn’t have to.
You could feel him still watching — and for the first time, he didn’t look away.
The venue lights bled into everything — the stage, the air, the noise.
Rehearsal had run over, the soundcheck stretching late into the evening, and the corridors backstage had fallen into that strange, in-between quiet. The kind that hummed with after-energy, the kind that made everything feel louder than it really was.
You were sitting on a crate near the side of the stage, cross-legged, watching staff roll cables and wrap up equipment. Your uncle had gone to handle a last-minute call, and most of the boys had already headed to their dressing room to change. Everyone but Soobin.
He stood off to the side, half-shadowed by a stack of black cases, shoulders hunched as he typed something on his phone. His hair was still damp from the run-through, falling into his eyes in the way that made him look younger.
You told yourself to look away. You didn’t.
He must’ve felt it — your gaze — because his head lifted, eyes meeting yours across the quiet stretch of floor. And for a long second, neither of you moved.
“Hey,” you said softly, finally.
“Hey.” His voice was low, tired, a little rough around the edges. He pocketed his phone and took a few steps closer. “You’re still here.”
“My uncle asked me to wait.” You hesitated. “You okay?”
He nodded once, but it wasn’t convincing. “Just… noise,” he murmured. “After a day like this, everything feels too loud.”
You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “Even silence?”
“Especially silence.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache. You stood, dusting off your jeans, and crossed to him — slowly, like approaching something fragile.
He looked like he wanted to step back. He didn’t.
“Long day,” you said. “You were good out there, though. Everyone was.”
He let out a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to the floor. “You sound like management.”
“Well,” you teased, “guess it’s in my blood.”
That earned a real smile — small, but real. You watched his shoulders ease, the tension loosening just enough to make him look human again instead of composed. And that, somehow, made it worse. Because you could feel the unspoken thing between you again — that steady, humming awareness that had been building for weeks, threaded through every glance and silence and too-long pause.
He noticed it too. You saw it in the way he swallowed, in the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and flicked away instantly, guilty.
“Soobin,” you said softly, before you could stop yourself.
He looked up at the sound of his name like it meant more than it should have.
And then — like gravity had finally given up on pretending it wasn’t there — he stepped closer. Just one step. But it was enough.
You could smell the faint trace of cologne, the leftover warmth from stage lights clinging to his skin. Your heart was suddenly too loud, your breath uneven.
He didn’t touch you — not yet. His voice came out barely above a whisper.
“This is a bad idea.”
You nodded, though you didn’t move. “Probably.”
Another beat of silence. And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft at first. It was too sudden, too charged — the kind of kiss that happens because restraint finally fractures. His hand came up to your jaw, trembling, his breath catching as if he’d been holding it for too long.
You didn’t think. You just leaned in.
The world fell away for a moment — the smell of dust and metal, the distant hum of speakers — until there was only the press of his mouth against yours, the shaky exhale he made when you kissed him back, the sound of everything you weren’t supposed to feel.
Then footsteps echoed from down the hall.
You both broke apart, fast, breaths uneven.
Soobin took two steps back, eyes wide — panic flickering across his face. “Shit,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. “We— we can’t—”
You didn’t say anything. You could still feel the heat of him, the way your lips tingled.
He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to apologize or run. “That was— it just happened, okay? It didn’t mean—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “It can’t mean anything.”
You nodded even though your stomach twisted. “Right,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “Of course.”
The staff member passed by without a glance, heading toward the stage doors. The two of you stood frozen in the dark like you were trying to pretend the world hadn’t just shifted beneath your feet.
Soobin turned away first. “You should go,” he murmured. “Before anyone sees.”
You wanted to ask him if he regretted it — if he was already building walls in his mind, stacking excuses to bury what had just happened. But you didn’t. You just watched his back as he walked away, his hand trembling slightly at his side.
When your uncle returned a few minutes later, you were sitting exactly where you’d been before, trying to look normal. But your pulse still hadn’t slowed, and the faint taste of him lingered — warm and unshakable.
Later that night, in the hotel elevator, you caught a glimpse of Soobin again. He didn’t look at you. Not even once.
But when the doors closed between you, you saw his reflection in the metal — eyes closed, hand pressed briefly to his lips.
You weren’t imagining it.
It had meant everything.
And that was exactly the problem.
There’s something cruel about how normal the days looked after.
The same rehearsal halls, the same chatter over breakfast, the same flights and sound checks and smiles for cameras. Only one thing had changed — and it sat between you and Soobin like a ghost neither of you knew how to name.
He’d barely looked at you in three days.
It started the morning after the kiss. He’d walked past you in the hotel lobby, head ducked, airpods in, pretending to scroll through his phone. You’d told yourself maybe he hadn’t seen you — that he was just tired, distracted — but the second time, you couldn’t pretend anymore.
Because he did see you. His eyes flicked toward you in the reflection of a glass door before he turned away.
And that small, deliberate avoidance stung more than anything else.
Rehearsals felt longer.
The boys’ laughter in the van felt a little too bright, the way Beomgyu’s teasing cut through the space felt like a spotlight you didn’t want.
“Did you and Soobin fight or something?” Beomgyu asked once, halfway through the drive back to the venue. “You guys are acting weird.”
You looked up from your phone. “What? No. Why?”
He shrugged, leaning back in his seat with that too-casual grin. “Dunno. Just seems like he turns into a statue whenever you walk in.”
Yeonjun smirked. “Maybe she makes him nervous.”
The boys laughed. You smiled because it was easier than telling them the truth. Across the van, Soobin didn’t even glance up. He kept his headphones in, gaze fixed out the window, jaw tight.
Beomgyu caught the silence, narrowing his eyes slightly before turning away. He didn’t press further — but you could tell. He noticed.
That night, after rehearsal, you stayed behind to help your uncle check the equipment list. The air was thick with leftover heat, the hum of speakers low in the background. Everyone else had already left, except Soobin.
He was sitting at the edge of the stage, hoodie up, scrolling through his phone — pretending, again, not to notice you.
You almost didn’t say anything. You almost let him keep the distance he’d built so carefully.
But something in you snapped.
“Soobin,” you said quietly.
He didn’t look up. “Hey.”
“That’s all I get now?” you asked, a hollow laugh slipping out. “A ‘hey’ every few days?”
His fingers stilled over the screen, then set the phone aside. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because it’s easier if we— if we don’t talk.”
“Easier for who?”
The question hung there, sharp and dangerous. His jaw tightened.
“You know what this is,” he said finally. “You’re my manager’s niece. We work together every day. I can’t— we can’t—”
“Pretend it didn’t happen?” you cut in. “Because that’s what you’ve been doing. And honestly, it’s worse than if you’d just told me you regretted it.”
“I do regret it.”
The words hit too fast, too hard. You flinched before you could stop yourself.
He looked like he wanted to take them back, but didn’t. “Not because of you,” he said, quieter now. “Because of what it means. If anyone finds out—”
You laughed again, sharp this time. “Right. Can’t ruin the perfect image.”
“That’s not fair,” he snapped. His voice cracked on the edges — low, frustrated. “You don’t understand the pressure we’re under— the way one rumor could ruin everything.”
“So I’m just a risk then?” you asked, the words coming out softer, shakier. “That’s what you think of me?”
His shoulders fell. “No,” he said immediately. “It’s not that. I just— I don’t know how to handle this. You make it—”
“Make it what?”
He met your eyes, and for once, didn’t look away. “Make it real.”
You stood there, heart thudding so hard it hurt. Because under all the fear in his voice, there was something else — something that made your chest ache.
You wanted to say something — to tell him that you didn’t want perfection or promises, that you just wanted honesty. But your uncle’s voice echoed from the far end of the hall, calling your name, and the moment shattered like glass.
You stepped back first. “Don’t worry,” you said quietly. “I won’t make things harder for you.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even move as you walked past him, the space between you feeling like a wall built out of everything left unsaid.
When you glanced back once — you shouldn’t have, but you did — he was still sitting there, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground like the world had cracked open and he didn’t know how to put it back together.
The hotel was too quiet that night — the kind of quiet that made every sound feel suspicious.
You’d thought you’d gotten used to the rhythm of the tour: the late-night room service, the muffled laughter through thin walls, the hum of air conditioners that never quite worked right. But tonight felt different.
Heavy.
Charged.
Your uncle had given you a list of early-morning tasks for the next day, and you’d spent the last hour sitting cross-legged on your bed, trying to focus on it. You couldn’t. Every time you looked at your phone, you thought about the unread text thread — the one that hadn’t been touched since the argument with Soobin two nights ago.
You didn’t expect it to light up again.
But it did.
Soobin: Are you awake?
Your chest tightened instantly. You didn’t even need to think before replying.
You: Yeah. Why?
Soobin: Can we talk? Just for a minute.
You: Now?
Soobin: Please.
The word sat on the screen for a few seconds, quiet and heavy. Then you were already up, slipping a hoodie over your pyjamas, careful not to wake anyone as you eased the door open.
The hallway was dim, washed in the amber glow of emergency lights. You padded down the carpeted floor until you saw him — hoodie pulled up, mask on, hands shoved into his pockets.
He looked both out of place and completely himself — like he’d been waiting for you long before he texted.
“Soobin—”
“Wait,” he whispered, glancing up and down the hall. “Not here.”
You frowned. “What—”
And then you heard it: footsteps. Two sets, steady and close. You froze. Soobin’s hand shot out on instinct, fingers closing around your wrist as he tugged you back — right into the alcove between two vending machines.
The space was small — too small — and his body pressed close to yours as the footsteps grew louder.
“Don’t move,” he breathed, voice barely audible.
You nodded, though you couldn’t have moved even if you wanted to. You could feel every inch of him — the warmth of his chest, the thud of his heartbeat that almost matched your own.
The footsteps slowed. Your uncle’s voice.
“Thought I heard someone,” he murmured to a staff member. “Probably just kids running around.”
They passed. Slowly, the sound faded.
You didn’t breathe until Soobin did. His hand was still around your wrist, fingers warm and trembling slightly. When he realised, he let go fast — stepping back, looking anywhere but at you.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just— I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered, though your pulse was still a mess. “You kinda saved me from a heart attack.”
That earned a tiny, shaky laugh from him. It faded quickly.
You both stood there for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that wasn’t just relief.
“So,” you said finally. “You wanted to talk?”
He nodded, pushing his hood back. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. “I… I hate how we left things.”
You waited.
“I didn’t mean what I said before,” he went on, voice low and raw. “About regretting it. I said it because I was scared. Of what happens if someone finds out, if your uncle— if the company—”
“So you’d rather act like I don’t exist?” you said quietly.
His eyes met yours, wide and pleading. “No. That’s the problem. I can’t.”
Something inside you cracked — the anger, the confusion, the ache — all dissolving into that same impossible pull that had been there since the beginning.
“Soobin,” you whispered. “This can’t—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it’s wrong. But it doesn’t stop it from feeling right.”
You wanted to tell him to stop saying things like that — to stop looking at you like he meant it. But then he reached out, fingers brushing yours, and you couldn’t remember a single reason why you should.
The touch was barely there — just a ghost of contact — but it felt like everything.
“We have to be careful,” he murmured. “No one can know.”
You nodded, your voice small. “I know.”
He smiled faintly then — sad, almost wistful — and his thumb brushed the back of your hand before he let go. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Pretend this didn’t happen.”
You almost laughed. “You’re terrible at pretending.”
“So are you,” he said, and for a second, the world felt light again.
Then he was gone, walking down the hall with his hood back up, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering and your uncle’s voice still echoing faintly in your head.
You leaned against the wall, exhaling hard.
It wasn’t just a secret anymore.
It was a risk.
And the worst part was that neither of you wanted to stop.
The city was still awake.
From the rooftop, it didn’t look like it ever really slept — lights blinking against the black, cars tracing faint gold lines along the streets below.
She hadn’t planned to end up there. She’d only meant to clear her head, take a few minutes away from the noise of the tour — the boys’ laughter echoing faintly through the walls, her uncle still on the phone in the next room. But when she’d seen the stairwell door propped open, the cool air spilling through, she’d followed it.
And then she saw him.
Soobin was sitting on the edge of a low concrete ledge, hood pulled up, phone screen dim against his knee. The kind of figure you might miss entirely if you weren’t looking for him — quiet, still, like part of the skyline.
He looked up when the door shut behind her. For a second, neither of them said anything.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked finally.
He shook his head. “Not really.”
She crossed the roof to him, careful not to make it look like she was approaching. Just… joining him. The air was cold enough to sting her cheeks, and when she sat beside him, she could see the faint cloud of his breath when he exhaled.
They stared out over the city for a while. The hum of traffic below was oddly soothing — like a heartbeat too far away to matter.
He was the first to speak. “Do you ever feel like you’re watching your own life from somewhere else?”
She glanced at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Like you’re doing everything you’re supposed to, but it doesn’t… feel real.” His voice was low, steady in that way that made it harder to breathe. “Sometimes I think I’m just going through motions. Even when I love it.”
Her eyes softened. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is.”
She looked back at the skyline. “My uncle used to tell me that’s part of it. Being in this world. You give pieces of yourself away until you can’t remember what’s missing.”
Soobin didn’t answer right away. He just leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the glow from the distant buildings catching in his profile.
Then, quietly, “Do you ever wish you could just stop for a bit? Just… disappear for a while?”
She smiled faintly. “All the time.”
There was something heavier in the air after that — not sad, just full. The kind of silence that means everything and nothing.
A soft gust of wind swept across the roof, and she shivered before she could hide it. Soobin noticed immediately. Without a word, he tugged his hoodie over his head and offered it to her.
“I’m fine,” she started, but he just gave her that look — the one that didn’t ask.
She gave in. Pulled it on. The sleeves fell past her hands, and she tried not to think about how it smelled like him — faint detergent, fabric softener, something warmer underneath.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He hummed, a quiet sound that almost passed for a smile.
For a while, they just sat like that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled snack pack, offering it wordlessly. She blinked, then laughed. “Are you always this prepared?”
He shrugged, eyes flicking to her with the faintest hint of amusement. “Sometimes. It helps.”
They shared the snack, passing it between them in small bites. The simple normalcy of it felt almost ridiculous after everything that had happened — two people hiding from the world on a rooftop, pretending their hearts weren’t tangled up in something they couldn’t name.
When the bag was empty, neither of them moved to stand.
She tilted her head toward him. “You’re quiet tonight.”
He hesitated. “If I talk too much, I’ll say something I shouldn’t.”
Her pulse jumped. “Like what?”
He looked at her then, eyes steady, unflinching. “Like how hard it is not to look at you.”
The words hung there — soft, trembling at the edges, and gone just as fast. He turned back to the skyline before she could respond.
The silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full of everything they weren’t saying.
And when she leaned her head against his shoulder — tentative, testing — he didn’t move away. He just shifted slightly, letting her fit there. His hand brushed hers once, then again, fingers finding hers without thought.
The warmth of it lingered, steady, unspoken.
After a long moment, he turned his head, forehead dipping to rest lightly against hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It didn’t need to be.
The city below blurred into light and sound, but up there, it was just them — two people holding onto something they couldn’t name, pretending it was nothing while the night kept their secret.
When they finally pulled apart, she didn’t look at him. Just whispered, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed, his hand still resting against hers until the last possible second.
And even when she walked away, she could still feel it — the quiet weight of his touch, the echo of everything they didn’t say.
Morning came too early.
The rooftop felt like a dream she hadn’t woken from properly — flashes of cold air, his hoodie still heavy on her shoulders, the soft brush of his hand when neither of them wanted to move.
Now, in the harsh light of the hotel breakfast room, it all felt like another world entirely.
TXT sat around a long table — trays of toast, eggs, and fruit scattered between them, conversation lazy and half-awake. Beomgyu was slouched over his coffee, Yeonjun was complaining about the schedule, Taehyun had earbuds in, and Hueningkai was trying to steal everyone’s juice.
Soobin sat across from her.
And that was the problem.
He kept his head down, eating in slow, methodical movements. Every now and then, his gaze flicked up — just for a second, just long enough for their eyes to meet before he looked away again, too fast to be natural.
She tried not to smile. Tried not to notice the faint pink still clinging to the tips of his ears.
Her uncle — the group’s manager — didn’t miss much.
“Everything okay, Soobin?” he asked casually, pouring another cup of coffee.
Soobin froze for half a second before nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Her uncle hummed, clearly unconvinced, but let it go.
The moment passed — mostly.
Rehearsal that afternoon was harder to mask.
Soobin had always been a perfectionist, but that day he was restless — losing his timing, forgetting cues, zoning out mid-song.
Yeonjun caught it first.
During a break, when the others sprawled out on the studio floor, Yeonjun nudged Soobin’s knee with his foot. “You good, man? You’ve been off since yesterday.”
Soobin blinked, startled. “Huh? I’m fine.”
“Sure,” Yeonjun said, eyebrows raised. “Because you just tried to sing the second verse twice.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah,” Beomgyu added, smirking. “Also, you nearly walked straight into the light rig.”
Soobin groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just tired.”
Yeonjun gave him a long, knowing look — the kind that cut deeper than it should’ve. “You’re something, alright.”
Soobin didn’t rise to it. Just mumbled something about needing water and slipped out of the room.
She found him a few minutes later, leaning against the vending machine in the hallway.
“Smooth,” she said softly.
He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly before softening. “You heard that?”
“Everyone did.”
He sighed, pressing the cold bottle of water against his cheek. “I can’t concentrate.”
“Because of—” She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
He looked away, jaw tight. “Because everything feels too close.”
The words settled in the air between them, quiet but heavy.
She wanted to reach out, to do something — but the sound of approaching footsteps made her step back.
Beomgyu turned the corner, half-eaten granola bar in hand. “Oh, there you are,” he said, too casually. His eyes flicked between the two of them, lingering a beat too long. “Rehearsal starts again in five.”
Soobin nodded, straightening instantly. “Got it.”
Beomgyu didn’t move right away. Just smiled faintly, chewing slowly, eyes sharp in a way they usually weren’t. “You sure you’re okay, hyung? You seem… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Soobin said again, too fast.
Beomgyu’s smile widened. “Right.”
He turned away, but his tone was light in that way that wasn’t really light at all. “Just making sure.”
When he was gone, Soobin exhaled, shoulders sinking.
“He knows,” she whispered.
“Maybe,” Soobin said, voice low. “But if he doesn’t yet… he will.”
That night, Soobin barely spoke.
At dinner, he laughed when he was supposed to, answered questions when asked, but there was distance in everything. Like he was already pulling away before anyone else could do it for him.
Beomgyu didn’t press him. He didn’t have to.
Every time Soobin’s gaze flicked, every time she shifted too close, Beomgyu’s eyes followed — thoughtful, calculating, the pieces slowly falling into place.
And when the meal ended, when everyone filed out, Beomgyu hung back just long enough to catch Soobin’s sleeve.
“Hyung,” he said quietly. “You know you’re terrible at hiding things, right?”
Soobin froze.
Beomgyu’s grin softened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t say anything. Not yet.”
Then, with that same teasing lilt that didn’t feel like a tease at all:
“But you should probably figure out what you’re doing before someone else notices too.”
He clapped Soobin lightly on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him standing there — jaw tight, pulse thrumming in his throat, every lie suddenly feeling paper-thin.
That night, alone in his hotel room, Soobin stared at the ceiling.
Every choice felt impossible. Every silence, louder than ever.
He knew it was only a matter of time before someone else found out — before she got caught in the fallout of his mistakes.
And even as exhaustion finally dragged him under, one thought refused to leave him:
He couldn’t keep pretending this was nothing.
But he also couldn’t let it become something.
Not when it meant risking everything else.
It started as nothing — or at least, it felt like nothing. Just a quiet moment between them after a long day, the kind that always stretched a little too long, that always left her heart pounding too hard in her chest.
They’d been talking backstage after the show, tucked into the corner of the greenroom once most of the staff had cleared out. She’d been teasing him about a lyric slip-up, and he’d retaliated by stealing her phone, holding it out of reach. The kind of playful moment that should have stayed harmless.
Except when she lunged to get it back, she ended up too close.
Her fingers brushed his wrist. His laughter died instantly.
And before she could step back — before either of them could breathe — the door opened.
Her uncle stood in the doorway.
The look on his face wasn’t confusion or surprise. It was worse — a flicker of cold recognition, followed by a silence that burned.
“Soobin,” he said slowly, voice low. “Can I talk to you both?”
The words made her stomach drop.
—
The air in the hotel meeting room was painfully still. Her uncle sat across from them, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Soobin’s head was bowed, eyes fixed on his hands. The rest of the group was nowhere to be found; this wasn’t a conversation meant for anyone else.
“Do you have any idea,” her uncle started quietly, “what this looks like?”
She opened her mouth — but her throat was dry. “Uncle, it’s not—”
He cut her off. “Don’t call me that here.”
That stung more than it should have.
Soobin finally looked up, his voice trembling slightly. “It’s not what you think. We were just—”
“Just what?” her uncle asked sharply. “Alone, again? After I told you to keep boundaries?”
She flinched. The word again hit like a blow.
Her uncle sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re not a staff member, you’re family. That means your actions reflect on me. Do you understand the position you’re putting me in?”
She could feel the heat rising behind her eyes. “It’s not like that. We weren’t—”
Soobin interrupted softly, “It’s my fault.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Soobin—”
But he didn’t look at her. His hands were clenched, voice quiet but firm. “I should’ve kept my distance. I didn’t. Don’t blame her.”
Her uncle’s expression softened for a second, but his tone didn’t. “You’re a good kid, Soobin. But you know the rules. This isn’t some private thing — people talk, cameras exist, one photo and it’s chaos. You think fans won’t notice how you look at her?”
That made Soobin’s shoulders stiffen.
Her uncle turned to her. “For now, you stay away from him. I don’t want to hear about you being backstage, or waiting around after schedules. I’m serious.”
The room felt smaller with every word.
She nodded slowly, unable to trust her voice.
When the meeting finally ended, her uncle left first, muttering something about “protecting everyone involved.” The door clicked shut behind him — and suddenly, she and Soobin were alone again.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
He exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yes, I do.” He forced out a laugh that sounded nothing like him. “I should’ve known it’d end like this. You don’t deserve the mess that comes with me.”
She stepped closer before she could stop herself. “Don’t say that.”
He finally looked up — eyes red, jaw tight, everything in him trembling with restraint. “They’re right, you know. I can’t afford this. But I can’t stop—” He cut himself off, swallowed hard. “Forget it.”
The words hung there, unfinished.
He turned toward the door, but she reached out, catching his sleeve — a small, desperate motion that made him freeze.
“Soobin,” she whispered. “I’m not going to pretend this didn’t matter.”
He hesitated — then gently pried her hand away, his thumb brushing her knuckles in apology. “You don’t have to pretend. You just have to stay safe.”
And then he left, leaving her in the empty room, the echo of his touch fading as her uncle’s words replayed in her head like a warning she couldn’t escape.
For the first time since meeting Soobin, the silence between them wasn’t charged with promise — it was full of fear.
The days that followed blurred together into something heavy, colourless.
It wasn’t just distance — it was absence. A deliberate, aching kind of silence that wrapped itself around her every time she entered a room that used to hold laughter.
Her uncle had kept his word.
No more backstage visits. No more hanging around after rehearsals. No more “coincidental” breaks that lined up with the group’s schedules.
She tried to respect it. She really did.
But the worst part wasn’t being told to stay away — it was knowing Soobin was obeying it too.
He’d always been quiet, but this was different. She’d still see him sometimes, walking through the corridors before shows, or across the lobby when the team gathered for briefings. He’d look at the ground until the last moment, and then — only then — his eyes would flicker to hers, just long enough to hurt.
They never spoke.
The rest of the group, though, wasn’t oblivious.
—
“Hyung, you’re driving everyone insane.”
Beomgyu said it flatly, tossing a pillow at Soobin’s head from the couch. They were in the hotel lounge, the others scattered around the room — Yeonjun scrolling through his phone, Taehyun half-asleep in an armchair, Hueningkai munching quietly on snacks.
Soobin didn’t react.
“Seriously,” Beomgyu continued. “You’ve barely said a word in three days. You’re acting like someone stole your cat.”
Hueningkai frowned softly. “Did someone?”
Soobin let out a quiet laugh — one that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, Kai.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Yeonjun asked, glancing up. “Because the stage energy’s off too. You’re distracted.”
Soobin picked at the edge of his sleeve. “Just tired.”
Beomgyu scoffed. “Bullshit.”
“Beomgyu—” Taehyun warned, but Beomgyu ignored him.
“No, seriously,” he pressed. “You think no one notices, but you’re walking around like the world’s ending. If this is about her—”
That name — or lack thereof — hung heavy in the air.
Soobin’s head snapped up, eyes sharp. “Don’t.”
Beomgyu froze for half a second, then shrugged. “I’m just saying. If you care that much, maybe do something instead of pretending you don’t.”
Yeonjun shot him a look. “Not helping.”
“Someone has to,” Beomgyu muttered, and turned back to his phone.
The room fell silent again, except for the soft hum of the city outside their window. Soobin stared down at his hands, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling too fast.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do something.
He wanted to.
Every instinct in him screamed to fix it — to find her, to explain, to apologise. But what was there to say that wouldn’t make things worse?
He’d already seen the look in her uncle’s eyes.
He’d already heard the edge of panic in her voice when she said, It’s not like that.
So he stayed quiet. Because loving her — even silently — had already caused enough damage.
—
She spent most of her evenings at the hotel rooftop now. Not because she was waiting, she told herself, but because it was quiet up there.
The city lights stretched far below her, each one flickering like something alive. The night air bit against her skin, cool and sharp, the kind that made you feel too awake to cry.
Her phone buzzed once. A message from her uncle:
Room check tomorrow morning. Don’t stay up too late.
She sighed, locking the screen. He wasn’t cruel — just cautious. Maybe too cautious. But she knew this wasn’t really about her anymore. It was about reputation. Control. The way the world watched everything they did.
She rested her chin on her knees, staring out over the skyline. Somewhere out there, Soobin was probably sitting in another hotel room, staring at another ceiling, doing the same thing.
The thought made her chest ache.
She still had the hoodie he’d given her that night — the one she’d claimed was too big, the one he’d laughed about before slipping it over her shoulders anyway. It still smelled faintly like his cologne, that soft clean scent that always clung to him even after rehearsals.
She shouldn’t have kept it.
She definitely shouldn’t have been wearing it now.
But she did.
Because letting it go felt too much like admitting they were done.
—
The next morning, Beomgyu cornered Soobin in the hallway before rehearsal.
“I know you’re going to say no,” he started, “but hear me out.”
Soobin frowned. “No to what?”
“Talking to her.”
Soobin stiffened instantly. “Beomgyu—”
“Hyung, listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to start drama, but you can’t keep doing this. You think avoiding her is noble or whatever, but you look like hell.”
Soobin’s eyes darkened. “It’s not about me.”
“Then who is it about?” Beomgyu asked. “Her uncle? The rules? Or are you just scared?”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Soobin opened his mouth, but no answer came.
Beomgyu sighed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I get it. But if something means that much to you — if someone does — you don’t just disappear. That’s not protecting them. That’s just leaving.”
He walked off before Soobin could respond.
Soobin stood there for a long time, the hum of rehearsal sounds echoing faintly down the corridor.
Later, when he stepped onto the stage, he caught himself glancing toward the side wings, instinctively looking for her — and finding nothing but empty space.
He sang the lyrics anyway, steady and practiced, but every word tasted like goodbye.
—
That night, she sat by her window, phone in hand, hovering over his contact.
She didn’t send anything.
He didn’t either.
But somewhere, she hoped — maybe foolishly — that he still felt it.
That quiet, invisible pull between them that refused to fade, even in the silence.
Because even when neither of them said a word, the heartache was loud enough to fill the room.
It started with another sleepless night.
Rain clawed against the hotel windows, the city lights smearing into streaks of silver and orange outside. The sound was relentless — too loud, too constant — a rhythm that only made the silence inside feel sharper.
Soobin had tried everything. Headphones. A book. Staring at the ceiling until his mind went numb. None of it worked.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her — the look on her face that night, the way she’d flinched when her uncle’s voice rose, the tremor in her hands when he’d said It’s my fault.
And maybe it was.
Maybe he deserved every piece of this.
But God, it hurt.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He was out the door before he could talk himself out of it, hoodie pulled tight over his head, the corridor lights blurring as he moved. He didn’t care about the time or the cameras or what anyone would think if they saw him. The only thing he could think about was her — the ache of not knowing, of wondering if she was hurting the same way.
He found her in the lobby.
She was sitting near the back, alone, earbuds in and knees pulled up like she was trying to make herself smaller. When she looked up and saw him, her expression shifted — surprise first, then something rawer, unguarded.
“Soobin,” she said softly, pulling out her earbuds. “What are you doing here?”
He hesitated, dripping from the rain, heart pounding too hard for words. “I couldn’t stay away.”
Her throat tightened. “You shouldn’t—”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know. But I can’t keep doing this.”
He took a shaky breath and stepped closer. “I’ve tried pretending it’s fine, that I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m not sleeping, I can’t focus, and every time I see you it feels like—” He stopped, searching for air. “Like I’m supposed to look away when every part of me wants to look at you.”
She shook her head, tears already forming. “You can’t say that, Soobin. Not now.”
“Why not?” His voice rose, desperate. “Because it’s wrong? Because of your uncle? Because I’m supposed to be grateful for silence when it’s killing me?”
Her breath hitched. “You don’t understand. If anyone finds out again, it won’t just be me who gets hurt—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “If this ruins me, then so be it. I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about you.”
The words fell heavy between them, echoing louder than the rain.
She stared at him, tears spilling freely now. “You think I don’t care? You think this is easy for me?”
He blinked at her — stunned — as she pushed up from her seat, hands trembling. “You think I wanted to walk past you every day like you’re a stranger? You think I liked hearing my uncle talk about how dangerous you are for me? You think I wanted any of this?”
The air between them snapped — too sharp, too charged — and suddenly they were standing so close it felt impossible to breathe.
Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his hoodie clinging to him from the rain, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet.
“Soobin,” she whispered, barely audible. “Please don’t make me choose.”
He shook his head, eyes burning. “You already did.”
Her lip trembled, and that — that was what undid him.
Before he could think, before either of them could take another breath, he reached out — cupping her face in both hands, thumbs brushing over the wetness on her cheeks — and kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was everything they’d been holding back, crashing all at once — rain and heartbreak and months of silence pouring out through the desperate press of their lips.
She kissed him back like she’d been waiting for it, like every ‘no’ had been cracking apart inside her.
And when they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the sound of the rain swallowing everything else.
“Soobin,” she murmured, eyes glistening.
He shook his head weakly, still out of breath. “Don’t. Don’t apologise.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Her voice was so quiet it barely reached him — but it was enough.
They stood there for a long time, caught in that impossible in-between — where love and fear and defiance all existed in the same heartbeat.
Eventually, she stepped back, the distance small but devastating. “You should go before someone sees.”
He hesitated. “Will you be okay?”
She forced a small nod. “I don’t know.”
He almost smiled at that — because at least it was honest.
And when he finally turned to leave, soaked and shaking, she watched him go until the elevator doors closed.
Then she pressed her palm to her mouth, trying to hold in the sound that escaped her — a choked sob that felt too much like relief.
Because for the first time in weeks, she could finally breathe again — even if every breath still hurt.
The morning after felt unreal.
The hotel corridors buzzed with routine — managers pacing with clipboards, staff carrying garment racks, the low thrum of rehearsal audio spilling from open doors — and yet, for Soobin, everything moved as if underwater.
He hadn’t slept. He’d barely eaten.
All night, the kiss played in his head like a film on loop — the taste of rain, the sound of her whisper, the way she’d looked at him afterward, torn between fear and relief.
He kept his hood up during call time, kept his voice low during soundcheck. Every time someone looked at him too long, his chest tightened.
When Beomgyu dropped into the seat beside him, a coffee in each hand, Soobin didn’t even look up.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” Beomgyu said lightly, sliding one of the cups over.
“Thanks,” Soobin muttered.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
He didn’t answer.
Beomgyu leaned back in his chair, studying him for a beat. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
Soobin’s jaw flexed. “Beomgyu—”
“Relax. I’m not going to rat you out,” he said, lowering his voice. “But you’re really bad at hiding things. Yeonjun almost asked if you were sick.”
Soobin’s throat tightened. “Maybe I am.”
Beomgyu sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be good at keeping calm, you’re kind of terrible at pretending when it comes to her.”
Soobin didn’t respond, but his silence said enough.
—
She was on the other side of the building, keeping busy in the only way she could — helping her uncle’s team pack up props, reorganising schedules, anything that made it easier not to think.
Her uncle hadn’t said much since the night of the confrontation. He was cold, but quieter now, less sharp. It scared her more than anger would have.
That morning, he stopped by her work table. “You’re staying away, right?”
“Yes.” The lie slipped out too easily.
He nodded once. “Good.”
When he walked away, her heart pounded with the guilt of it. Because she wasn’t staying away. Not really.
—
It happened again that evening — a quiet corner backstage after rehearsal, when the staff began filtering out for dinner. Soobin caught sight of her slipping past the rows of cases, head down, clutching her clipboard.
For a moment he just watched. Then he moved.
“Soobin,” she whispered when he caught up, eyes darting around. “You shouldn’t—”
“I had to see you.”
Her breath hitched. The sound of his voice, soft and careful, was enough to undo all her resolve.
They ducked into the dim storage hallway — a space between two rooms, lit only by the red exit sign at the end.
For a long moment, neither spoke. He stood there, dripping quiet tension, and she looked up at him like she wasn’t sure if she should breathe.
“I thought I was okay,” he said finally. “I thought I could handle pretending again. But I can’t.”
She swallowed hard. “If my uncle—”
“I don’t care about him right now.” His voice shook — not angry, just desperate. “Do you?”
She hesitated. Then, softly: “No.”
The air changed.
He exhaled, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, full of exhaustion and something fragile. “Then we’ll just… be careful.”
Her heart stuttered. “Soobin—”
He took her hand gently, fingers brushing hers like a question he already knew the answer to. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
And somehow, that was enough to make the ache in her chest ease — even just for now.
—
Over the next week, everything became a balancing act.
They didn’t talk much, didn’t text, didn’t risk anything obvious. But they found small ways — invisible to everyone else — to hold on.
A shared glance across the rehearsal room.
A note slipped into a folder.
The faint brush of his hand as he passed by.
Moments that no one else noticed, but they felt like oxygen.
Soobin had always been subtle, but lately his quiet protectiveness bled through. When she tripped over a cable backstage, he was the first to reach for her. When her uncle barked at her in front of the crew, Soobin’s jaw clenched hard enough for Beomgyu to nudge him back, muttering, “Don’t blow your cover, mate.”
Yeonjun knew too — or at least, he knew enough. He didn’t ask questions, just covered for them when needed. A well-timed distraction, a fake call, an excuse that let Soobin slip out unnoticed for five minutes.
Even Taehyun and Hueningkai caught on. They didn’t tease or interfere, just looked at him differently — softer, maybe. Like they understood.
Soobin didn’t say a word to any of them, but he didn’t have to. Mateship ran deeper than rules.
—
One night, near the end of the week, she found herself in the same quiet hallway where they’d argued weeks ago. The walls still smelled faintly of paint and dust, the echo of rain outside again.
She heard footsteps and turned.
Soobin was there, hood pulled up, expression soft but wary. “Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.”
He hesitated before holding something out — a small paper cup. “Hot chocolate. Beomgyu said you liked it better than coffee.”
She blinked, startled. “You asked Beomgyu?”
“Bribed him, technically.”
She laughed, quiet and disbelieving, and the sound made something warm flicker in his chest.
They sat on the floor against the wall, passing the cup back and forth in silence. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like hiding. It just felt like breathing.
At one point, her head fell lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t move — didn’t dare — but after a moment, he rested his cheek against her hair.
Neither said a word, because neither needed to.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the world stilled — just two people caught between chaos and calm, holding on in the only way they could.
And for that night, that was enough.
The world doesn’t shift all at once. It’s quieter than that — like the slow break of dawn after a long, sleepless night.
The air is still tense, still too full of everything unsaid, but it’s different now. Soobin doesn’t flinch when people look at him anymore. He still lowers his voice when he says her name, but it’s not out of fear — just habit.
Her uncle hasn’t spoken to her much since that night. The last conversation had ended in the same way all the others had lately: sharp words dulled by disappointment, by worry. He wasn’t cruel — just tired. “You can’t mix your life with theirs,” he’d said. “You’ll only get hurt.”
But what he didn’t understand — what she couldn’t explain — was that she already had been hurt. And she’d survived it.
Soobin sees her again after a week that feels like a lifetime. They’re at rehearsal — the group running through choreography while she sits at the back of the room, pretending to scroll through her phone. It’s not her place to be there anymore, technically, but no one’s told her to leave either.
When the music cuts, Soobin’s eyes flick toward her before he can stop himself. It’s small, a half-second slip, but Beomgyu catches it. Of course he does. Beomgyu grins, shaking his head like he’s seen this movie a hundred times.
Later, when practice ends and the others head out in pairs, Soobin lingers by the door. His voice is quiet when he says her name. “Can we… talk?”
They end up on the rooftop again — the same spot that’s seen too many versions of them: the hopeful ones, the terrified ones, the ones who didn’t know if they were allowed to want this. Tonight, though, there’s a softness in the air that hadn’t been there before.
She pulls her jacket tighter around herself as the wind picks up. Soobin notices, hesitates, then shrugs off his hoodie and drapes it around her shoulders. She looks up at him, her voice barely above the sound of the city below. “You know that doesn’t fix anything, right?”
“I know,” he says, hands buried in his pockets. “But I want to do it anyway.”
The quiet stretches between them. Not uncomfortable, just… full.
“I talked to him,” she admits finally. “My uncle. He still thinks this is a mistake.”
Soobin nods slowly. “And you?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe it is. But it’s my mistake to make.”
He looks at her then — really looks. The streetlights from below catch the edges of her hair, the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes. And something inside him breaks open in a way that feels less like shattering and more like release.
“I don’t care what happens,” he says softly. “I don’t care how hard it gets. You don’t have to choose between them and me — I just want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath catches. “Soobin…”
He steps closer, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted to. She doesn’t.
The distance between them narrows until there’s only the sound of their hearts — his racing, hers steady, both too loud in the quiet. He lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m done hiding.”
She nods once, eyes shining. “Then don’t.”
The kiss this time isn’t desperate. It’s not stolen or rushed or weighed down by fear. It’s steady — the kind that feels like a promise instead of an escape.
When they finally pull apart, she rests her forehead against his. For a long moment, neither of them say anything. They don’t need to.
Tomorrow will still be messy. There will still be conversations and consequences and eyes watching. But right now, in this fleeting quiet, they’re free.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.
Epilogue
The next few weeks move in cautious steps — like the world is still testing whether it’s safe to let them breathe again.
Her uncle doesn’t bring it up right away. He keeps his distance, throws himself into work, avoids eye contact when she’s in the same room. It’s almost worse than yelling — the quiet disapproval that hangs in the air like fog.
But then one afternoon, she finds him sitting on the edge of the stage after rehearsal, watching the boys mess around instead of practising. Beomgyu’s trying to teach Hueningkai a ridiculous dance move. Yeonjun is egging them on. Soobin’s laughing — not loudly, but the kind that makes his shoulders shake.
Her uncle glances over when she approaches. “He’s different lately,” he says after a while.
She freezes. “Different?”
“Lighter,” he says simply. “Happier. And if I’m being honest… so are you.”
There’s no accusation in his voice this time. Just quiet observation, maybe even a trace of reluctant warmth.
“I still think it’s complicated,” he adds after a pause. “But maybe not wrong.”
She swallows hard. “So… what does that mean?”
He stands, stretching his back with a sigh. “It means I’ll stop pretending I don’t see it. Just… don’t make me regret it, okay?”
Her throat tightens. “I won’t.”
He gives her a small nod before walking away, leaving her standing there — heart racing, air thick with relief.
When she turns back, Soobin’s watching from across the room. He doesn’t say anything — just tilts his head in question, eyes searching. She smiles, small but certain. His answering grin is quiet, shy, and radiant all at once.
Later that night, they end up on the rooftop again — their place, somehow. The city hums below, endless and alive, but up here it feels like the world’s held still just for them.
Soobin passes her a can of cola, his hoodie zipped up halfway. “I think Beomgyu’s planning something,” he says. “He winked at me five times today.”
She snorts. “You counted?”
“Obviously,” he says with mock offense. “You’d count too if it was Beomgyu.”
She laughs, leaning against the railing beside him. The wind’s soft tonight, brushing past them like a secret.
After a moment, Soobin’s voice drops. “You know… I still don’t really know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
He shrugs, a little helpless. “Be with someone like this. Out in the open.”
She tilts her head toward him, bumping his shoulder lightly. “We’ll figure it out.”
He smiles, eyes fixed on her like she’s the only thing grounding him to the moment. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We will.”
They stay like that for a long time — side by side, hands brushing occasionally, words fading into silence.
Below them, life keeps moving. The world keeps spinning. But up here, for once, they don’t need to chase it.
Because after everything — the fear, the distance, the heartbreak — they finally have this.
Not perfect. Not simple.
But theirs.
With your latest articles falling flat, you’re at risk of losing the job that defined you. Even then, you should know better than to follow Jimin into that shady underground ring he never shuts up about, but after a few too many sips of soju, you finally cave. It’s there under the dim lights and clash of bloodied knuckles that you see him. Your next article will be your last if you fail to make it a hit — and Jungkook looks just like the feature you had been searching for.
𝔭airing boxer!jungkook x journalist!reader (f)
𝔤enre boxer!au, strangers to lovers, betrayal, angst & smut.
𝔴arnings workplace harassment from her boss, ft. best friend jimin, pet names, illegal fighting, blood/violence, smoking, alcohol consumption, tattooed and pierced jungkook.
𝔫ote this is my first time ever writing a boxer!au so I apologise for any inaccuracies,, this first part is a little shorter but the following ones will all be around +10k,, feedback & reblogs are always appreciated <3 taglist at the end of the chapter!
[ wc: 7k ] series masterlist | next part
Chapter One — "The Den"
THE sound of your editor’s fist as it slams against the table jolts you from your slumber and you shoot up in your seat. Blinking the remnants of sleep from your tired eyes, you peer up at the intrusion. “Slacking off during work hours?” He barks, the stench of the coffee on his breath reaching your sensitive nose.
Dongho was a man in his forties, who wore suits five days a week and combed his measly three strands of hair by the hour like it would somehow magically conjure more. He didn’t care for the economical state of the world if it didn’t involve his own salary nor did he seem to garner any empathy for those who’d gotten too little rest the night before. Worst of all, he was your editor, and you were his to disappoint.
You shake your head, flattening out your now wrinkled shirt as you scramble for an excuse but your editor is quicker as he clears his throat. When following his line of sight, your gaze lands on the familiar headline belonging to your latest article. Dongho turns the paper to face you, one chubby finger pointing to the bold text. “Ten kitchen appliances you must have?” He reads it aloud, the accusing edge in his tone unmistakable. “Do you think anyone gives a damn about new toasters or the latest microwave?”
You squirm uncomfortably in your seat, eyes darting between the article in front of you and to your editor who looked far from pleased. “I… Well it’s helpful, and you said I should try and branch out to—”
“I did not intend for you to go on a rant about something as mundane as kitchen appliances”, Dongho interrupts in one sharp breath. “If people wanted to know what knife set to buy they would simply go to a store and get one recommended. No one is interested in reading this crap!” He picks up the article, holding it out like the mere sight of it disgusted him. Then he tears it down the middle. The sound of paper ripping is agonizing and you pray your colleagues won’t turn their heads your way.
“This”, he says as he tears another piece before throwing it at you, “Is useless.” His words stung, not because they weren’t true but because they were. Everything you had produced over the span of the last couple of months had been far from satisfactory. Complaints after complaints from your editor rolled in like the post, much so that you were now used to seeing his name flash in your email inbox.
All you can do is wait for him to finish, and when there’s nothing left of your article but small bits and pieces, you lower your head. “I’m sorry, sir.” You whisper under your breath, shame crawling its way up your spine as you avoid looking anywhere but at the mahogany wood.
Somewhere above you, your editor snorts, the sound mocking in its nature. “Sorry? People do not want an apology — nor do they want to read about your boring kitchen stuff!” He sounds like he’s a moment away from ripping the remaining strands of hair from his head and you can’t help but lift your gaze.
“Then… What do they want?” You quietly ask, fingers clenching around one another as your sweaty palms stick together.
“Passion!” Dongho slams his hands on the table so loud that the nearby workers turned to look. You want to hide, but that would be useless. Instead you remain rooted in place as you listen to your editor speak, his voice rising with each syllable. “They want something that burns”, he leans in closer, so close that you can clearly see the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “Make them feel something!”
He exhales sharply, the coffee on his breath so potent that you almost scrunch your nose in dismay. Slowly you nod, like a student pretending to understand their assigned homework. “Something that burns…” You repeat in a hushed murmur.
Dongho huffs out a short laugh, straightening up to his full height, which wasn’t a lot, as he readjusts his tie. “Make them feel your passion, only then will you succeed.” He pauses, eyes flickering over to the calendar on your desk. “You have two weeks, starting today.” His words are final, your verdict laid bare before you — and you knew that this wasn’t only about the article.
He turns on his heel, ignoring the gaze of your colleagues as he descends down the aisle of desks. Only when he’s almost at the door of his office does he turn back to you. “Remember”, he says, his voice booming out over the ocean of workers, “Passion.”
The door slams shut behind him a moment later and you’re left to wallow in shame as those around you cast curious glances your way. With a defeated sigh you return your attention to the paper he’d torn, carefully gathering the pieces in your hands as you dump them into the bin next to your table. Today was going to be a long day.
🥊
“Oh come on, cheer up!”
Jimin’s voice is drowned out by the noise of glasses clinking together, the murmured conversations floating in and out around you and the music playing from a corner somewhere. Slumped over the small table, your finger idly traces the rim of the empty shot glass as you let out a defeated sigh.
The bar is small, located just around the corner of your apartment — a place where you spent more time than you would ever want to admit. Jimin sits to your right, the ever so cheerful grin still plastered on his lips as he reaches for the bottle of soju and pours you another drink. “Don’t be like that, you’ll get it next time.”
You hold the tiny glass up, thanking him with a small huff before bringing it to your lips. The alcohol doesn’t burn your throat as it goes down, not anymore. With a resigned groan you peer into the now empty glass. “Next time?” You hum with a small twitch of your lips, “You’ve been saying that for the past five articles now.”
Jimin remains unfazed by your words as he prepares himself another drink. “I have a good feeling about this one”, he says with a shrug of his shoulders. Once he’s downed his own shot in one go he leans back against the chair as he regards you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “What was it your boss said again?”
“Passion”, you mutter, rolling your eyes as you recall this morning’s harsh lecture. Your eyes wander across the bar, jumping from party to party as they all sit gathered around the wooden tables, discussing everything from the weather to sex positions.
Beside you, Jimin hums, the way he always did when he was thinking intently about something. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts in place, “Well, you’ve got passion, don’t you?”
You knew that he was trying his best to lighten your mood, but it seemed to have an almost opposite effect. Shaking your head you reach for the bottle once more, “Passion? I haven’t felt passion for my work in months now…”
But before you can even begin to pour your drink, his hand is on top of yours, halting your movements. “No passion? This is your dream career”, Jimin says as the brows on his face pull into a confused frown.
You give him a half-hearted smile, “Yeah, I don’t know about that anymore…” You begrudgingly allow him to set the bottle down, giving up on the idea of getting drunk all together, it would only serve as yet another regret tomorrow morning. “Maybe I’m better off selling kitchen appliances somewhere”, you huff in an attempt to crack a joke, but it only makes you grimace.
For a moment Jimin doesn’t say anything, and when his silence becomes unbearable you can’t help but steal a glance his way. He’s leaned forward now, elbows resting on the table and his eyes fixed on something beyond your line of sight. A small hum passes his lips, the way it always would when he was thinking intently about something. You groan, already knowing what was coming next — another one of his fucked up ideas.
It wasn’t hard for you to read Jimin, the two of you had been friends for as long as you could remember. From sticking gum under each others’ desks in middle school to talking about crushes in high school and applying for your first job at a cafe downtown together. He was the first person you had called when your current company had hired you, your excitement spilling through the phone as you jumped up and down.
On your first day he’d given you a ride there, waved you off and picked you up. He would let you brainstorm ideas with him, butting in suggestions that made no sense but at least they brought a smile to your lips. Hell he’d even wiped your tears when your editor had scolded you for messing up a deadline.
So it was safe to say that you knew each other well, perhaps a little too well. And the look on Jimin’s face told you that whatever he was about to say next would not be to your liking.
“Well”, he begins as he draws his thumb across his chin, “If you don’t have any passion, we’ll just have to find some.” He nods to himself, eyes darting back to find yours.
You scoff at his proposal, “Find passion? How exactly would I do that? Not like I can force my own back in under two weeks.” You say as you sit up a little straighter, folding your arms across your chest.
Jimin merely chuckles as he shakes his head, “No. We’ll find somewhere with passion.” He says it like it was the easiest thing in the world and you can’t help but frown. — “Where exactly does one find passion?” You ask with underlying suspicion.
The smirk that immediately pulls across his lips should have told you everything you needed to know as Jimin’s eyes flash with mischief. “The Den”, he says, one hand placed on the table as though he was making a business offer.
You on the other hand, eye him with disdain. “Seriously?” You tsk as you quickly shake your head, an objection already waiting on your tongue. “You know how I feel about that shady place.”
The Den, or Jimin’s personal past time, was as far as you understood, an underground boxing organisation — and a pretty illegal one at that. He had been trying to get you to tag along for months now, whining about how cool the fights were and how he almost always bet on the winner. It all sounded like trouble.
“No.”
You firmly state, gaze narrowed as you dare him to object, but Jimin had never been one to back down from a challenge. “Come on, just give it a shot, the place is practically buzzing with–”
“Drugs?”
“No! Well…”
Sending him a dismissing wave, you turn back to the liquor, intent on having one final drink before heading home to wallow in despair — but Jimin is quicker. He grabs ahold of the bottle, yanking it from your grasp as he hugs it to his chest like a prized possession. Dumbfounded, you stare back at him.
“One chance! If you don’t like it we leave right away, I promise!” He practically begs, eyes big and filled to the brim with a silent plea. You hated when he did that, for you always caved.
You purse your lips, mulling over his offer for a moment. That place was the last thing on your bucket list, you did not like violence or blood and the entire sport in itself seemed like a petty excuse for people to beat each other up. Then you think of your editor’s words this morning, the deadline and what would become of you if you didn’t produce something extraordinary — something that burns.
With a resigned sigh you nod, ignoring the way Jimin practically leaps out of his seat. “We leave right away if I say so”, you remind him as you grab your bag. Your best friend eagerly agrees, already halfway out of the bar as he skips forward with excitement. “You got it!” He says before disappearing out the door.
🥊
The night is cold and unforgiving as you walk down a dwindling and narrow alleyway, with nothing but the sounds of your coupled footsteps to fill the tense silence. Jimin had taken you to the outskirts of town, where large and abandoned industrial buildings remain like a carcass of what had once been. You had not met as much as a single person in the last half hour and you were beginning to think that you never would.
“I don’t know about this…” You speak up for the first time in fifteen minutes, arms wrapping around your middle in an attempt to kill off the cold despite it being only mid-September. Your eyes dart from left to right, half expecting someone to emerge from the shadows and pounce on you. This place reeked of bad news, the kind of people you ran into here had all but good intentions.
Jimin on the other hand, seems completely at ease as he marches onward. His steps are light, gaze wandering casually as he takes in what appeared to be familiar surroundings. “Don’t be dramatic”, he calls over his shoulder with a playful grin. You did not like the fact that he knew his way around here, nor that he seemed so comfortable walking around a place like this.
A frown tugs on your brows, followed by a small shriek as a rat runs out in front of you before scurrying back into the darkness. Your heart pounds in your chest as you rush to Jimin’s side. “I’m not being dramatic! I just…” You cast another weary glance around, eyes lingering on the dark windows of the buildings that loom over you, “This place is just uncanny, is all…”
Your best friend all but chuckles as he shakes his head, clearly amused by your unnerved demeanor as he continues forward.
“How much longer?” You quip, not even bothering to hide the fright to your voice.
“It’s just right ahead”, Jimin muses as he nods to a large building in front of you.
Dread immediately seeps into your bones as you behold the sight. It looked to have been an old warehouse of sorts, its large rectangular shape giving it a box-like resemblance. The once green paint had chipped in the majority of places, leaving behind grey and sad walls. Almost all windows were smashed in and glass lay scattered beneath each now hollow frame.
From a distance it looked just like any other of the big and abandoned buildings out here, but Jimin seemed to know better as he approached the large metal doors. They hang loosely on their hinges, held together with the help of a thick chain. “In there?” You can’t help but ask, pausing as you watch your best friend undo the chain with ease before pushing the squeaking door open.
“Mhm”, Jimin hums as he slips inside, letting the darkness swallow him whole as he disappears from your line of sight. You want to call out for him, tell him that this was a bad idea and you should have never said yes in the first place. Instead you’re left out in the cold, with nothing but the pale moon above to shine down on you.
For a moment you consider turning back, finding your way home and crawl into bed — pray for a day tomorrow that would be better. But then Jimin’s voice calls from inside the vacant building, “Come on, angel!”
With one final glance at the dark night sky, you heave a breath and step over the threshold.
The inside of the old warehouse is spacious and the sound of your footsteps echo on the dirty floors. It’s empty in here, the place stripped bare from all kinds of furniture, leaving only heaps of dust and spiderwebs as decoration. Through the broken windows moonlight seeps in, illuminating the particles floating around in the air.
Behind you, Jimin adjusts the chain to the doors once more before he approaches you. “Shall we?” He says as he motions into the depth of shadows ahead. You should tell him that you regret your decision, that this had been a terrible idea. This was his fun, not yours. But you only find yourself silently nodding, letting him guide you toward the darkness until it swallows you whole.
For a second you wonder if he’d tricked you — it wouldn’t be the first time Jimin had pulled a prank, but then your hand bumps into something cold and hard, making you yelp as you freeze. Next to you, Jimin chuckles as he guides you closer to him. “Watch your step”, he says as the two of you begin your descent down a staircase.
At the bottom there is light, faint and flickering in the distance but it’s definitely there. The silence that had once been laid upon you like a thick and heavy blanket is lifted and replaced with murmured conversation and what appeared to be the bass of music playing. When you finally reach the underground floor you’re presented with two guards that stand either side of what, in comparison to them, was a pathetic looking door.
“They have security here?” You whisper, to which Jimin replies only in a hum as he approaches the men. The guards give him nothing but a quick once-over, clearly familiar with your friend, though their gazes lingered significantly longer on you before letting you both enter.
It’s only when the door is firmly shut behind you that Jimin replies, “Yeah, they’ve got to make sure they know who comes and goes somehow.” His attention is fixed on something far ahead, but exactly what you can’t see for the place was swimming with people.
Inside the air is thick and dense, loaded with anticipation. Somewhere the scent of smoke lingers, curling around you like a snake. The walls here are just as pale and dull, as are the floors which look well beyond their years. The aesthetics of this place didn’t seem to bother people as they all spoke eagerly with each other. To both your left and right you hear lighters clink, excited chatter and laughter.
Your eyes fall on the bleachers that had been pushed up along the walls, the height of the ceiling accommodating for an impressive four rows. Your gaze follows the handmade looking structure of it all, wondering how on earth it would uphold everyone’s weight — you dared not think about it too long.
And there, in the middle, the star of the show. Illuminated by stark, white lights, was the ring itself. Crimson still stained the once white floor, a reminder of the bloodshed it had endured, and would once more. Your stomach twists uncomfortably.
This was exactly the kind of place you had warned Jimin about, and to think that he was spending past time here… You shudder as you eye the people here, all with trouble looming around them like a dark cloud, smoking and drinking as they cheer on for people to get beat up. A sick hobby to put it lightly, one your best friend seemed a little too comfortable sharing with you.
A party somewhere to your right was gesturing wildly with wide smirks on their faces as they passed bills amongst each other — and you can’t help but watch in confusion. “What are they doing?” You ask as you cling onto Jimin like shore in a stormy sea. Your best friend grins as he follows your line of sight.
“Betting”, he muses.
“Betting?” You turn to him with an arched brow, “Isn’t that like gambling?”
Jimin huffs out a short laugh, his arm wrapping around you as he continues to guide you through the ocean of people. “Not if you know who’s going to win”, he says with barely concealed cockiness.
“And I suppose you’ve never lost a bet?” You sarcastically hum.
Your best friend gives a breathless chuckle, but before he gets the chance to reply, a deep voice calls out from somewhere in the crowd, “Jimin-shi!” He immediately stills beside you, eyes narrowing as he peers through the herd of people. Still clinging onto him, you watch as a tall man emerges, moving through the masses with ease, a wide smile on his face. Your eyes dart between him and Jimin, who relaxed once more.
“Jin!” He says as he lets go of you to give the man a hug. When they pull back, the taller gives your best friend a pat on his shoulder before his attention falls on you — dark and brown eyes scan you up and down, a smirk finding its way to his almost uncannily handsome face. “I’ve never seen you around before, it’s unusual of Jimin to bring someone”, his gaze flickers over to the man in question, whose arm had found its way back around your waist, “Should’ve told me you had a girlfriend, Jimin-shi.”
At that you both choke on air, immediately jerking away from one another like you had been struck by lightning. Shaking your heads in tune, you both wave your hands in dismissal. “No! God no, nothing like that!” You quickly blurt, heat already spreading to your face at the mere thought of being associated as anything but friendly with Jimin.
“No, this is my best friend”, Jimin calmly explains as he tries to bite back a wave of laughter. He introduces you with a smile before turning to the taller man, “This is Jin.”
Jin gives a small acknowledging nod as he reaches his hand out for you to shake. You take it, albeit hesitantly. His grip is firm but not crushing as he greets you with a small bow. “Apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet Jimin’s best friend”, he says.
When he lets go he straightens back up to his full height, nodding over his shoulder toward the bleachers, “Come on, I’ve saved good seats.” Without waiting for neither of you to respond he turns and starts maneuvering his way through the crowd he’d just emerged from.
You turn to Jimin, a silent question on your face, ‘You know this dude?’ But your best friend only grins as his hand finds yours, fingers lacing with one another as he moves to follow his supposed friend. “Jin’s a good guy”, he says as he elbows his way past a few drunks, “Known him for about a year and a half.” His words were meant to soothe you, but you don’t think much could given your current situation.
A minute later you finally reach the bleachers. Jin had managed to get seats all up by the front row. “Just perfect”, you huff under your breath as you squeeze in next to Jimin. The two of them discuss tactics eagerly, all the while you gaze out into the ring. You wondered how anyone could take pleasure in this — violence, blood and gore. And people were wasting money on this? It was unimaginable, yet you find yourself watching the flickering lights, heart beating just a little faster in anticipation of what you might witness tonight.
To your left, Jimin and Jin’s conversation continues — but you hardly pay it any mind, at least that is until Jin leans a little closer, his voice dropping lower than necessary. “You can’t tell anyone I told you this”, he starts, the opener already garnering both yours and Jimin’s attention as you turn to look at him.
A small smirk stretches across Jin’s lips, like he was sitting on a most valuable piece of information. He leans even closer, so close that you could almost feel his breath on your face. “I heard The Viper is back in town”, he murmurs.
Jimin’s jaw immediately plummets to the floor and his friend gives his thigh a sharp slap. Confused, you open your mouth to ask what that meant, but your best friend beats you to it.
“Are you serious?” Jimin asks, his eyes wide as saucers, he regards Jin like the man had just handed him a million dollar check. Jin only chuckles, a hint of smugness creeping into his expression as he nods. “Positive, I’m almost one hundred percent sure he’ll be fighting tonight.”
“You’re joking”, Jimin says as he shakes his head, “Fuck, I should’ve placed bets tonight. He’ll win without a doubt.”
Jin hums as his gaze flickers to the empty ring. “I’m sure you’ll have more chances. Viper always does his big one here before leaving again”, he muses.
Finally your confusion has reached its peak and you can’t help but lean forward. “Excuse me, but what’s The Viper?”
Your best friend and Jin exchange knowing glances, like they were about to let you in on a secret. Then Jimin turns to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you to his side. “Only the best fighter The Den has ever seen”, he says it like he was talking about a celebrity of some kind.
“He only comes here a handful of times a year, stays for a couple of weeks at most”, he continues as he gestures toward the ring and the filled bleachers. “Do you know how lucky you are to be here tonight?”
Lucky. You weren’t so sure you could share his joy. Still, you muster a small smile as you nod, letting him pull you even closer as you rest your head against his shoulder. It’s only a moment later that the lights above you dim, casting you in shadows as the ring before you remains lit up. Next to you Jimin tenses, but not in fear, rather excitement. Even you can’t help but train your gaze to the ring, watching and waiting for something to happen.
The sound of a speaker sparks through the room, a clearing of someone’s throat through the device immediately silencing the once lively space. You glance around, trying to determine where the person speaking was seated, but when you turn up empty handed your gaze returns to the ring.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The voice comes through the large speakers and everyone around you goes utterly silent, listening intently to what was being said. The voice continues in the same cheerful and excited tone:
“We’re thrilled to have you here tonight! I hope you have all placed your bets and that you have placed them high — for tonight is not a night you will want to miss!”
You could practically hear the greed woven into every other word. Suppose you did live in a money-hungry world. Money was power and power was everything. Throwing a glance toward Jimin, you find him on the edge of his seat, the arm around your shoulders now loose as his fingers stroke absentminded patterns over your sleeve.
“For you tonight, we present not only entertainment — but the return of a long awaited fan favorite…”
The crowd around you breaks out into hushed murmurs, each one of them trying to piece together the announcer’s cryptic message. On the other side of Jimin, Jin leans back in his seat, a pleased grin playing on his lips. You wondered how he’d found out about it before everyone else, but you were not about to question him right now.
“For our first opponent tonight, please give a round of applause for Eagle Eye!”
Everyone breaks out into excited cheers and roars, clapping and whistling as a man enters the ring. Your eyes fall on him immediately, noticing his strong physique and the scars that stretched across his chest. He walked with stealth, like he owned the place, giving waves and sending winks to the crowd as he did. You grimace at the sight, how could anyone find this attractive.
Beside you, Jimin and Jin whisper amongst themselves, clearly just as unimpressed with the contender as you were. “Should’ve betted tonight”, your best friend sighs in defeat as he shakes his head — “The money I could’ve made.” You wanted to give his shoulder a slap, tell him that there was no point in him gambling his assets away on something as undignified as underground boxing, though before you get the chance to, the announcer has already quieted the crowd again.
“And now, for the one you have all been waiting for. He hardly needs an introduction, but it is my duty to give you one anyway. Please welcome back, The Viper!”
You nearly flinch as those around you erupt into screams, some rising from their seats like they couldn’t believe what had just been revealed. Fists are thrown in the air, whistles even louder than the previous and love confessions spilling from peoples lips. Jesus, this guy must really be a hotshot, you think to yourself as you throw a glance over at your best friend.
Jimin and Jin, though significantly more composed than the rest, were still watching the ring intently. You follow their line of sight, eyes falling on the man that had just entered.
The first thing you notice are the tattoos, wrapping around his arm in a full sleeve, spreading onto his collarbone. They shift as he moves, bicep flexing just slightly as his fists clench and unclench. The silver on his face glinted under the bright lights, two rings on the side of his lip, another adorning his eyebrow. His hair is black as smoke, creeping down his neck and falling in front of his forehead, shielding his eyes from view.
Unlike his competition, he doesn’t pay the crowd any mind as he moves straight for the middle, only stopping once he’s face to face with his opponent, who looks to have taken a mental beating after the announcer’s previous words.
The voice on the speaker returns a moment later, clearing his throat lightly. “Well, it seems our Viper does not care for a prolonged introduction.” A small pause follows before he continues: “Very well, let us commence in a short moment!”
Both opponents draw back into opposite corners of the ring and it’s only then you spot, what you assume to be a coach, in Eagle Eye’s corner. You frown, gaze flickering over to The Viper who was fastening his gloves methodically. “Does he not have a trainer?” You ask as you turn to Jimin.
Your best friend only shrugs, “He doesn't believe in them.”
Don't believe in them? That sounds stupid.
On the other side of Jimin, Jin leans forward. “Doesn’t matter though — he’s never lost a fight, with or without a trainer.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but the glint in his eye betrays his words. The playful smirk he wears as he leans back in his seat makes you wonder just how much he knew about this organisation. Though your silent questions are short lived as your attention becomes pulled back to the ring a second later.
“Place your bets ladies and gents, for only one of them will walk away a winner tonight!”
The crowd cheers, the sound pounding in your ears as the two fighters take place in the middle of the ring. Face to face, you can clearly see their height difference. Eagle Eye towers at least two or three inches over The Viper, his teeth are bared into a snarl, chest heaving like the fight had already begun and ended.
The Viper on the other hand looks… surprisingly nonchalant. Maybe it was just a tactic to psyche his opponent, or maybe he was just that confident in himself. You almost scoffed at the thought. Pride was the first thing to get you killed in this world. With a resigned sigh you lean back in your seat, settling in for what you expect to be a gruesome fight, much to your dislike.
Somewhere in the distance, the announcer’s voice comes through on the speakers:
“On your mark..”
Around you the crowd goes silent, the tense air settling over you like a film. The room narrows and suddenly all you can see are the two opponents standing before each other, ready to tear the other apart. Time seems to slow and you did not dare tear your eyes from the ring. Then the announcer cuts through the tension like a blade:
“Fight!”
The sound of leather slicing through the air follows a moment later as Eagle Eye swings, fist raised as he surges forward without a second's hesitation. However, the first throw he delivers is swiftly avoided by The Viper who quickly moves back, his expression schooled into that same unreadable one. The fight had officially begun.
Roars and shouts of “Harder!” and “Hit him!” fly through the room as the crowd goes absolutely wild, everyone’s attention fixed to the men before them. Even Jimin and Jin were joining in as they raised knuckled fists into the air— it reminded you of frantic football fans, only these people were cheering for someone to get brutally beaten up. You’re hardly paying your best friend any mind as your gaze follows along the action inside the ring.
Eagle Eye continues to advance, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. His punches are sharp, almost extravagant, like he was flaunting himself. You had no idea how the game was played or what the rules were but judging by the way the larger man was easily backing The Viper into a corner, you already had an inkling of how this was going to pan out in the end.
Another punch and this time leather meets skin — only it’s not The Viper who’s been hit.
His opponent stumbles backward, the sound of his feet are heavy and uncoordinated on the floor and the crowd erupts in a frenzy of gasps and cheers. The Viper’s expression remains that same unreadable one he’d been wearing since he first entered the ring, like this hit had meant nothing. But the shift in dynamic was obvious and that had meant everything. You could clearly see it in the way Eagle Eye tried to regain his bearings as quickly as possible, ignoring the blood that spilled down his temple.
The Viper remains perfectly idle, dark eyes locked on his opponent as the man charges for him once more. A low, animalistic sounding growl rumbles in Eagle Eye’s chest as he raises his fist, ready to strike again. This time his punch is met with The Viper’s forearms as he effectively blocks the attack. Eagle Eye lets out a noise of frustration.
Another punch follows.
Then another, this one heavier.
And another, harder.
Eagle Eye is strong, that much was clear. It may also have been his only beneficial attribute. He was slower, bigger and heavier. His movements, though certainly sharp and deliberate, were still not quick enough to catch The Viper off guard as he easily pivots backward. He, on the other hand, was much lighter on his feet, moving around Eagle Eye almost as though he was toying with him.
The crowd around you goes from holding their breath to breaking out into high-pitched screams as The Viper lands another punch to Eagle Eye. This time he struck from underneath, hitting his chin with one hard throw. The cracking sound is unmistakable, soaring through the hot and tense air like church bells after a funeral, loud and final. You can’t contain the gasp that slips from your tongue, wincing as you imagine the same pain inflicted on yourself.
Beside you Jimin cheers, he’s halfway out of his seat at this point as he watches the scene before him — so is the rest of the crowd who chants, “Finish him!”
But The Viper doesn’t seem at all fazed by his surroundings, his darkened eyes are set entirely on his opponent. Eagle Eye groans with barely contained rage, every muscle on his ripped body clenching as he lunges forward. It was becoming increasingly clear that he was losing momentum, each blow felt less and less calculated than the last, even someone like you could see that.
The Viper counters every one of his attacks, responding by repeated kicks and punches to Eagle Eye’s chest, shins and face until the man was a mess of his own blood. The fight was turning gruesome, and quickly, making you scrunch your nose with a small grimace. And yet in the midst of it all, you find yourself utterly entranced by The Viper.
The way he moved like air itself bent under the tips of his fingers. Each blow was prepared, thought through and precise. If only for a moment you swore you could see the fire in his eyes, feel the power each time the muscles in his arms clenched. He shifts on his feet almost gracefully and if it weren’t for the sweat beading on his forehead, sliding down the sides of his sharp face and coating his back and chest, you would think that this was all just a game to him. It was fascinating to watch and you don’t think you could look away even if you wanted to.
The spell is broken a moment later when the crowd suddenly lets out a collective gasp. The once hot air goes eerily still, a cold chill settling over the arena before it’s plunged into a deafening silence. Your eyes widen when they register what had just happened in front of you. The previous punch, the one that had echoed like thunder through the room, hadn’t been delivered by The Viper — no, he had his head bowed, one gloved hand wiping at his face as he spat onto the ground. You watch as the crimson liquid slides from his lip and onto his chin. A grimace passed his features, the first flicker of emotion he’d shown, it felt like a silent warning.
Eagle Eye, despite being smeared in his own blood, was wearing a smirk that would probably make most cower. He looks pleased with himself, far too pleased — like the game had already ended, the victory already in his hand. Perhaps it was just the opportunity The Viper needed as he delivered a final throw, this one hitting his opponent right between the eyes, causing him to stumble as he fell to the ground with a thud that echoed.
The Viper was on him within the next second, limbs tangling together as he coiled around him like a snake, keeping him in a vice-like grip. His elbow comes to rest just under Eagle Eye’s chin, pressing down against his exposed throat, not hard enough to kill, but enough to make him know he could.
A moment later the coach who you had previously spotted in Eagle Eye’s corner appears. He comes to stand above the two men, watching as they battle the final moments out on the floor, their strained groans filling the thick air.
Around you everyone begins to chant, “One… Two… Three… Four…” Your eyes are glued to the scene as Eagle Eye struggles beneath The Viper, clawing at any part of him he could access, delivering weak throws to his exposed sides with little success. The Viper doesn’t move more than an inch, pinning him to the floor effortlessly.
“Five…” The sound of the crowd’s boots hitting the bleachers echo through the room.
“Six…” To your left Jimin joins in, his hand clenched into a fist and his face tense with anticipation.
You swallow, watching with far too fascinated eyes as blood slides down Eagle Eye’s temple before hitting the floor beneath him. His head lolls to the side, a defeated grunt passing his lips. “Seven! Eight!” The crowd is practically screaming now.
It’s clear to everyone in the room who’s won. His opponent lays motionless beneath him, completely and utterly undone but The Viper’s gripe remains just as intense as it had been all along, inked arm still pressed firm against the other man’s jugular.
“Nine!”
“Ten!”
The coach blows a whistle and signals for The Viper to back off. The fight is officially over.
You can barely hear your own thoughts as the crowd rises to their feet, excited cheers and praise being thrown at the man inside the ring. Beside you Jimin shakes your shoulders eagerly, talking fast and incoherently about the fight. You’re not listening, all you can see is him. His chest heaves as he stands back up, dark eyes trained to the bloody floor even as the coach takes his arm and raises it to the ceiling.
“Ladies and gents!” The announcer is back, this time he’s practically buzzing with excitement, “We have a winner! Give it up for The Viper!”
The screams become impossibly loud, everyone applauds like they had just witnessed something truly unthinkable. He looks up then, only for a moment, but in his eyes you can see it clear as day. Passion. He was filled with it, much so that it radiated off of him and out into the room, all the way to where you sit motionless in the stormy sea of people.
“People want something that burns.”
Your editor’s words ring in your ears over and over, overpowering the roar of the crowd around you. The room narrows until there’s only him and you left, the noise around you drowns out until nothing but a quiet buzz remains. He’s not looking at you, in fact you’re not sure he’s looking toward anything at all — but it’s still there, that quite fire.
You watch the blood that had spilled down his chin, his chest heaving with something beyond just the victory, something deeper, passionate. The Viper was exactly what you needed. He burned.
✐ taglist... @fatedrunk @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire
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summary: in which a stupid in game marriage leads to unexpected feelings offline.
w/c: 1.6k
warnings!!!: none
a/n: 3/3 beomgyu short stories, this one got a bit away from me in length but i lwk loved the yeonjun gamer au i did and this one was so much fun to make
You should’ve known better than to let your best friend talk you into downloading Eternity Online.
She had leaned over your shoulder, eyes glittering like she was letting you in on the secret of the universe.
“It’s cozy! You can fish, build a farm, maybe fight some cute little monsters. Totally your vibe.”
Totally your vibe, your ass.
Because what she didn’t mention was that Eternity Online also came with a deeply cursed “marriage system.” And that one clumsy late-night misclick could apparently bind you for life.
The notification popped up in bright, celebratory fireworks across your screen.
🎉 Congratulations! You are now married to: [SkyPrince]. 🎉
You blinked. Stared. “Excuse me?”
And then the chat box lit up.
SkyPrince: …uh. hello, wife.
“WHAT,” you muttered to no one.
SkyPrince: don’t sound so excited all at once.
You groaned out loud. “Nope. Nope nope nope. Divorce me right now.”
SkyPrince: can’t. binding contract. very tragic. we’ll have to make it work.
“Oh, absolutely not—”
SkyPrince: quick, what’s your favorite color? i’m redecorating the house.
“What house?!”
SkyPrince: OUR house, obviously.
You were going to log out. You were. But then he sent a “kiss” emote in your direction, your avatar stumbled back in horror, and his pixelated little character followed it up with an over-the-top kneeling proposal.
SkyPrince: she said yes again 🥰
And, against your better judgment, you snorted. Loud.
“Great,” you sighed, sinking back in your chair. “I married an idiot.”
Through your headset, you heard it: his laugh. Warm, unrestrained, melodic. It carried even through the cheap static of your mic.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’m your idiot now.”
You quickly learned that “marrying” someone in Eternity Online didn’t just mean you had to suffer his flirting in the chat box.
No. It came with perks.
Like the fact that every time you logged in, he was already waiting outside your little pixelated cottage. Sitting. Spinning in circles. Spamming heart emotes.
“Do you ever log off?” you asked after the third day in a row.
“Do you ever say ‘good morning’ to your husband?” he shot back.
You groaned. “I hate this.”
“You love this,” he corrected smoothly. “Also, I made breakfast.”
Your avatar blinked at the mountain of virtual food suddenly dumped into your inventory. Stacks of rare fruit tarts, glowing potions, even the golden roast that usually cost way too much time or money to craft.
“…Where did you even get all this?”
“I have connections,” he said mysteriously, which probably meant he bullied higher-level players until they caved.
And then he topped it off with: “Eat well, my love. I can’t have my wife starving.”
You wanted to throw your mouse.
It only got worse.
On a dungeon run later that week, he charged in ahead of you with no plan whatsoever, yelling, “FOR MY WIFE!” as three monster ogres immediately flattened him.
“Wow,” you muttered, reviving him for the fourth time. “My hero.”
“You’re welcome,” he wheezed dramatically, lying pixelated and lifeless on the ground.
“Beomgyu.”
“Yes, darling?”
“You literally did nothing.”
“I sacrificed my body so you could land the final hit. That’s love.”
“…You’re actually insane.”
“Insanely devoted.”
And yet — against every ounce of logic — you didn’t unfriend him.
Because somewhere between his terrible battle strategies, his habit of spam-trading you flowers, and the way his laugh filled your headset at two in the morning, you realized you were looking forward to seeing his username pop up.
Maybe even a little too much.
It was supposed to be a normal Saturday.
Your best friend had dragged you to a café to “actually touch grass” instead of rotting behind a screen. You were halfway through an iced latte, ranting without thinking.
“I swear,” you muttered, stabbing your straw into the ice, “if my stupid in-game husband spams the kiss emote one more time, I’m filing for divorce.”
Your best friend choked on her muffin. “You… have a husband?”
“In a game,” you said quickly. “Not real. He’s just—ugh. He calls himself SkyPrince. Total menace.”
From a few tables over, a chair scraped. Someone cleared their throat.
“…Excuse me?” a familiar voice said.
You froze. Slowly turned your head.
The boy in the hoodie at the next table was staring at you, wide-eyed, half a croissant in hand. And you knew that voice. You’d heard it crackling through your headset at 2 a.m. more times than you could count.
“No,” you whispered.
He grinned, slow and delighted. “Wife.”
Your best friend whipped her head between you two. “WHAT.”
You nearly fell out of your chair. “Wait—you—you’re SkyPrince?!”
Beomgyu was already moving, dragging his coffee and pastry over to your table like he belonged there. He dropped into the seat across from you, grin spreading wider by the second.
“Wow,” he said, looking you up and down with infuriating ease. “I had a feeling my wife was cute, but this? Way above my league.”
Your best friend gaped. “Back up. You’re married?!”
“In a game,” you hissed.
Beomgyu nodded solemnly. “Yes. Married. Beautiful ceremony. She cried.”
“I did not—”
“She wept with joy,” he insisted.
You kicked him under the table. He yelped, but the grin never left his face. If anything, it got worse.
You were still mid-glare when Beomgyu slid his phone across the table, lock screen glowing.
“Number,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.
You scoffed. “Why would I give you my number?”
He gave a dramatic sigh, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like he might faint. “Unbelievable. My wife of three months doesn’t even want to text me. Imagine the scandal.”
You rolled your eyes. “We’re not married.”
“In-game vows count. Don’t disrespect the sanctity of our union,” he shot back, lips twitching.
You were dangerously close to throwing your iced coffee at him. But the stubborn tilt of his grin told you he wouldn’t drop it. So, against every better instinct, you typed your number in.
The whoop of victory he let out earned another round of stares from nearby tables. “Perfect. Now I can harass you outside the game too.”
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“Mm, but you didn’t say no,” he said, leaning back in his chair, smug as ever. “See you online tonight, wife.”
Before you could come up with a scathing reply, he’d already pushed to his feet, tossing you a lazy salute on his way out. The bell above the café door jingled as he disappeared into the street, leaving you with a half-finished drink and the growing dread of what he was about to do with your phone number.
Your screen lit up less than thirty seconds later.
Unknown Number: Don’t forget to stock healing potions before tonight. Love, your doting husband.
You: Delete my number.
Unknown Number: Can’t. Bound by holy matrimony.
You: I’m blocking you.
Unknown Number: Rude. See you at 8 <3
~
The next afternoon, you pushed open the café door, bells jingling, already halfway through planning your order in your head. You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon.
But there he was. Beomgyu. Planted at your usual corner table like it had always belonged to him, a laptop open, iced americano sweating onto the wood.
You froze. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He looked up, smiled slow, and had the audacity to wave. “Wife.”
“You don’t even like coffee,” you accused.
“I like this place now,” he said easily, sipping his drink like he hadn’t just staked a territorial claim on your one safe space. “Good vibes. Great company.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You followed me here, didn’t you?”
“Followed is a strong word.” He gestured vaguely toward the counter. “I simply remembered your favorite haunt from yesterday’s vows-renewal brunch.”
“It wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, too tired to fight over semantics. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said cheerfully, patting the empty chair across from him, “you’re still talking to me.”
You considered leaving. Truly, you did. But the line at the counter was long, and he was already smug enough without you giving him the satisfaction of storming out. So with a put-upon sigh, you sat.
His grin widened, all teeth and triumph. “See? Domestic bliss.”
~
The second time you caught him at the café, you told yourself it was coincidence. The third time? You weren’t so sure.
It was late, most of the chairs stacked and lights dimmed, when you realized he was still there. Laptop closed, coffee long gone, but his gaze kept flicking to the door like he was waiting.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” you said when he fell into step beside you outside.
“Please,” he scoffed. “This isn’t babysitting. This is…” He thought for a second, then snapped his fingers. “Husbandly duty.”
You gave him a side-eye. “And if I get murdered on the way home?”
“Then who’s gonna rez me in-game tomorrow?” he countered, eyes sparkling.
You laughed despite yourself, shoving his shoulder. “Unbelievable.”
But he stayed, matching his stride to yours, filling the quiet streets with easy chatter. And when you reached your door, he rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, suddenly less smug.
“…You know,” he said, softer now, “when I asked you to marry me in-game, I thought it’d just be funny. Like a bit. But…” He trailed off, lips quirking into something smaller, almost shy. “Turns out I don’t mind it as much as I thought.”
Your chest squeezed.
He flashed you a grin before you could reply, stepping backward down the street. “Anyway, don’t forget potions tomorrow, wife. Sweet dreams.”
And then he was gone, leaving you on your doorstep, heart doing somersaults and phone buzzing with a new message.
Beomgyu: Made it home safe. Husband level +1.
You: Idiot.
Beomgyu: <3
You stared at the little heart longer than you meant to, warmth curling at the edges of your smile. Maybe marriage wasn’t the worst idea after all.
pairing: bestfriend’s brother!beomgyu x fem!reader, non idol au
genre: angst, forbidden romance, slowburn (but short?), pining, fluff at the end
summary: in which staying over at your best friend’s house means running into her brother, who should be off-limits — but rules don’t stop feelings.
w/c: 1k
warnings!!!: none really
a/n: 2/3 for my beomgyu short stories, i grinded this one listening to ceremony on repeat, not sure how i feel might make it a longer story cs i think itd work better so its more like a draft
The rule had always been simple: Beomgyu was off-limits.
Your best friend had said it half-jokingly when you first started coming over in middle school, tossing a warning glare as her older brother sauntered through the living room in ripped jeans and a smirk. Back then, the thought had been ridiculous anyway. He was older, louder, insufferable.
And yet.
Years later, nothing about Beomgyu had changed — except now you were old enough to notice the curve of his smile, the way he leaned in doorframes like the world existed to amuse him. Which was inconvenient, because you were sitting cross-legged on your best friend’s bedroom floor, trying very hard not to think about him in the room down the hall.
“Stay over tonight,” she said, tugging at your sleeve. “We’ll binge the new drama.”
You hesitated. Sleepovers always meant Beomgyu, with his late-night fridge raids and his tendency to wander into the kitchen shirtless. It meant pretending not to notice when he smirked at you across the table, as if you were both in on some private joke.
But you nodded anyway. Because saying no to her felt worse.
It was past midnight when you crept into the kitchen for water. The house was quiet, shadows stretching long in the dim light. You opened the fridge carefully, trying not to wake anyone.
“Caught you.”
The voice nearly made you drop the glass. Beomgyu leaned against the counter, hair mussed from sleep, oversized t-shirt hanging loose.
You scowled. “I wasn’t stealing.”
He grinned, slow and knowing. “Yet.”
You rolled your eyes, filling the glass. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Not really. This is way more entertaining.” He stepped closer, close enough that the air seemed to shift. “You always sneak down here, don’t you? Like you’re not part of the family, but… you kind of are.”
Your stomach tightened. “I’m not.”
“No,” he said softly, eyes catching yours in the dim light. “You’re not.”
For a moment, silence pressed in around you. His gaze lingered, heavy enough to make your pulse stutter. You shoved past him, muttering something about bed, but the glass shook faintly in your hand.
The next day, the tension only grew.
At breakfast, he brushed past your chair a little too close. When you looked up, he smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Later, when your best friend stepped into the bathroom, he dropped onto the couch beside you, stretching his arm along the backrest, casual but deliberate.
“Comfortable?” you asked, voice sharp to cover the way your chest thudded.
“Very.” His smirk curved. “You?”
You hated the way he made your skin prickle. You hated even more the way you didn’t move away.
It broke that evening.
You were helping your best friend set up the guest futon when Beomgyu appeared in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame. “Need help?”
“We’re fine,” you snapped too quickly.
His sister laughed, waving him off. “Go away, Gyu. You’d just mess it up.” She disappeared into the bathroom with a bundle of sheets, leaving the two of you alone.
The room felt too small, the air too thick. Beomgyu stepped in, closing the distance. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His voice dropped, the tease fading. “Why?”
You turned away, fumbling with the blanket. “Because you’re my best friend’s brother. That’s why.”
He was quiet for a beat, then: “And if you forget that for a second?”
You froze. Slowly, you turned back. His eyes were on you, dark and unflinching.
“Beomgyu…”
He took another step. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. Then I’ll stop.”
Your heart hammered, denial tangled on your tongue. You should have said it. You should have shut him down. Instead, your silence betrayed you.
The distance closed in a breath. His hand brushed yours, tentative, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. And then his mouth was on yours — hungry, messy, like years of biting back had finally broken loose.
The kiss burned, not gentle at all, but it softened when he cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he hated himself for it, like he wanted it more than air.
You broke apart, breathless, guilt and want tangled tight.
“This is—” you whispered.
“Wrong?” he finished, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah. I know.”
Neither of you moved.
And in the silence, with his breath warm against your skin, you knew it didn’t matter.
Baby Epilogue
The kiss had left your chest burning, your thoughts tangled. You’d barely slept that night, replaying it over and over.
The next day, the sky darkened with low clouds, and before you knew it, the first drops of rain were falling. You were heading out when you spotted him on the street ahead, dashing to avoid the downpour.
Without thinking, you called after him. “Wait!”
He paused, turning with that infuriating grin. “Looks like someone didn’t get the memo about umbrellas.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you teased, though your words trembled.
The rain hit hard moments later, soaking both of you instantly. He laughed, loud and free, and somehow that sound made your chest tighten all over again.
He reached for your hand, this time not teasing, not tentative — just firm and steady. “I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday,” he admitted quietly, eyes bright despite the rain.
You swallowed, heart hammering. “Me neither.”
So you walked together, hand in hand, letting the rain soak through everything else. At a narrow overhang, he pulled you close, forehead to forehead, and whispered, “You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed this.”
And then you kissed him again. Softer this time, slower, savoring the quiet between the raindrops. The world blurred around you, but the space between the two of you felt infinite.
When you finally pulled back, laughing and drenched, there was a quiet certainty. The rules, the warnings, the messiness — none of it mattered when it was just the two of you and the rain.
pairing: barista!beomgyu x fem!reader, non idol au
genre: fluff, banter, soft romance
summary: in which the local barista keeps ruining your coffee order, but maybe he’s only doing it to get your attention.
w/c: 0.7k
warnings!!!: none
a/n: 1/3 for my beomgyu short stories, ill probably post them all really close and then disappear for another week before i start a new story
The barista at your local coffee shop had a personal vendetta against your order.
You were sure of it.
“Another one,” Beomgyu announced, sliding a cup across the counter with a flourish. “The Caramel Macchiato of Doom, extra drizzle, extra foam, extra… wait, what even is this? Did you invent this?”
You rolled your eyes, snatching it before he could make another scene. “It’s literally on the menu.”
“Not the way you say it.” His grin was lazy, hair pushed back under his cap, apron strings hanging too loose at his waist. He looked far too smug for someone who had spelled your name wrong. Again.
“Spelled correctly is also on the menu,” you said, holding up the cup. The name scrawled across it looked more like Yarn.
Beomgyu leaned on the counter, chin propped on his palm, smirk sharp enough to cut. “That’s your name now. Yarn. I don’t make the rules.”
“You literally do, you’re the one writing it.”
“Exactly. And I say you look like a Yarn. Cozy. Tangled. Kind of a mess.”
You should have walked away. Instead, you found yourself sputtering, “You’re one to talk.”
Because Beomgyu was always a mess — apron dusted with coffee grounds, shirt half untucked, dark eyes bright with a constant dare. He worked the morning shifts too early for someone who clearly stayed up too late, humming under his breath while pulling espresso shots. And somehow, he always ended up at your table on his break, claiming the seat across from you like it belonged to him.
You told yourself you only tolerated it because the shop was small and crowded.
But then there were the doodles.
The first time you noticed, you thought it was an accident — a tiny sketch on the side of your cup. A badly drawn cat, ears lopsided. The next day it was a flower. Then a stick figure with hair suspiciously like yours.
“Are you… drawing on my drinks?” you asked one afternoon, raising the cup.
Beomgyu had the audacity to look innocent. “Just adding to the experience.”
“And what experience is that?”
“The exclusive Yarn Club™. Members only. Very prestigious.”
You snorted. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet, you keep coming back.”
That was the problem. You did keep coming back. More often than you should. Even on days you didn’t need caffeine, you found yourself in that shop, pretending to work, pretending not to notice when Beomgyu lingered at your table instead of the others.
He was a menace, sure. But he was also the only part of your morning that made you smile before noon.
The shift came on a Wednesday.
Rain hammered against the windows, and the usual crowd was thinner than usual. You sat curled in the corner with your laptop, trying not to notice how quiet it was without his usual chatter. Beomgyu had been behind the counter most of the morning, unusually focused, head bent as he restocked syrups.
Then a shadow fell across your table.
“You didn’t even touch your drink,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you.
“You’re on the clock.”
“And?” He leaned back, stretching like a cat. “Nobody’s here. Boss won’t care.”
You gestured at the untouched latte. “You spelled my name correctly today. I was suspicious.”
His smile softened, and it was the first time you realised how pretty he looked when he wasn’t teasing. “Wanted to get it right, just once.”
Something lodged in your throat. You covered it with a sip of coffee, lukewarm now, but your pulse raced.
Beomgyu tapped the table, restless. “You know, I should probably confess something.”
“Oh god,” you muttered. “You poisoned my drinks, didn’t you?”
He laughed, head thrown back, and you had to look away before you stared too long. “Not exactly. It’s worse.”
“Worse than poisoning?”
“I might—” he hesitated, uncharacteristically nervous. “—actually like seeing you every day.”
Your heart stuttered.
For once, you couldn’t summon a comeback. The hum of the espresso machine filled the silence between you.
Beomgyu’s fingers drummed on the table, his gaze darting anywhere but your face. “I mean, it’s fine if you think I’m annoying. Most people do. I just… wanted you to know.”
Quietly, you said: “Good thing I like annoying people, then.”
His head snapped up. The grin that broke across his face was brighter than the café lights, warmer than the coffee in your hands.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The rain kept falling outside, steady and constant. But inside, with Beomgyu looking at you like you’d just made his whole day, everything felt lighter.
𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ In Strawberryland, where all the people are happy, and a little fruity; Little Apricot finds herself drawn to the only thing the village seems to resent. — For in a lonesome house by the far end of the valley, where the sun never seems to shine, and the grass never seems to grow, lives a boy who was once as peachy as one could be.
Nowadays, he's grown somewhat of a hermit, and should his sharp glares not be enough, his harsh words certainly will be when he fends off any visitors that may dare come his way. No one knows what happened to the boy. Though one thing was clear; every peach Beomgyu touched quickly turned rotten. ⸝⸝
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ wc, 16k ་༘࿐
𝓹airings peach!beomgyu x little apricot!reader (f)
𝔀arnings heavy grumpy x sunshine trope, fairytale themed (kinda goes in threes, at least in the beginning), mean beomgyu, naive/gullible reader, longing/yearning, unprotected sex, creampie, little apricots cum is described as a jam-like texture, cum eating, oral (f. rec), overstimulation, beomgyu is fuzzy (cause peach fuzz), lot of kissing, loads of sexual tension..
#serene adds ✎.. hello!! I'm so so excited for this fic you guys seriously have no idea, imagine my current excitement and then bump it up 100x! I've worked so hard on this fic, but most of it felt so natural when I was writing, everything kinda just flowed? I hope that shines through!! ahh, and I can never shut up so here we are at 16k when my target was 7k but oh well.. oh but I would love to hear your thoughts on this!! merry christmas!! consider this my gift :3
THIS FIC IS A PART OF AN EVENT, GET REDIRECTED TO THE EVENTPOST !
The sun rises early in Strawberryland, its warm rays casting the plump little houses in an orange glow. It’s quiet, for the colorful meadow has yet to wake up. The birds are still sleeping soundly, the deers hidden in the treeline as they huddle close to one another. All that can be heard is the soft rippling of clear water as it runs along a small stream. Everyone is asleep, all except for one. — Little Apricot rises just as the sun, and she does so with excitement.
Pots and silverware clank together, creating a chaotic atmosphere in your tiny kitchen as you shuffle about. The soft hum of a foreign melody dances across your lips, your hands working diligently as they alter between stirring the jam that was cooking on the stove, and onto unscrewing the lids of the many jars you’d prepared. An outsider would think something big was coming, that this might’ve been a special day indeed.
And it was. For Little Apricot at least.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty…” You point to each neatly secured jar, filled to the brim with creamy orange jam. They’re topped with a matching ribbon, tied nicely around the plaid and orange lid. And they’re now all ready to be handed out. — “Forty-nine…” You trail off, gaze lingering by the last jar, “Fifty…”
With pursed lips, your hands hover above it, debating on whether to shove it in the already full basket alongside the rest. In the end you do. And with your bright orange coat pulled over your body, you step outside, letting the warm sun caress the soft skin of your cheeks, causing a smile to spread across your face. Today was a good day.
Your steps are light and cherry as you skip down the cobbled road that takes you through Strawberry village. The happy song of the melody you sang rings out into the air, and you only tune it down to a soft hum as you approach the first door of the day. — With a gentle knock, you wait, swinging back and forth on two legs as you balance the heavy basket in your hands.
The blue door to the little hut swings open and you’re greeted by a mess of hair as bright and blue as the sky itself. Blueberry Kai greets you with a smile, his sapphire like eyes sparkling in the sun as they land on the basket in your hands. “Hi Little Apricot!” He almost sings the words and you refuse a giggle as you coyly avert your gaze.
“Hi Kai, I brought you one of these..” You reach for one of the jam filled jars, handing the boy it as you await his verdict. — Kai’s smile widens as he takes the jar from you, and it seems small in his large hands. “You’re too good to us Apricot”, he says, though doesn’t refuse your kindness but rather thanks you with the promise of bringing a fresh blueberry pie in the following days.
You continue like that, happily skipping down the road that looped around the village. And for each house you stopped by, the grin on your lips only grew, as did the warmth on your face and the love that filled your chest. Gradually your basket emptied and got lighter, and once you’d delivered Lemon Drop Soobin his jar, all that remained was one.
The bright and orange little jar looks lonely as it rocks back and forth by the bottom of your now comically large basket, and with a small frown you glance toward the forest line. “Hmpf”, you huff, shaking your head sharply before turning on your heel and marching toward the dark trees. You had made enough jam for everyone in this village, and you’d make sure to deliver it as well.
..Suppose you had underestimated the dark and menacing nature of the woods just slightly. But it wasn’t like the forest in Strawberryland was always this…scary, it just so happened to be the part where one individual resided. The youngest of the village speculated that his presence is what caused the nature around him to turn dark, that his vile and evil ways killed everything around him. You didn’t believe such nonsense, yet you found yourself gripping the basket tighter in your hands as you carefully trudged forward.
You’ve been walking for a good twenty minutes, following a sparse dirt road as you peer through the thick tree trunks, when a small cottage suddenly floats into vision. Your heart beat immediately picks up, thumping loudly against your ribcage as you with hesitant steps approach. — The small hut looks just like the others of the village. Or at least, it used to.
The white paint on its sides had been dirtied by nature's force, vines climbed the walls and tangled around the windowsills where the peachy paint had chipped. The roof was a round and once warm shade, though now, it looked just as lifeless as the rest of the house. You wondered how anyone could possibly live like this.
A small wooden sign is shoved into the ground, it is just as battered as the rest of the place and reads the words, “Keep Out!” A flicker of uncertainty passes you by, but you ignore it. It was probably just something he had put up to scare any kids that dared come this way despite their mother’s warnings.
As you heave the steps up his front door, you try to remember what he’d looked like. You don’t think you have seen him for quite some time now. For he only ventured into town when he needed something, and judging by the state of his small cottage, it had been a while. Still, you figured that he deserved a jar of jam just as much as anyone else. It wasn’t like he was a criminal or anything of the sort…He was just, well… Him.
The knock you deliver to his door is just as soft and cheerful as the others had been. Though this time you have to remind yourself to smile, it didn’t come naturally when your heart was palpitating at a near alarming rate. — You wait another minute, nearly two, but there’s still no answer. With a small frown you try your luck again.
Another soft knock.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” You call out, the shaky edge to your voice coming off a lot stronger than you’d hoped. But you hadn't come all the way out here for nothing, and you would be damned if you didn’t get this last jar off your hands. A few moments later, you hear it, the soft rustling of something, of someone, moving on the other side.
And much to your delight, the door swings open mere moments later. Though the sight you’re met with does little to ease the agitated beating of your heart. A tangled mess of unkempt dark brown hair, paired with fierce and menacing eyes and a nasty scowl that stretches across his pale lips. — Peach Beomgyu looked ready to beat you bloody.
Your words get caught in your throat, and as much as you try to swallow, not an ounce of saliva will go down. Clearing your throat, you readjust the basket in your hands, wordlessly extending it in front of you. Beomgyu’s gaze falls on the lonesome jar before snapping back up to you. His brows furrow, twisting his face into even more of an accusing look as his eyes narrow on you.
“What’s the meaning of this?” His voice has got a clean cut edge to it, sharp and impeccably demanding. Suddenly, your usual lines all diminish into nothing, your brain melting into a pile of jam as your mouth goes dry. “I… I brought you some-” — “I can see what it is, do you take me for an idiot?” He snaps, effortlessly cutting you off as he shoves your basket back with a look of sheer distaste.
Your mouth opens and closes, like that of a goldfish mindlessly swimming around in its bowl. “Y-Yes but you see I”, you swallow, “I made it myself.” And though you knew your words to be true, they were hardly convincing as you stumbled over them. Beomgyu’s brows rose on his forehead, but he did not look surprised, merely lightly interested. You counted the win anyway.
With trembling arms you extend him the basket once more, encouraging him to retrieve the jar. But he only looked at it as though it would jump up and bite him in the face. “Well you’ve wasted your time then”, he grunts, averting his gaze as he urges you off his porch. You won’t budge, feet clamming to the old wooden boards as you stubbornly present the jar for him.
Beomgyu scoffs, running a hand through his dark hair, and you’re surprised when his fingers don't catch onto the mess of strands, in fact the brown locks looked almost…soft. You shake your head, blinking twice as you pick the jar up, shoving it against his hard chest as you peer over at him with a determined expression, your lips pressed together in a firm line.
“I’m sure you can reconsider”, you probe, much to little avail as Beomgyu’s scowl only grows. You were sure you’d overstepped for good this time. — But he doesn’t shout, nor does he tell you to get the hell away from his house. He chuckles. And though it’s far from an actual laugh, it’s something other than the tired and displeased groans. It makes your stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way.
You almost expect him to wipe a half-hearted tear from his eye. To maybe condole you on your gullibleness or your overbearing kindness. Well, and a small part of you hopes he might actually accept the jar. — He does none of those things, instead he takes a small, almost unnoticeable step back. And before you know it, the door is slammed shut in your face, leaving you alone in the dark and menacing forest once more.
With a petulant huff, you glance toward the window by the door, just in time to see him drawing the peach colored curtains in front of the glass, blocking him from your view. “Bastard”, you mutter as you step off the porch, kneeling down in front of it to place the jar down, “I’ll just put you right here…”
As you trudge down the dirt path leading from his cottage and back to the village, you can feel his lingering gaze on you, peeking through the light and peachy curtains. You smile to yourself, feeling accomplished despite his refusal, for you did not take his cruel words personally. — At the end of the day an angry person will always be the angriest with himself.
⸝⸝
It quickly becomes somewhat of a habit for you to make fifty jars instead of forty-nine. At first you had told yourself that the number was just much more satisfactory in itself, and that it was easier to make five full batches rather than four and then some. But you could only lie to yourself for so long. And when you find yourself on Beomgyu’s doorstep a third time in the span of two weeks, you know that the extra jar is more than just a number.
He doesn’t answer you when you call for him, but you know he’s there, listening, even though he doesn't want to, because he can’t help himself. And each time, you place the little jar on his porch. The orange jam is a stark contrast to the dull forest all around, and is easily spotted. — You keep returning, not because you fancied being ignored outside his shut door, or because you enjoyed the muddy walk to his little house. But because whenever you returned, the jar from last time would be gone.
And when you for a fifth time find yourself on his porch, swaying back and forth as you hum along to a quiet melody, you’re surprised when the door actually opens. He’s frowning, lips tugged into what you presumed to be a permanent scowl. You wondered if he ever smiled. — Beomgyu gives you a quick one over, his gaze undoubtedly lingering by the jar in your basket.
He clears his throat, “What the hell are you still doing here?” His question catches you off guard and you blink as your attention returns to the present moment. “Huh?” Is all you can muster, the response coming out as a question of your own. — Beomgyu scoffs, rolling his eyes as if he’d just asked you the most obvious thing. “You’ve been out here for twenty minutes, what the fuck do you want?”
Twenty minutes? Had it really been that long.. You would admit that you usually lingered for a minute or two before placing the little jar and returning back home. It wasn’t like you were waiting for him, well… You might have been. Suppose that today your mind had travelled a little too far, even for your own liking. But to think that you’d spent a whole twenty minutes in front of his door, lost in thoughts..
“I… Well I..” You bite the inside of your cheek, your brows creasing into a confused frown. You open your mouth to speak, but what comes out is not a coherent response, rather… “Your hair is brown.”
Beomgyu looks taken aback for once, his own frown deepening tenfold as he regards you with confusion. “So?” He retorts, folding his arms across his chest. — You don’t think it had ever occurred to you, but the unkempt and wild mess atop his head was a dark shade of brown, nearly black. It suited him, sure, it made his already sharp features and dark eyes stand out even more. But you couldn’t help but wonder why…
All of the people in Strawberryland had cheerful and bright colors. You thought of Blueberry Kai’s bright blue hair, Lemon Drop Soobin’s warm yellow and Yeonjun Sorbet’s striking red. Yet Peach Beomgyu had…brown hair? It didn’t make any sense. — Beomgyu looks almost insulted as he waits for you to respond, impatiently tapping his foot against the threshold.
“Isn’t your hair supposed to be…peach colored?” You say, pointing a curious finger to the mess on his head. Beomgyu frowns, reaching a hand up to run through the dark locks as he waves you off, huffing in dismay. “What’s it to you?” He tsk’s, his attention flickering down to the jam in your basket once more, and only when his gaze meets yours do you register the silent question behind his eyes.
“O-Oh, right I brought you more jam!” You force a small smile, the least you could do was be polite. You were determined to make friends with him, one way or the other. And as you hand him the glass container, Beomgyu takes it. It’s a huge first step, and you feel your heart swelling at the action. He twists the jar between his fingers, studying it like it might explode on him any second now.
At last, he gives a small hum of approval. — “It’s good, right?” Your question comes out too cherry, already celebrating your small victory. Beomgyu quickly shoots that bird down with a sneer. “I’m being polite, there’s a difference.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his eyes taking over your hopeful frame once more. “Though I’m sure you couldn’t tell the difference even if you wanted to.”
The door slams shut on your nose.
Suddenly, the forest is cold again, the heat falls from your face, the fire coursing within you being drowned out by a bucket of cold water. Well, there goes that. You wait by his door for another five minutes, but the small cottage is silent. The curtains are drawn, shutting you out, just like he did everybody else.
With heavy steps you climb off the porch, cringing at how the old and withered boards creaked under your weight. Your sigh echoes against the tall trees that loom above you, and you slowly make your way down the muddy path. You had noticed on your second visit that flowers didn’t seem to grow here, any sign of vegetation seemingly drowned out by the nearly unbearing anger and resentment that lingered in these woods.
Had Beomgyu really caused all of that?
You think back to your brief encounter with him, with Beomgyu. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind seemed to get caught on his brown hair, you couldn’t quite shake it off. You only knew one other brown-haired individual here, and that was Gingerbread Taehyun. But Beomgyu and Taehyun were far from alike, and you shake your head once more.
Something was wrong, very clearly so. For the way Beomgyu had disregarded the matter, shoving it aside like it pained him to be reminded of… You longed to know what could have caused it. And you find yourself imagining a different Beomgyu, a Beomgyu that smiled. With light and peachy hair, a pink blush coating his soft cheeks, warming his pale face up. You imagine a Beomgyu with dimples that dented into his skin hard from laughter.
You imagine a happy Beomgyu.
The fantasy makes your steps return to their usual light skip, and by the time you re-enter the lively village, you feel happy again.
⸝⸝
With your basket filled once more, you head down the cobbled road, taking you around Strawberry town. Today you were in a particularly good mood. You don’t know if it had to do with meeting Blueberry Kai out by his berry bushes, or if it had to do with the little rabbit you saw in your garden this morning. But you were determined to make this day a perfect one.
In fact, you were in such a joyous mood that the dark clouds crowding the village did not bother you as you went knocking on each and every door. For each smile you received, for each jar you handed out, the love beating within your heart only seemed to grow. — When you turn off the large road, and venture onto the muddy path taking you deep within the forest, you’re filled to the brim with love. And if there was one person in Strawberry village that needed it, it was Peach Beomgyu.
You think you’re about halfway there when the first droplet lands on the tip of your nose. The cold water makes you frown as it slides down your face, catching on your bottom lip. Sticking your tongue out to taste it, the sweet flavor fills your mouth. After that another one follows, then another one, and another one. It’s not long before rainfall is pouring down over you, clinging to the leaves and splashing against the forest floor in dramatic effect.
Blinking the droplets from your eyes, you scurry forward, pulling your coat tighter around yourself as you hurry. Mud clams to your orange shoes, dirtying them in disgraceful shades of brown. But you carry on, relief flooding your chest as the familiar little house floats into vision. You do not stop to consider who’s door you were actually knocking on when you slam your fist against the weathered wood.
Today, you have no time to wait outside for another five minutes, you have no time to bicker with the grumpy man over his doorstep and you certainly don’t want to turn on your heel and endure the unpleasant walk home. There was little that could diskindle your spirits, but rain and mud were definitely two of them.
Much to your immense relief and surprise, the door glides open a mere minute later, revealing a confused looking Beomgyu. The smile stretching across your lips only seems to make his scowl grow. Yet you persist, giving him your widest and most pleading eyes as you silently beg for him to let you inside. — Beomgyu’s harsh gaze flickers from your wet coat, clinging to your body and the adamant look on your face before shifting to the heavy rain that battered against his porch.
With a displeased groan he steps to the side, allowing you to skip inside the small cottage. Your excitement as you enter his home is followed up by a small squeal, your gaze darting around as you take in the unfamiliar surroundings. — Beomgyu’s house was unlike anything you had ever imagined, not to say that you had spent a deliberate amount of time trying to figure out how he lived, you had merely been…Curious, so to say.
From the peachy curtains to the matching sets of creamy pink pillows that adorned his small sofa, everything seemed to follow a peachy theme. The fireplace sparking in the middle of the room draws your attention and you quickly find yourself huddling in front of it as you rub your cold hands together.
Your quiet ‘woah’ as you pull your orange coat from your wet body rings out into the silent house. The kitchen by the corner looks to have been used recently, a small pot of something placed on the stove. Amazed by the fact that Peach Beomgyu lived like any other resident in Strawberry village, your jaw hangs open as you remain frozen in place.
Somewhere behind you, Beomgyu emerges from the hallway. He stops a good distance from you, leaning against one of the crowded bookshelves pushed up alongside the wall, his arms folded across his chest. You send him a bright smile, “Thank you”, you say, not knowing how else to show your gratitude for his hospitality.
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, a small scoff passing his lips as he averts his gaze, his dark eyes lingering on something you couldn’t quite catch. A brief silence follows, it’s almost awkward.. You’re not exactly sure what to say, what he would appreciate hearing, if anything even suited those pesky ears of his.
So you hum, quietly rocking back and forth on your feet as you glance at the decorations above the fireplace. They were nothing fancy, and most of the tiny figurines looked old, perhaps he’d inherited them. Come to think of it, you don’t remember ever hearing anything about a family member of his. The thought sadeness you for reasons you cannot understand. It wasn’t like Beomgyu was opposed to the solitary life he lived, he’d chosen it for himself, hadn’t he?
Yet you can’t help but purse your lips at the thought of living like this, no matter how cozy his quaint little cottage was, it still lacked the warmth of love. — “It is a lovely home you’ve got”, you say, trying your best to show interest in the way he’d decorated the space. But Beomgyu doesn’t seem to buy into the mundane compliment. He merely shrugs, letting out a small grunt as his dark eyes flicker back to you.
“Why were you out in the rain?” It’s the first time he’s ever asked you an actual question, the first time he’d even seemed moderately interested in anything that regarded you. Your smile only widens, and you can see the way his face twists in distaste at your ever so cheerful attitude. “Well why do you think? I was delivering jam!” The exclamation immediately makes you jump as you come to your senses and you reach for the basket you had discarded on the floor.
The small jar is wet and you wipe it against the sleeve of your shirt before skipping over to him in order to hand him it. Beomgyu’s arms remain stubbornly crossed as his gaze flits between the orange jam and your hopeful grin. With a small groan he relents and plucks it from your waiting hand, shoving it onto the shelf next to him as he averts his attention elsewhere.
You wondered if your presence made him uncomfortable. Judging by the way he stood, the greater portion of his body turned as far away from you as possible, and his jaw clenched, you would guess it did. Then again, was there anyone Peach Beomgyu liked? You did not take his grumpy demeanor or his shortcut responses personally. Still, there was an unmistakable opportunity at hand, and you would be a fool not to take it.
“Mind if I take a seat?” You ask, but you’re already approaching the small couch. Beomgyu’s lip twitches, but he gives a small nod, his arms returning to their crossed position over his chest. His sofa is oddly comfortable, allowing you to sink into the cushion as you lean back slightly. The warmth of the fire caresses your cold face, slowly melting the layer of metaphorical ice that had built around you. No amount of fire would be able to melt the harsh ice block surrounding Beomgyu, you thought with a small grin.
He remains unmoving and unspeaking, quietly watching you from his spot by the corner of the room. You did not insult him on his lack of manners, he had actually allowed you inside his home even as you showed up unannounced, perhaps that was more than enough. — Your attention falls on your muddy shoes and a pang of guilt flares through you. “Oh, sorry, I should’ve taken these off!”
Beomgyu opens his mouth to speak but is quickly interrupted as you kick the pointy orange heels off your feet, scurrying toward the door as you place them right in front of it. “Sorry, I’ll clean it up, don't worry!” You say as you dart for his kitchen. Quickly disoriented, you tug open drawers and pull cabinet doors in search of anything to clean the stain you had left on his floors. “Where do you keep your towels?” You ask, so caught up in trying to resolve the mess you’d unintentionally caused that you didn’t even notice him creeping up behind you.
“Here”, he says as he hands you a peach colored rag. You freeze, for his voice came from just above your ear, his chest nearly pressed against your back. The scent of fresh peaches made you nearly drowsy as you blink before gingerly accepting the cloth from him, trying your hardest to ignore the way your fingers brushed against one another, the tingle that the soft fuzz coating his skin left. “I… Thanks”, you coyly mumble, desperately wishing he wouldn’t catch on to the stammer of your voice as you round him in the small kitchen, quickly slipping away from his intoxicating presence.
What was that.. You think to yourself, brows knitted together in a confused frown as you find yourself on the floor, scrubbing the muddy stains away. The sounds of his approaching footsteps make your eyes widen, and you refuse to turn your head in his direction. — “It’s really not necessary”, he mutters, the usual grumpiness to his voice replaced with something akin to guilt. But you firmly shake your head, scrubbing even harder at the old wood. “It’s fine, no problem! I caused it!” You chirp, ignoring his small huff as you continue to clean.
When you’re done you gingerly rise to your feet, clutching the now dirty rag between your fingers as you bite the inside of your cheek. Beomgyu reaches for it again, but you quickly pull back, you don’t think you could bear feeling his skin against yours a second time. “I’ll put it away!” You quickly say, plastering on the biggest of grins you could muster, “Where do you want it?”
Beomgyu’s expression is unreadable as he studies you for a moment. It looks almost as if he’s about to say something, but he stops himself, shaking his head once as he points down the hall. Quickly nodding, you follow in that direction, the sounds of your feet padding against the floor ringing in your ears.
Finally away from his intense gaze, you exhale a sigh of relief as you turn to relocate yourself. The dark hallway had led you to what you presumed to be a small washroom, racks of clothes crowded the vast majority of the space, and you found a small sink as well. You place the dirty cloth in the hamper before turning to head back. But before you can even get as much as another step in, a door to your left catches your attention. It’s slightly ajar, letting on to the bed inside.
Quickly glancing down the hall once more, you dare a small peek inside. Beomgyu’s bedroom did not match the rest of the house. It lacked all the peachy colors, instead it was crowded from head to toe in… books. Sure the bookshelves in the living room had caught your attention earlier, but just as the old figurines, you’d figured that it was something he’d inherited. Now you can’t help but wonder if Beomgyu actually enjoyed literature. While the prospect did indeed seem odd, it wasn’t entirely out of place either. There was only so much entertainment out here..
But before you get the chance to investigate further, the sounds of floorboards creaking pulls you from your brief trance. Sharply turning on your heel, you make your way back into the living room where Beomgyu was waiting for you. — The rain was still pouring down outside, and you had little clue of just how long you were going to be stuck here.
As your gaze falls on Beomgyu, you feel your breath getting caught in your throat. You don’t know what it was, but something had changed. Something that made you so impeccably drawn to him in a way you could not fathom. You tried to reason with yourself, you tried to shift the blame onto the weather, onto the clumsy mistake of waltzing inside his home without as much as a second thought.
But as your eyes linger by his dark ones, the narrowed gaze he still held, you find that it’s none of those things. Suddenly you know why you keep returning to this small hut, why you bother with the twenty minute walk back and forth, why you face rejection on his doorstep each time. — You felt empathy for him, perhaps even pity. You pitied Beomgyu, the lonely boy who lived all alone out in the forest, with no one to come visit.
And perhaps that was naive of you. To even think that he cared about something as trivial as a bit of company. Yet you couldn’t find it in you to take his mean and cruel demeanor to heart. Because no matter how harsh the bark was, he never seemed to bite. He had let you inside his home, in spite of your persistent nagging on his porch for the past weeks. He hadn’t minded when you dirtied his floors, and even now, he didn’t seem to want you to leave.
So were you really that naive to think that what you were doing was right? That what you were doing was appreciated by him, even if he didn’t show it. You want to think so.
“Do you want me to make you tea?” You chirp, breaking the thick silence that had filled the small living room. Beomgyu cocks an eyebrow at you, but merely shrugs. You weren’t even sure if he had the ingredients to make tea, you had just assumed… It was something everyone had, no?
Ignoring his nonchalant response, you walk past him and into the small little kitchen once more. It wasn’t at all like your big one at home, but then again, you doubted that he spent his days making fifty jars worth of apricot jam. — He doesn’t follow you, and part of you is relieved. His absence allows you to work casually as you still tried to figure out what about him had made you so nervous all of a sudden.
You take your time as you bring out a pot, setting it down on the stove as you fill it with water from the tap. Once it’s slowly boiling, you rummage around to find yourselves a pair of cups to drink from. Pulling drawers upon drawers open, you cough as the smell of dust invades your senses, some of these looked to have been kept shut for years.
As a last resort, you tug the cabinet door above the fridge open. And your eyes immediately widen as they fall on the empty jars stacked inside. All of them are cleaned out, the glass reflecting in the dim light of the kitchen. Your gaze lingers by the orange lids, and the silk ribbons you’d tied around them still intact. A small smile tugs at your lips, your heart warming at the sight. He even kept the jars.
Quickly slamming the cabinet shut when he approaches, you turn to him with a flushed expression. “Where are your cups?” You squeak, the surprise in your tone evident, not having expected him to reappear so soon. — Beomgyu leans against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest as he nods toward the one drawer you had yet to open. Mentally slapping yourself, you turn to it with a tight smile as you pull it open.
As you prepare the herbs for the tea and check on the water, you try to make plain conversation. You ask him about the weather, about what he does during the days or if he has any upcoming plans. You find that he’s a very concise individual, and you’re never able to pull more than a short sentence from him as he begrudgingly responds to your persistent interrogation.
Still, he stays in the kitchen until you finish pouring the cups. Whether that was because he didn’t trust you around his house or because he wanted to be there, remained unknown to you.
The tea is boiling hot against your tongue, yet you insistently bring it to your lips, taking small and hesitant sips as you desperately avoid his gaze. For someone so short of words, he seemed to have no problem staring at you. You told yourself that it might have to do with his lack of social interaction. But his unyielding gaze slowly chipped away at your resolve, making you all the more anxious as you glanced out the window, wishing for the rain to let up soon.
It still felt so surreal, standing in Peach Beomgyu’s kitchen, drinking tea from his cups, as if this was just another Thursday afternoon. But his prolonged silence made the growing tension between you feel anything but mundane and ordinary. Did he really not have anything to say? You had tried every approach imaginable, there was nothing that would get him to utter more than a small hum.
As your eyes peer out the window, and over what you imagined to once have been a garden, a new question surfaces. — Your attention flickers back to him, still by the door frame, he’s gripping the cup in one hand, barely having sipped his tea, he seems far too preoccupied with watching you.
“Don’t you grow any peaches?” You ask, letting your head fall to the side as you take your turn in studying him. Beomgyu’s unreadable expression morphs into a small frown, and he ponders your question for a moment. When a whole minute passes, you think he might not reply at all, it wouldn’t be completely unexpected, for he had little manners as it was. But then he suddenly shifts his weight over to his other leg, readjusting his hold on the cup.
“No.”
He states firmly, finally bringing the peachy mug to his lips as he takes a sip of his tea. It’s your turn to frown, your gaze dropping to the brown mixture swirling in your own cup as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Why not?” — Everyone in Strawberryland tended to their fruits, so why didn’t he?
Beomgyu shrugs, appearing more than disinterested in the conversation taking place. “I don’t like them”, he says, the nonchalance in his tone taking you aback as your eyes snap to him. Don’t like them? But he was Peach Beomgyu, was he not supposed to love peaches? You want to ask him what he means by that, what made him so resentful of the one thing he represented. But the closed off look on his face made you waver. You did not want to blindly push and prod at buttons which you had no clue of.
You remain silent, awkwardly sipping your tea as you avoid his burning gaze.
And as your cups emptied out, the rain stopped.
⸝⸝
Peach Beomgyu did not like visitors. In fact, he detested them. Much so that he had gone to the quite extreme length of putting up warning signs in front of his house. And while the signs did their job at keeping nosey little kids out, they seemed futile on that persistent ball of joy that would skip past them as she neared his cottage.
Beomgyu could not understand what made Little Apricot come back over and over again. He could not understand what kept you in such a jolly mood and he could certainly not fathom the reasoning behind the little jars of jam you would leave behind. — It irked him in a way that was beyond explainable. And every three or four days, he would be pulled from whatever book he was reading by two curt knocks to his door.
Internally groaning he would shake his head, ignoring the fierce ray of sunshine on the other side. But you just wouldn’t leave. The sounds of you humming along to a light melody would slip through the cracks of his shut door, it would creep inside his house and dance across him, taunting him with its sickly sweetness. Beomgyu would swat it away, pressing his nose further into his book as he desperately tried to ignore any signs of your presence.
You would always leave after a few minutes, taking your light and cherry song with you as you did. And Beomgyu would always sigh out in relief, ignoring the small tug at his chest when the silence enveloped him once more. — He would get up, carefully pull the curtains to the side as he watched your bright orange coat disappear into the thick forest of trees.
Then he would open his door, stopping in his tracks as his gaze flickered down to the little jar you’d left behind. When it first occurred he’d slammed the door shut. Ignoring the jar for a good twenty minutes before ripping the door open again with a frustrated huff, finding the jam still there, its bright orange color stinging his eyes.
For some reason, Beomgyu had picked it up, he’d turned it in his hands and opened the lid. The creamy jam smelled just like you, the soft and sweet aroma of apricot prickling his nose in a most unfamiliar way. And he’d taken the jar inside, stubbornly ignoring it for a whole day before he finally caved. — It tasted just as delicious as it smelled, as delicious as you smelled.
Beomgyu finished the jar in half a day, and when it was all empty, he found himself staring at the clean glass with a confused frown. It was just jam. He scoffed as he shoved the empty jar into a cabinet, blatantly ignoring the fact that he had yet to throw it away, telling himself that he might find use for it in the future.
When you returned mere days later, he ignored you, yet he found another jar, just like the first on his porch. It would go on like that, and for some reason, Beomgyu found himself listening after that sickeningly cheerful melody you always sang. And everytime you knocked on his door, his fingers would itch to reach out and open it, for reasons he could not understand, and did not want to.
But on your seventh return, you did not give your usual curt knocks, you did not hum along to any melody at all. At first, Beomgyu didn't even believe it to be you. But as he opened the door, and found Little Apricot on his porch, drenched from head to toe, he found himself unable to move. Not even when you pleaded with him so nicely did it register what you were asking.
And suddenly you were inside his home, the place he treasured so dearly and had sealed off to the rest of the world. Yet you had managed to worm your way inside, and the feeling that bloomed within his chest was like no other. — You were everywhere, the same sickeningly sweet scent of your apricot jam now filled his entire home. It clung to the walls, soaked in the carpets and dusted off on the furniture. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t block it out, and you occupied his mind and body fully. It confused him.
You quickly made yourself at home, and Beomgyu noted that you were just as dutiful about any other task as you were your jam. Rushing about even though you barely found your way, tugging cabinet doors and pulling drawers open as you made the two of you tea. — He doesn’t know why he lets your eager hands wander over his belongings, why he drinks the tea you make him or why he even bothers to answer any of your invasive and prying questions.
He feels nearly dizzy in your presence, it’s a strange and uncanny feeling, a feeling he hasn’t felt in years, if ever. And Beomgyu doesn't know if he should fear the warm and fuzzy feeling that spreads within his chest as he looks at you, or if he should give in to it completely. Though if he did, he feared that you wouldn’t ever look at him the same.
Oh but Beomgyu likes the way you look at him. With big and hopeful eyes. You don’t seem to understand just how messed up he is, or perhaps you do, and in that case you had to be stupid to ignore it. Naive. That was probably the right word. Gullible, sweet, and far too kind for your own good. Did you not know not to trust everything you see? He shakes his head at the thought.
Still, there’s an odd feeling of comfort in the way you embrace him, with your kind words and quiet care as you deliver him jam. He doesn’t want to let go of that feeling just yet, though if he ever tries to pursue it, he thinks you might crumple in front of him. — It has him torn. And as he lies in bed that night, the smell of apricots linger around him, pressing in on him with a demanding force.
He groans as he turns over, burying his face in the pillows. But all he can see is you, your bright orange coat, and he can smell you, you’re everywhere, plaguing his body and mind. He twists uncomfortably, stubbornly ignoring the heat pooling in his stomach, refusing to let his hands wander as he tries to block out any thought of you.
Beomgyu wishes that you won’t come by his house again. He knows he won’t be able to stop himself if you do.
⸝⸝
The soft knock to your door makes you tear yourself from the empty jars you were currently wiping down, discarding them on the countertop as you make your way over to the entrance. Your steps are light and cherry as you skip over, fingers twisting the lock, an excited grin already plastered across your face. — “Blueberry Kai!” You squeal when you’re met with the sight of the blue haired boy, his tall frame looming over you as he gives a shy nod.
“Hi Little Apricot!” He says, his face flushing in an adorable shade of blue. Your gaze drifts to his hands, clutching a blue box tightly. “I uh..” He sends you a coy smile as he extends the box, “Got you this.. As a thank you, for you know.. All you do.”
It’s with wide eyes that you happily accept the gift, feeling its weight in your hands as you gently pluck the lid. Your attention falls on the freshly baked blueberry pie and the sweet aroma immediately fills your nostrils. With a wide grin, you glance up at him, “You’re the best Kai!”
The two of you settle out in your garden, amidst the many apricot trees you had planted, all blooming with ripe and orange fruits. Hungrily wolfing down the pie Kai had brought, you barely make time for conversation as you focus on savoring the flavors on your tongue. And when you for the fifth time exclaim, “It’s delicious!”, Kai can’t help but chuckle.
Once the wave of desire has cooled off, and your stomach starts to feel full, you lean back in your chair as you regard him with a questioning expression. It looked like something was bothering him, for his usual lopsided smile was nowhere to be found, and his brows furrowed across his forehead. — “Is something up?” You ask him as you wipe your lips on the corner of a napkin, gently placing it down as you twist in your seat.
Kai’s head snaps in your direction, and he gives a sheepish look, as if you’d caught his drift of mind. “Yeah I just..” He trails off, as if unsure of how to word himself properly. You wait, your legs swinging back and forth as your bare feet drag through the wild grass, the feeling tickling your sensitive skin.
“Have you been seeing Peach Beomgyu?”
The question was not one you’d expected, and you feel your face heat up as you turn your gaze back to the blue haired boy. “I deliver him jams, just like everyone else!” You say, plastering on an even wider grin as you try and brush past the topic. But Kai doesn’t let it go, his brows creasing even further as he leans forward. “Why? I mean, it’s not like he’s done anything for you.. And I’m not saying I don’t think it’s kind of you”, he takes a breath, slowly letting it go. “But what if he’s just using you, Apricot?”
Your frown makes him immediately continue as he says; “I mean, he’s not exactly friendly.. I’m just afraid you’ll end up getting taken advantage of, your kindness is something many of us take for granted…” — His words made you think, your chin jutted out as your mind traveled back to the visits you’d paid Beomgyu. You recall the many times he’d slammed the door in your face, and the times in which he hadn’t opened it at all. Suppose Kai might have a point…
But you also remember that rainy day not too long ago. You remember the way his gaze lingered by you, the way your heart fluttered at his mere presence. It couldn’t possibly be what Kai was implying, could it? If he was really taking advantage of your kindness, why did your heart beat so quickly at the thought of his name?
“I think he deserves the jam just as much as anyone else in Strawberryland”, you state, nodding to yourself as you sink back in the chair, arms spread on the armrests. Kai bites the inside of his cheek remaining quiet, though the look on his face told you that he wished to intervene further.
“I talk to him”, you shrug, acting as if the matter was nothing short of common for you. — “He is actually quite an interesting person, if you give him a chance.” You send Kai a small smile, but the blue haired boy doesn’t seem to buy it as he runs a hand through his short hair. “I don’t know Apricot… There’s a reason he lives out there..” — “Like what?” You cut him off, leaning forward in an instant with an almost challenging look on your face.
Kai opens his mouth to speak, then he stops himself. You watch as he battles with himself for a moment before finally sighing. “Well he’s…Different.” — “Different how?” You knew you were pushing him now, and that he soon would be caving, but you didn’t care. For a small part of you, a part you had tried to ignore for long, felt the need to defend Beomgyu, even if you hardly knew him, it felt like your responsibility. Because if you didn’t, then who would?
“You don’t know?” Kai suddenly asks and your face falls for a moment. Didn’t know what? Kai shifts in his seat as he glances around your flourishing garden, as if checking for witnesses, and when he speaks again, it's in a hushed whisper. “You know… About the peaches..”, he murmurs, swallowing as he holds your gaze.
“The peaches?” You repeat, a little too loud for his liking as he winces. “Yes”, he mutters between sealed lips. “He can’t… I mean, he says he doesn’t like them, but the truth is he can’t even grow them.” Kai leans back up as soon as he’s uttered the words, hurriedly checking his surroundings once more before shrinking back against the backrest of his chair.
Your face contorts into a confused grimace, “Can’t grow peaches?” That’s ridiculous, everyone in Strawberryland grows their own fruits, what could possibly make him so different? Kai slowly nods as he fiddles with the spoon discarded on his empty plate. “I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t want to either, but even if he did, he physically can’t”, he shrugs before continuing, “That’s why he moved out there, so that the rest wouldn’t have to know how much of a failure he was…” He says the last words with a hint of sympathy, and you couldn’t help the way your chest churned at the thought.
“You’re saying I should stay away from him?” It’s not a question but a statement, you didn’t need an answer because Kai had already made himself clear. Yet he gives a firm nod, letting the silverware drop back onto the plate. “Yes”, he says, “I’m worried that whatever curse lingers around him might transfer onto you…Besides, who knows what he’s capable of..”
It hurt, hearing him speak so negatively of Beomgyu. Suppose you had grown a small attachment to the grumpy peach, so what? Delivering him some jam every now and then certainly didn’t harm anyone. You failed to see Kai’s reasoning, failed to see the worry laced within his words. Still, you did something most uncharacteristic, you lied.
“I won’t go see him.”
⸝⸝
Your basket isn’t as heavy as usual when you skip down the cobbled road. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that you had only brought three jars of jam today, and they were all meant for one person. — Throwing a final glance over your shoulder, you venture off the main road, emerging into the thick treeline as you begin the journey to Peach Beomgyu’s house.
Not only had you brought jam, but you’d put in the effort of baking muffins as well. They had come out slightly burnt, their edges a refined and dark black but you didn’t mind, they tasted just as sweet and you were sure they would go well with the jam. — To thank him, that was the goal of today, you told yourself. To thank him for his hospitality as he let you stay last time, and enough jars of jam to last him well over two weeks.
As you near the now familiar house, you can’t help but feel a sense of excitement. It flutters in the pits of your stomach, swirling around as your heart beats steadily within your chest. Had you not been so focused on the task at hand, perhaps you would’ve noticed the way the trees seemed to sway, the leaves rustling despite the lack of wind and the eerie silence that fell over the woods on this particular day.
But you don’t, and soon enough, you’re making the steps up his creaking porch. Your soft knock somehow seems to ring out like thunder in the thick and quiet air. — Glancing around, you prepare for the inevitable wait as you sway back and forth on your feet. But to your surprise, it is mere moments later that the door is ripped open, revealing a disheveled Beomgyu on the other side.
Immediately you notice the subtle flush across his normally pale and cold cheeks. His dark hair stands in all directions, and you frown as your gaze flickers over his dark eyes, his pupils widened to an extent that nearly concerns you. Was he sick? Had you come at a bad time? Your attention falls on the way his chest heaves with each jagged breath he takes, and it trails along his arm, finally landing on the way his fingers bore into the wood of the doorframe to steady himself, knuckles turning white at the sheer force he used.
“Beomgyu, is everything okay?” You ask, blinking the shock away as you readjust the grip on your basket. He doesn’t say anything, and you were just about to suggest coming back another time when he suddenly lurches forward. — You barely have time to realize what’s happening, but the feel of his vice-like grip around your wrist makes you wince as he yanks you inside.
The door slams shut behind you and the smell of peaches suddenly infiltrates your every sense. You don’t think you have ever smelled anything like it before. It was strong, sweet, almost sickly so. It felt far from the citrusy tang apricots carried and you frown as you glance around the area. His living room looks the same, kitchen too, where was the smell coming from? — A chill runs down your spine as you pick up on the sound of a lock clicking behind you. Beomgyu’s harsh exhale is hot against the back of your neck, and it makes the hairs there stand tall as you freeze in place.
When he places an equally warm hand on your shoulder do you realize that the smell is coming from him. He’s practically radiating it. And along with the thick layer of heat that coats him, it pulsates off of him with steady rhythm, slapping you across the face as you squint up at him. Just what was going on.. “Beomgyu..?” He doesn’t answer, and you fervently search his gaze, only to find that he’s looking at something completely different.
You cover your mouth with a trembling hand, a confused and alarmed frown painting the rest of your face. He must have caught something, a virus of some sort, something that made his body flare up like this, something that made him smell so…So truly divine. You shake your head, screwing your eyes shut as you take a step back.
He still hasn’t said anything, not a single word from the moment he ripped his door open. And when he takes a step forward, you find yourself immediately faltering backward. He chases you, with deliberate and long strides, and you don’t stop until your back hits one of his overcrowded shelves, the books and figurines on it rattling as you do. You turn your head in surprise, only to feel his hot fingers on your chin as he steers you back his way.
Beomgyu pries your hand from your lips, his breath audibly hitching in his throat when his eyes fall on your open mouth once more. He looks ready to swallow each shaky exhale you emit, and before you can protest does he slam his lips against yours. — Your eyes shoot open, your hands flying to his shoulders in an attempt to push him back. But Beomgyu was strong, scarily so, and he easily shoves you up against the shelf.
The small noise of surprise gets drowned out by his harsh groan, his hands gripping at your waist as he shoves you against the stacked books. — “B-Beomgyu wait- This isn’t…” You manage to gasp when he parts for air. His face is flushed in a light pink, and the mess of dark brown hair lays in uneven sections across his hungry eyes as he pants. It didn’t make any sense, none of this did.
Your basket had fallen to the floor due to all the commotion and one of the jars had rolled onto the hard wood. Beomgyu didn’t even seem to register the chaos he was creating as he pressed his lips back on yours. He kisses you with a need best described as insatiable, leaving room for nothing but his demanding ways as his tongue shoves past your parted lips, slipping into your mouth with urgency.
The shock slowly begins to wear off and you realize what’s actually going on. Peach Beomgyu was kissing you, well, he was damn near eating you. It didn’t… You didn’t… Your thoughts seemed to cut short, any sense of semblance slipping through the cracks of your fingers as you helplessly chased them. — You should push him off, you should yell at him and ask what in the world had gotten into him.
Because Peach Beomgyu didn’t make friends, and hell, he certainly didn’t kiss people. This was completely unwarranted and you deserved more than an explanation for his near outrageous actions.
For some reason, you find yourself pulling him even closer.
It barely registered at first. Your fingers moved on their own as they clutched the shirt he was wearing, tugging him against you with a force just as strong as his. You couldn’t explain it, the need to be close, the need to give in to every single thought that yelled for you to back away. — Kai’s words linger in your scrambled mind when Beomgyu’s hands go to the back of your thighs, hoisting you into his arms, forcing a proximity that was dangerously close.
Perhaps you should’ve listened to him when he’d told you to stay away. When he’d warned you about Beomgyu. Something was not right with him, you knew that, every fiber of your being told you that this was a bad idea. Yet your mind couldn’t seem to overpower the fire that spread inside your heart, clutching it tightly in its grip, pulling you towards Beomgyu.
You have always followed your heart. You followed it when you delivered jam, because it fluttered when the others appreciatively accepted their jar. You followed it because it beats extra hard when someone smiles your way. You followed it because it made you happy. Even now, you followed it, you followed it through the thick and dark trees, through the wilted flowers and the eerie silence that led all the way to his house.
You followed your heart all the way to Beomgyu, until you finally found yourself in his arms.
A noise of surprise rips from the back of your throat as he walks you over to the couch, setting you down amongst the peachy pillows. He stares down at you for a moment, his tongue swiping across your plump lips, and you find yourself mesmerized by him. In the dim light of the fireplace, he didn't look at all like his cold and mean self. Beomgyu looked warm, flourishing and alive.
The strong scent of peaches radiated off of him in waves, making your eyes flutter as you got a whiff of him. — Your mouth opens, you want to say something, you want to confirm that this moment is real, that this is just not a figment of your imagination and that you are actually here, that he’s actually here and that he’s… Him.
“You smell good.” His voice is gruff, and you can barely make out his dark eyes as he leans down, for his brown hair covers the majority of his flushed face. — You squeal when his lips drag across the juncture of your neck, when his hot tongue presses against your skin. “Like apricots..” He murmurs, as his nose nudging against your collarbone, “But better.”
He inhales sharply, the groan he emits going straight to your core and you feel a strange wave of desire build in your stomach. It felt weird, though not unpleasant, and certainly not unwelcome. — Still, you shriek when his fingers reach for your orange coat, insistently tugging it from your body. Beomgyu doesn’t even seem to register your bashful exclamation as you try to cover yourself, instead he tugs at your blouse, flicking the first few buttons open as his eyes rake across your warm skin.
“Fuck”, he grunts and you would be ashamed to admit that the small slip of his tongue made you throb. — “Do you like this?” He asks, his hungry eyes suddenly latching onto yours. Your face was practically on fire as you nodded, and Beomgyu’s smirk grew wide. “I can tell”, he then adds, making you jump as his hand slides up your inner thigh, stopping all the way under your plaid skirt, his fingers inches from the lining of your panties, “You reek of it.”
“I…” You did not know if that was a compliment or not. But you meekly tried to close your legs, only for Beomgyu to pry them apart again as he pushed your skirt up over your hips. — His breath is warm, much warmer than the fire sparking next to you. It makes your skin flare up as it caresses you.
“Please”, he murmurs, the words barely audible as his head drops down between your thighs. “I need to taste you, just once.” — You weren’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but the strange flutter rising in your stomach had become almost impossible to ignore and out of sheer desperation you nod, breathing out a small, “yes.”
Beomgyu doesn’t need to hear it twice. Two of his long fingers slip around the hem of your panties, tugging the garment down your legs, though giving up halfway when his impatience got the better of him. The sound of cotton ripping fills your ears, making you dizzy as he exhales against your bare cunt, nearly panting against it upon eyeing the orange cream that your arousal had built up.
Your eyes fly open when he first licks a stripe along your core, a surprised moan leaving your lips as you peer down at him. Fingers digging into the plush and peachy couch, you swallow, your gaze training on his brown hair as it buries between your legs, longing to reach out and touch him. — The first, almost hesitant taste he’d gotten only seemed to make him spiral even further and you choke on a small gasp as the bridge of his nose presses against your clit, his tongue dwelling deep inside your cunt as his hands grab at your waist, sliding down your thighs.
His eyes flutter in ecstasy, the creamy taste of apricots overwhelming his taste buds as the acidic sensation floods him. He quickly realizes that he needs more, and a lot of it. “W-Wait, wait, Beomgyu–” The tingling feeling bubbling within you felt like it was about to implode on you, it made your thighs tremble and your head spin as you fought to stay somewhat composed.
But it’s like he’s on a different planet, nothing you said mattered when you were so perfectly spread before him, your warm and inviting cunt just waiting for him to completely devour. Your soft whines and silent pleas made his head spin, and he knew he needed more, as much as possible.
Your head tips back when his fingers suddenly slide between your soaked folds, digging into your quivering cunt as he curls them. — “B-Beomgyu..” His name leaves your lips a mere whimper, though you’re not sure what you’re even asking of him. You want to say something, to convey the heat inside of you, the feelings swirling within your chest and the fierce beating of your heart. But the words get caught in your throat, your eyes screwing shut as pleasurable vibrations course through you.
Beomgyu moans at the taste of your release on his tongue, greedily lapping up every single droplet of creamy apricot as he tugs you closer. He doesn’t seem to worry about breathing, and his chest heaves dramatically against the couch cushion, his hips stuttering as he shudders. — The feeling of his tongue against your clit suddenly goes from overwhelming to overbearing, and your thighs clamped around his head as your hands push him back.
“N-No more!” You gasp, your face flushed in all shades orange as you blink fervently. Beomgyu groans when he separates from your cunt, a displeased look flashing across his desire-filled expression. The lower half of his face is coated in a thick layer of something dangerously close to the apricot jam he’d been feasting on for weeks. He blatantly ignores your gawking stare as he wipes the mess from his cheeks, stuffing his fingers into his mouth, his eyes already searching for more as he attempts to spread your legs once more.
You whine, rubbing your thighs together in embarressment, resisting a shiver as his hand runs across your knee and down your calf. “One more”, he says, and though his voice is masked by a layer of determination, you can still decipher the silent plea as his dark eyes search yours. — Biting the inside of your cheek, you shyly avoid his gaze as you let it wander across his body.
With a slightly shaky hand you point to the shirt he’s wearing. “T-Take it off..” You murmur, the small sentence nearly inaudible. The uncharacteristic smirk he’d been wearing since your arrival quickly finds its way back to his lips and Beomgyu complies as he tugs the garment over his head, discarding it on the floor as he turns back to you with a look of expectancy.
Admittedly so, you had been craving a closer look at him since the day you’d first found yourself on his porch. Something about him pulled you in. Perhaps it was the subtle pink flush of his face, one that had intensified right now, making him almost glow. Or it was the soft fuzz that crawled across his skin, it feels ticklish under the tips of your fingers as you trail them along his naked chest. Peach fuzz, you think to yourself with a small smile. — Beomgyu shudders, but bites back another comment as he watches you with dark eyes.
Your attention flickers to his hair, dark and unkempt. His hair left a lot of questions, some which you had spent more time pondering than you’d like to admit. Your hands card through the surprisingly soft locks, giving them a gentle tug and Beomgyu groans, his head immediately falling forward as he wraps an arm around your waist.
He pulls you onto his lap in seconds, making you straddle his hips, ignoring the way you wince as your sensitive cunt makes contact with the rough fabric of his pants. — Your gaze drops to the not so subtle bulge straining against the fabric, your hands tentatively palming him through the material, carefully gauging his reaction.
The strands of his dark hair tickle your neck as he leans forward to press languid kisses along your shoulder. His teeth drag across your skin, and for a moment you thought he might actually try and take a bite out of you. It was like he was trying to merge with you, to envelop you fully, like that was the only way to extinguish the fire burning within.
He helps you with the zipper, swiftly tugging his hard cock from the confinements of his pants, giving it a few deliberate strokes as he directs kisses to your blazing skin. — You can’t help but eye the way his fingers wrap around his shaft, noting the way he presses his thumb against his slit, shuddering against you as he does. Eager to do the same, you reach out. Beomgyu freezes when your hand joins in on top of his, but makes no move to brush you off.
Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of light and pink precum dribbling from his flushed tip, it perfectly matched the flush of his face. Beomgyu chokes on a strained moan when your fingers swipe across his slit, gathering the sticky and sweet substance on your hand as you bring it to the lips. — He tastes sweet, like peaches, ripe and perfectly harvested. You sigh at the euphoric taste, your eyes fluttering as your tongue darts out to lick at the remnants that had spilled down your chin.
Beomgyu’s throbbing cock twitches at the sight and he doesn’t hesitate as yanks you forward. “Don’t do that”, he breathes, “Please. Don’t do that.” It sounds as if he’s using all his willpower to hold back. You didn’t want him to. You wanted to see him just as he was, every last bit of him, you wanted to see it all, to familiarize yourself with everything that was him.
“You taste good”, you say, the compliment coming out a little breathless when he presses the tip of his cock against your overstimulated cunt. “Yeah?” He asks, pushing past the tight rim of muscle as he eases his way inside, bringing you back onto his thighs. “You do too.” — His words barely register in your mind, for it’s far too clogged up on the feeling of him, throbbing and alive, inside of you.
His hands are on your waist again, pulling you forward as he sets you in motion. You gasp at the way he brushes up against every bundle of nerves, soft eyelashes hitting your cheeks as your eyes flutter. — With trembling fingers you reach for his face, you wanted to kiss him again, you wanted it more than anything. In this very moment you felt greedy, selfish almost, your body moving on its own accord as you sought out pleasure.
You had always considered yourself a selfless person, always giving and giving, never expecting anything in return. It felt strange, you had never desired anything the way you desired Beomgyu right now. The feeling scared you. Was this what Kai had warned you about? Should you have listened. — Even if you wanted to, you don’t think you could ever stop now. It was too much, he was everywhere, all at once. Yet there never seemed to be enough.
Your lips crash against his with urgency, somehow the kiss turns out sweet. It’s soft, gentle, caring. Beomgyu hums into your mouth, the taste of peaches and apricots mixing with one another. It tastes sweet, refreshing, and exciting. — Your combined moans echo out into the small cottage, the fire burning alongside your already blazing bodies, intensifying the raw and intimate moment.
Suddenly you know what you’d been longing for all this time, what had been missing in your otherwise mundane but joyful life. Delivering jams wasn’t enough, the warm smiles only eased the loneliness in your heart to an extent. No, this, this was what you needed. Another warm body against yours, someone to devote yourself entirely to, someone who acted without expecting anything in return. You would like to think of Beomgyu that way, even though you know you probably shouldn’t.
“Fuck, you’re so perfect- I..” Beomgyu cuts himself off as he pulls back from the heated kiss. Sweat slides down his forehead and you lean in to press a small peck between his furrowed brows. His jaw slacks as he lets ragged breaths pass his parted lips, his hips jerking up to meet yours. — Large hands slide down the sides of your trembling thighs, running over the curve of your ass as he squeezes the soft flesh there.
“D-Don’t know how much longer…I’m..” You stumble over your words, foreheads pressed against one another as small wordless sounds of pleasure rips from your throat. Beomgyu hums, his fingers creeping up your spine, dark gaze trained to your tits, catching the way your perky nipples strained against the cotton of your blouse. — “Fucking perfect.” He grunts, repeating himself over and over, enjoying the way it sounded on his tongue.
His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing it in gentle motions. The action makes your teeth latch onto your bottom lip as tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. With a small cry you feel your orgasm course through you, your cunt desperately clenching around his cock, pulling a string of curses from Beomgyu as his head tips back, exposing his flushed neck and bobbing adam's apple.
The peach cream is warm as it sputters from his twitching cock, spreading throughout your belly when he finishes inside of you. It’s unexplainable, the closeness, the intertwinement, you feel almost bound to him in that moment. — His body feels electrifying against yours, the soft fuzz tickling you when he pulls you to his heaving chest.
It feels idyllic, being so close to him. He doesn’t feel at all like the Beomgyu you had acquainted yourself with. This feels raw, it feels real. The weeks you’d spent carefully peeling the layers back had led you here, a place in which you never would’ve even considered finding yourself in. — And when you peer up at him, you find it hard to ever look away. He looks dazed, half a smirk plastered onto his face as his arms tighten around you.
You did not know if this had been a mistake or not, you did not know if you would come to regret this the following day. But right now it felt just right, just perfect. — You wish to stay like this, if just a moment longer.
⸝⸝
You found that Beomgyu liked to sleep in.
As usual, you had woken along with the sun, rising as the first rays cast upon you. Stretching out with a small yawn, you freeze when your feet hit something hard. Cracking a groggy eye open, you find your toes stubbed against the armrest of a peachy couch. Shaking your head as you blink the sleep away, you glance around. — You were in Beomgyu’s living room.
Your gaze falls on the fire, it had since long died out, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Then onto the discarded basket, tipped over on the floor a few paces away. And then to your bright and orange coat, thrown on the cream colored carpet. — At last, you settle on him. Beomgyu lays sprawled out on the sofa, taking up the vast majority of it as he forces you into a compromised position somewhere between its backrest and him.
With a small grunt you ease yourself into a sitting slouch, steadying yourself with a hand on his naked chest. The pink flush had gone down, and he no longer looked as if he were on fire. In fact, he looked almost peaceful like this. Blissfully asleep as he takes slow and steady breaths through his slightly parted lips. His eyes move behind closed eyelids, lashes fluttering, as his nose scrunches.
You reach out before you can even stop yourself, fingers carefully carding through his dark hair. Memories of your previous night together flash before you, replaying themselves in crisp clear quality. You remember his warm hands on you, his fuzzy skin against yours, his lips, the way he tasted, the way he made you feel. — Your body tingles all over at the mere thought.
Mindlessly your hands wander, not stopping until they reach a peculiar little mark on his ribcage. At first glance, it looked nothing out of the ordinary, and you would have probably brushed it off as a birthmark, had it not been for the way Beomgyu flinched when you pressed against it. — He groans, rolling over on his side, now facing you as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you to him as his face nuzzles against your stomach.
“Too early..” He complains, his voice muffled and laced with sleep as his hands clumsily grab at your hips. Pursing your lips, you reach for the mark once more, pressing the tips of your fingers against it. Beomgyu groans as he attempts to swat your hand away, persistently ignoring your advances until you finally speak up. — “What’s that?”
“Hm?” He raises his head, blinking against the bright sun before his attention shifts to where you’re pointing at. A small scoff passes his lips, his expression morphing into one of recognition and distaste, like you’d just reminded him of something he’d been trying to forget. — “It’s nothing”, he grunts, heaving himself into a sitting position as he stretches. Your eyes trail his figure with far less shame than you would’ve liked to admit. But as they do, you encounter several marks of the same kind.
“Beomgyu, there’s one here too”, you point to the reddish hue on his forearm. How had you not noticed these yesterday? Then again… Your cheeks flush as you recall the events of last night, quickly shaking your head as you try to rid yourself of such thoughts. — Beomgyu huffs, waving a dismissing hand your way as he tries to brush the topic off. “Don’t they hurt?” You quire, pushing the conversation further.
Beomgyu sighs, running a sleepy hand through his disheveled and dark hair. “Yeah, sure”, he mutters but doesn’t seem too bothered by the admission. — “Had them for as long as I can remember”, he then adds with a small shrug, “something about peaches bruising easily.”
You don’t question him on the topic again, he didn’t seem keen on talking about it. And you respected that. Yet you couldn’t help but get lost in thought as your mind pictured the dark spots. Were Kai’s words true? Had Beomgyu himself began rotting?
⸝⸝
You visit Beomgyu the next day, and the day after that, and even the one to come. He doesn't question your sudden appearances. And you no longer have to wait outside his shut front door, for he opens it right away, even if he lets you inside with nothing but a short nod or a small grunt.
The two of you don’t do much. You drink tea, sometimes you eat biscuits with the jam you brought. Other times he allows you to scour his crowded bookshelves, you use him as your own library, picking a book and returning with it a few days later. — Beomgyu will often sit on the couch, you by the warm fireplace as you ramble on about the book, sharing your thoughts excitedly. Often it felt as if you were conversing with yourself, but you knew that he was listening. You could tell by the way his lip twitched, or the way he rolled his thumbs over one another.
Neither of you bring up that night, the night where you had.. It’s buried, buried beneath the small talk. Buried beneath the tea and the biscuits, beneath the silence of just enjoying each other’s presence. — Beomgyu never tells you to leave, but you do so anyway. And though your heart yearned to spend another night in his house, you were not so sure that it was a good idea. You had yet to tell anyone about it, not even Blueberry Kai knew. The secret burdened you, in a way.
Beomgyu never mentioned the bruises again, so you didn’t either. Sometimes you would catch a glimpse of them, when his shirt slid up as he reached for a book on the top shelf, or when he rolled his sleeves up to do the dishes. If he ever caught you staring, he’d make sure to cover himself again. The sight pained you, and you wished there was something you could do. Anything.
When you weren’t at his house, you spent your days researching, as silly as it might sound. In the short span of a week, you had learned everything there was to know about peaches. From their soft and fuzzy outsides to their pink and creamy insides. You read about growing peaches, about harvesting peaches, you read about which seasons they thrive in and which they don’t. — Safe to say you confidently called yourself an expert.
Yet there was one peach you couldn’t quite seem to figure out.
Beomgyu was nothing like the peaches in the books, with the exception of the soft fuzz that coated him and the pink flush of his cheeks whenever he got flustered. And as the night drags on, your tired eyes follow along the written liens on the page before you in a lazy manner. With your head propped on your hand, you stifle yet another yawn as you blink the sleep away.
No, this wouldn’t do. All answers were not in books, and certainly not answers about Beomgyu. With the quick shake of your head, you slam said book shut, and with newfound determination you rise to your feet. — If you couldn’t ask him about it, then you would simply have to work with what you’ve got; and that was a whole bunch of newfound knowledge on peaches.
⸝⸝
The next morning you leave home before the birds wake. With nothing but a short blink of sleep but energy to feed an army, you march down the cobbled road. You don’t have to look for the small pathway that leads off the main street anymore, your feet take you there on your own, allowing your thoughts to wander as you dwell into the thick forest.
Beomgyu’s familiar house makes your chest swell, and your pace quickens as you approach. — The knocks you deliver to his door are sharp, demanding and slightly impatient. With the small click of your tongue, you glance around the silent woods, tapping your foot restlessly against the old porch. A minute or so later, the door glides open, and you’re met with a freshly woken peach.
“Do you know what time it is?” Beomgyu retorts, though his voice lacks its usual bite, he’d stopped using that with you. “It’s almost seven”, you chirp as you brush past him and into his homely living room, having already made yourself more than comfortable within his house. Beomgyu’s protesting groan becomes a faint background noise as you settle the heavy basket you were carrying onto his dining table.
It’s just now that he seems to notice it, his eyes scouring the items stacked inside, neatly concealed with a plaid blanket. — “What’s the meaning of this?” He mutters as he nears you, his chest brushing against your back as he reaches past you to peel the blanket off. You freeze, swallowing a small gulp as you blink a couple of times. Beomgyu had started doing that.. Being so close, you mean. It was as if the matter of personal space didn’t occur in his mind. Not that you minded, however it reminded you of your night together, and that was something you did mind.
“Peaches..!” You chime, trying your hardest not to let on to your flustered state. Beomgyu, on the other hand, goes silent behind you. His warm breaths are slow and steady against the back of your neck as his fingers fiddle with the handle of the basket. “What for?” He asks, his voice gruff and unreadable.
Hesitantly, you reach for one of the smaller bags, holding it up as you show him the tiny seeds inside. “They’re not peaches yet..” You murmur, and you’re thankful that he can’t see your face as it twists in embarrassment. — “I thought we could plant them together”, the proposal comes out a mere whisper, the words getting caught in your throat as you avoid glancing behind you to get his reaction.
Another eerie silence follows.
It drags on for nearly a whole minute before Beomgyu finally shifts behind you. “No.” He firmly states, the abrupt refusal washing over you like a bucket of ice cold water. This time you can’t hold yourself back from twisting on the spot, coming face to face with him. — “Why not?” You press, your brows furrowing as you grip the small bag of seeds.
Beomgyu leans forward, restricting the already confined space between the two of you. The back of your thighs press against the dining table, and you find yourself leaning backward when his nose nudges against your own. — “Because I don’t like peaches.” His expression is painted with distaste, as if the word itself spread a bitter taste on his tongue. However, you refused to back down, and with a small huff you shook your head; shoving him back as you grab the basket and head for the smaller door that leads out into his garden.
The fresh morning air is soothing against your burning skin, still tingling where his warm breath had caressed. You take in a deep breath, savoring the cool air as it slips down into your lungs. As you do, you survey the garden. While it wasn’t in horrible condition, it looked like it had been left unattended for the greater part of its existence. Yet you march forward, finding a nice open patch of grass as you sink to your knees.
You rummage through the basket in search of the small shovels you’d brought. Then comes the process of tearing up the ground beneath you. It’s a tedious process, but one that you find to quite enjoy. A familiar sensation of calm and peace washes over you as you work just like you would in your own garden; shoveling the soil into a pile next to you.
The sun is warm against your back as you work, yet its rays don't quite seem to reach the lonesome cottage, for the dark forest surrounding you shuts it out. — Wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, you find yourself completely engrossed in the task at hand. Much so that the sound of the door being opened and closed passes you by unnoticed.
Beomgyu’s steps are heavy as he slowly approaches your hunched over form. You feel his presence before you see it. The way his gaze tears holes through the back of your neck, dark and piercing eyes locked on your every move. He stops a pace away, maintaining a safe distance, as if the seed itself were to jump up and swallow him whole.
It’s quiet, neither of you saying anything as you let the tense air speak for itself. You can feel him watching you as you shovel more dirt, having made a decent depth to the hole. Briefly, you consider the fact that this might’ve been a mistake, that you had overstepped once and for all, and that this time, he wasn’t just going to brush it off as insistence. — When you reach for the bag of seeds, he suddenly speaks up:
“Why are you doing this?”
You hadn't expected him to ask that. Quite frankly you had expected him to drag you away. To shut his door in your face and tell you to never come back. His question makes you waver, fingers hovering above the opening section of the little bag as you freeze mid-action. Why were you doing this? To say pity felt derogatory, for you didn’t think Beomgyu longed for pity, if anything he repelled it. So what was it?
“Friendship”, you finally say, your hands resuming their work as you shake a few seeds out onto your open palm. “It’s what friends do”, you add as you turn to peer up at him. It was hard to make out his expression, the sun behind him momentarily blinding you. But his scoff is loud and clear, and you catch the way his fingers twitch as he resists the urge to clench them into fists.
He mutters something under his breath, the words inaudible to your ears. Then he crouches down next to you, the action taking you by surprise. A small, almost unnoticeable smirk is tugged across his lips, it's a strange look on him, one you don’t think you’d ever seen. — “Friendship?” He echoes as he glances toward the bag in your hand. You nod, rolling the seeds on the flat of your palm, “Are we not friends?”
Beomgyu pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze trained on something beyond your line of sight as he peers out and ahead. “I don’t know..”, he murmurs, his eyes briefly dropping to his own hands, splayed out in front of him. — “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend.” The admission is followed by the soft flush of his neck and cheeks, the light pink radiating on his skin.
His words make your chest tighten, the corners of your lips falling as your face drops. Never had a friend? You’d always assumed that Peach Beomgyu liked it better that way. Perhaps not, perhaps he was just as lonely as he looked right now. — Placing the bag of seeds down, you reach over, clasping his hand in yours. The small seeds linger within your intertwined palms, enveloped in the warmth simmering between you.
Beomgyu’s brow twitches, his dark eyes lifting as they lock with yours, a silent question lingering within them. — “I can be your first friend”, you smile, even though your stomach is fluttering with nerves. He looks slightly taken aback, like he hadn’t expected for those to be the words to come out of your mouth. His lips part, only for him to close them soon again, silently nodding.
Your heart was practically ablaze.
Only when his hand squeezes around yours do you seem to remember yourself as you shake your head. “Right”, you say as you point to the little hole you had dug, “Let’s plant these!” — Beomgyu seems hesitant at first, his eyes flickering between your intertwined fingers and the soil patch. Still, he reluctantly gives in as he lets you guide your joint hands toward the hole.
You make sure to gently pat the little seeds in, taking a moment to lean back and admire them before motioning for Beomgyu to cover them with dirt. He complies, gingerly scooping some into his palms as he covers the hole back up. Together you flatten it out, your hands bumping into one another as you do. It’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers flare up in pink whenever they touch yours, and you smile at the discovery.
When you’re finally done, you lean back up, placing your hands on your knees as you regard the small patch with pursed lips. “Now we wait”, you huff, realizing that even with the help of Beomgyu it would take a good couple of months before these were even close to being done. To wait and for so long for something was awfully boring.
With a reclined sigh, you begin collecting the tools you’d used, shoving them back into the basket. Beomgyu had gone awfully quiet next to you, quiet even for him. You pay it no mind, far too busy with re-organizing yourself. It’s not until his warm fingers suddenly grasp your chin, his touch feathery light yet scorching hot, that you react.
Your wide eyes barely manage to meet his upon turning your head before his lips press against yours. The sudden kiss takes you by surprise and you blink a couple of times before allowing your shocked eyes to fall shut. — It didn’t feel like it had that night, this was slow, timid almost, and Beomgyu was far more hesitant this time around as his hand went to your waist. It was cute, you thought.
And when he finally pulls back, there’s a warm pink covering the entirety of his face as he clears his throat into his closed fist. “Do..” He begins, quickly trailing off as he avoids your gaze. “I mean, is that something friends do?” — You frown, mouth opening and closing as you think of an answer.
“I don’t…I don’t think so. I think it’s something that more-than-friends do…”, you shyly admit, watching as the color that had just begun fading off of his face resurfaced once more. — Beomgyu grunts, shaking his head once, as if banishing the embarrassment from his mind, his dark hair falling in uneven sections in front of his eyes. “Then..”, he puts on a more stoic expression but you catch the nervous fidget of his fingers as they play with a strand of grass, “Then I want to be ‘more-than-friends’ with you.” — “If…If that’s okay?” He quickly adds, his face falling for a brief moment.
You can only nod, a grin stretching across your lips so wide that the corners of your mouth hurt. “I would like that very much.” — Beomgyu exhales a heavy sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping slightly as he peers at you through dark strands of hair. You awkwardly clear your throat, feeling your own face heat up at the request you were about to make:
“Can you…do that again? The kiss I mean..”
He chuckles, and you think it was the first time you ever heard him even remotely laugh. — “Without a doubt.”
⸝⸝
Things became different with Beomgyu after that. But it was a good different. It was different because he had started coming to you. — It had shocked you at first, when he’d knocked on your door, and you had opened it, expecting anyone but him. Even more so when he’d willingly accompanied you into town. Though he didn’t say much, he still followed along as you browsed the different stands, humming a quiet yes to whatever you found interesting.
People cast glances your way, but he didn’t seem to care for them. And neither did you, for the warm feeling of your hand in his washed away any other thoughts. — He even met Blueberry Kai once, though their first meeting was stiff and beyond tense, you couldn’t help the way your chest swelled at the accomplishment.
Beomgyu was polite, at least when he wanted to be. He stopped to hold the door for others, picked up a lost purse and returned it to its owner, and he carried your basket when it became too heavy. After a while he started accompanying you when you went out to deliver jams, and the faces of others as they opened the door soon grew from shock to recognition as Beomgyu slowly made his way back into society.
Still, you preferred to spend quiet and lazy days at his house. Away from everyone else, just the two of you, basked in a different kind of tranquility. Sharing soft kisses on the couch, long mornings in bed, reading out in the garden, and having tea in the kitchen. — It was a simple life, a life that had been right under your nose all along.
And the peaches soon bloomed, much to everyone’s surprise. The first ripe fruits, hanging off the tree, pink and plump. Beomgyu watches as you reach for one, plucking it from its branch as you turn it in your hands. — “Perfect, no?” You say as you let your fingers glide over the familiar fuzz covering the fruit.
Beomgyu hums as he, too, reaches for one. The shirt he wore rides up his stomach, exposing his flushed skin to you. But there were no bruises this time, they had faded months ago. And none of you questioned it, though you were certain you knew why. — Beomgyu brings the peach to his nose, inhaling its sweet scent as his eyes flutter. A small smile splayed across his face, that was also something different.
Your gaze lingers on his frame just a moment longer, fixated on the dark hair on top of his head. Only… It wasn’t dark, not anymore. — You reach up to card your hand through his soft locks, fingers catching one a strand by the very top. You run it between your thumb and index finger, its peachy color glowing under the sun.
To think that a little bit of love was all someone like him needed to bloom.
﹙ 💤 ﹚ ぃ ──── ❝ IN A WORLD THAT NEVER FELT LIKE HOME, RIKI WAS THE ONLY PLACE YOU BELONGED ❞
PAIRING : best friend ! riki × afab reader
SYNOPSIS : When your parents see perfection in everyone but you, even the boy who’s been your best friend since you were five becomes a painful reminder of what you’re not. Riki has always been nonchalant, always protecting you in quiet ways—even when you didn’t notice—but years of comparison have left you bitter. Between after school badminton matches, whispered rants, and the moments he almost says more, you’ll have to decide if the one person you’ve always had is also the one person you can’t lose.
GENRE : comfort, teen angst and some more angst.
WARNING(S) : mentions of blood/periods, child abuse, teenage angst, reader is neglected as a kid, breach of privacy (reading diary), lack of communication, reader blames riki of all people, use of profanity... if there's more please lmk.
WORD COUNT : 37.4K (got too attached...)
NOTE FROM RIRI , my first ever long published fic on here. and I know this is probably gonna flop lol but let's be honest, instead of throwing it in the dustbin—i wanted to give it a try. so here you go, I know some of it is really repetitive but I tried and I wanna grow. so, please throw some feedback in my direction 🌀
You sit on the swing, your sneakers brushing the sand beneath as you sway gently, back and forth, back and forth. The playground feels loud with other kids’ laughter, yet somehow it’s quiet for you. Your eyes keep darting toward your parents, who are standing a little distance away, lost in conversation with the other grown-ups. Their voices overlap—laughing, nodding, chatting about things you don’t understand.
It makes your chest feel heavy, like maybe you don’t belong here at all. Maybe you shouldn’t have even come with them. What was a five-year-old supposed to do at a gathering where no one seemed to notice her? You thought, just maybe, your parents would find someone who also had kids so you’d have company. But no. They’re too busy, and you’re stuck here, swinging alone, pretending it doesn’t bother you.
“Hey! Why you sitting alone?”
The sudden voice startles you, and your swing slows. You turn your head and see a boy about your age standing a few feet away. He’s holding a chocolate bar—well, what’s left of it—and half his tiny hands are smeared with melted brown streaks. His lips too, shining with chocolate like he’s been eating without a care.
For a second, you scrunch your nose in disgust. Sticky hands, sticky mouth—ugh. But then he bites off another piece, chewing happily, and somehow you can’t help staring.
“Mama and Dada are too busy talking,” you mumble, your lower lip jutting out as you pout.
The boy tilts his head, then suddenly brightens up. “Then why don’t you play with me?”
He grins so widely it almost looks goofy, then marches toward you like he’s on a mission. He extends his little chocolate-stained hand with way too much seriousness for a child. “Riki,” he says, as if introducing himself in a board meeting.
You blink at his hand, hesitate, then carefully slip yours into it, ignoring the stickiness. He shakes it firmly, proud of himself.
“Wanna be friends?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
Something warm flickers in your chest. Maybe kids don’t need big reasons to be friends—just a smile, a question, a hand held out. So you nod, shy but certain, a smile tugging at your lips too.
“Cool,” he mutters, sounding satisfied. Then without warning, he tugs you right off the swing. The chains creak and the swing sways wildly behind you as you stumble after him, tiny feet scrambling to keep up.
A laugh bubbles out of you despite yourself. “You’re not gonna kidnap me, right?” you tease, eyes wide but playful.
Riki gasps dramatically, pressing his messy hand against his chest like you’ve just accused him of the worst crime in the world. “Me? Kidnap you? Do I look like a bad guy?”
You giggle, shaking your head, your smile refusing to fade. The swing is forgotten, your parents’ laughter in the distance no longer stings. Because right now, you’re not alone anymore.
You let him pull you across the park, his small hand sticky in yours, until you stopped in front of two adults sitting on a bench. You guessed they were his parents.
The lady had a soft glow about her, cheeks pink like she’d just come from the sun. The man rose with an easy smile, kneeling down just as Riki barreled into his arms.
“Dada!!”
“What’s up, my little boy?” his father’s voice was warm, the kind that made your chest tighten. You frowned without meaning to. Why was he so nice? Wouldn’t that spoil him? Your dad never hugged you like that—he always said too much affection would ruin you.
“I made a friend!” Riki pointed at you proudly. His father pulled back just enough to look at you, still crouched at his son’s height. His smile didn’t falter even when you shifted awkwardly in your little pink dress, twin ponytails bouncing as you bowed politely, the way your parents had taught you.
“Aww,” his mother cooed, her eyes soft as she watched you. You tilted your head, confused but shy, lowering your gaze to your shoes.
“How respectful. Such a sweet friend you have,” she murmured, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a small chocolate and held it out to you.
You froze. “But aunty, mama said not to take things from strangers.”
Her smile didn’t waver, not even a flicker of offense. “But I’m your friend’s mother, aren’t I? Still—it’s okay if you don’t want it.”
Before you could answer, Riki snatched it from her hand with his sticky fingers. “I’ll give it to her!” he grinned, holding it out like he’d solved the problem. His mother sighed, part amused, part disappointed, but said nothing. He was only a kid, after all.
“Come on, let’s go,” Riki said, brushing his hands against his shorts and reaching for yours again. You glanced back at his parents, bowed once more, then let him lead you away from the bench.
“Your dad is so weird,” you muttered once you were out of earshot.
“Why do you think so?” he asked absently, his little arms full of tiny badminton bats and a shuttlecock his dad had handed him. You hadn’t even noticed when.
“Because he’s too sweet,” you mumbled, following him back to the swings. The park felt quieter now, almost empty.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Riki asked as he unwrapped the chocolate, holding it out to you again. You shook your head, but his face fell a little. “Take it—you’re my friend, right?” His eyes searched yours with such simple honesty it made you hesitate.
You sighed softly, sitting back on the swing. “How is that good? Aren’t dads supposed to be strict and cold? So we don’t grow up spoiled?” You pointed at a man sleeping on a bench nearby, clothes wrinkled, face tired. Maybe he’d lost another job, maybe he had no home. “Like that uncle…”
Riki didn’t answer right away. He frowned, fiddling with the chocolate wrapper. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “But that’s not his fault. And… isn’t being sweet the best thing a person can be?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The thought was too big, too strange for your little mind to untangle. Instead, you finally took the piece of chocolate from his hand and nibbled on it.
Riki watched you with a small smile, happy you accepted it, but still puzzled by the way you thought. Maybe you’d understand someday. For now, you were just kids—kids who didn’t know yet how the world really worked.
“Forget it. You wanna play?” Riki asks suddenly, brightening up again as he thrusts one of the mini badminton rackets toward you. It’s so small that it looks like a toy, but to you, it feels like something out of the television.
“Woahhhh…” you mutter in awe, eyes wide. You hold the racket carefully with both hands, almost like it’s too precious to touch. You’ve only ever seen players on TV during sports matches, their rackets tall and shiny. This one is tiny, childish—but real.
Then the amazement fades, and a small wave of sadness creeps in. Your lips tug downward as you whisper, “But… how are we gonna play if I don’t know how?” Chocolate smudges your lips as you frown, feeling a little embarrassed.
Riki tilts his head, studying you. For a moment, he looks very serious, as if his little brain is working way too hard for a problem like this. Then his face lights up. “Easy! I’ll teach you. Tomorrow, okay? You’re gonna be at the playground, right?” His grin stretches from ear to ear, full of excitement.
You blink at him in confusion. “But why not now?”
“Because…” he drags the word out dramatically, almost guilty, “it’s time to go home. I wanna watch my favorite cartoon.” His voice softens, like he doesn’t want to admit he’s choosing cartoons over playing.
“Ohhh…” you murmur, your shoulders sinking. Your face drops into disappointment so quickly it surprises even you. From the corner of your eye, you see your parents finally starting to walk toward you, and your chest grows heavier. For the first time that evening, you don’t want them to reach you. You want to stay here, standing with Riki, holding the silly little racket.
Your throat tightens. To your horror, your eyes water, a sting you don’t know how to stop. You sniffle quickly, wiping your face with the back of your hand.
Riki notices immediately. “Are you crying?” he asks softly, his sticky little fingers brushing against your cheek in concern. His touch is gentle, hesitant, almost protective.
You shake your head fast, not wanting him to know. “I just… tired,” you lie, trying to smile even as your voice cracks a little.
He studies you, then slowly pulls his hand away, still giving you that tiny frown of worry. He doesn’t push it though. Kids don’t always ask too many questions when they don’t understand.
By then, your parents are close enough to hear. Riki straightens suddenly, shoulders back, enthusiasm bubbling in him as he blurts out, “Hello, aunty! Hello, uncle! I’m her new friend!” His white little teeth shine as he grins, proud of himself for saying it.
Your mother’s eyes crinkle in surprise before she smiles warmly. “Aww, did our daughter make a new friend? What a little gentleman, hmm?”
Relief washes over you. For once, your mother isn’t frowning, isn’t scolding. She doesn’t even mention the rule about no male friends at home. You breathe easier, your tiny fists unclenching at your sides.
Then you glance up at your dad. He’s smiling too, polite, approving even, at Riki. Bitterness twists in your chest. Why couldn’t he smile at you like that? Why was it always easier for him to show kindness to strangers than to you, his own child? The urge to stomp your tiny fists against his legs flares inside you, though of course you don’t. You just swallow it down, like always.
Meanwhile, Riki’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink, his grin still sheepish. “I’ll go now, uncle, aunty! My mama and dada must be waiting for me!” He bobs his head respectfully before running off, clutching the rackets and shuttlecock like treasures.
You watch him dash back toward the other side of the park, his small figure shrinking the further he goes. A pout tugs at your lips as you sink into yourself. It hurts—more than you expected—to watch him leave. You know he has to, of course he has to, but that doesn’t stop the selfish wish that he’d stay just a little longer.
For the first time all day, you feel the weight of something you don’t have words for yet. A quiet ache that lingers as you stand in the fading sunlight, chocolate still sweet on your tongue.
“Stupid girl! Can’t even wipe off the chocolate? And what have I told you about taking food from strangers?” Your mother’s voice cuts sharp the moment Riki is gone, no trace of the soft tone she’d used before.
You flinch at the sudden change, your tiny shoulders curling in. Tears prick your eyes, but you bite them back, refusing to cry here in the middle of the park. She kneels in front of you, pressing a handkerchief so roughly against your mouth that it almost hurts, scrubbing away the smudges of chocolate.
You lift your gaze to your father, watery eyes pleading, your bottom lip jutting out in a small pout. It’s the kind of look that would melt anyone else’s heart—but not his. He glances once, then turns his face away, as if it doesn’t matter. The sting in your chest deepens, heavier than your little body knows how to carry.
“Sorry,” you whisper, voice so small it nearly disappears. You lower your head and let your mother grip your hand tightly, leading you out of the playground. Your father follows silently, his footsteps steady but distant, like he isn’t really there.
Your eyelids grow heavy as you shuffle along, fighting against the sleep pulling at you. Your mother keeps talking, her voice filling the silence. “He was such a cute little boy. But if he knew how messy you were, he wouldn’t like you at all.”
Her words sting, though you’re too tired to answer. Your steps wobble with each drag of your feet, the ground blurring beneath your sleepy eyes. You barely notice when your body gives up, when your legs stop holding you up.
Then suddenly, you’re lifted. Strong arms scoop you off the ground, and before you know it, your head is resting against your father’s shoulder, your tiny legs dangling on either side of him. His back is warm, his stride steady, and for the first time today you feel… safe.
Half-asleep, your small arms loop around his neck, clinging to him. “Daddy… you’re my hero,” you mumble, voice slurred with drowsiness.
His reply is quiet, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “Is that so?”
Your mother glances over, and for once her lips soften into a smile, a moment of warmth slipping through.
You sigh, nestling into your father’s shoulder. And even though chaos always waits for you at home, right now, in the fading light of afternoon, you let yourself smile too. For a little while, it feels like home.
⪩⪨
The next day, you spend the morning pacing around the house, clutching your little hands together, trying to think of how to ask. How could you convince mom? She was always tired, always busy. But you had made a promise. You told Riki you’d come. And breaking a promise wasn’t something friends did.
Taking a deep breath, you shuffle into the kitchen where she’s standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, her hands busy in the soapy water. You pad over on your small feet and wrap your tiny arms around her legs, pressing your cheek against her thigh—because that’s all your height allows.
“Moooommy?” you draw out the word sweetly, hoping it will work.
She sighs, not even looking down, already guessing what’s coming. “What is it?” Her voice is tired, her shoulders slouched from the morning chores.
“Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna go play with my new friend!” you beam up at her, eyes sparkling. You squeeze tighter around her legs, trying to look as cute as possible.
Finally, she glances down at you, her expression weary. “You just want to run off again? After everything I have to do in this house?” She shakes her head, annoyed, and turns back to the dishes.
You pout, puffing out your cheeks, but you don’t let go. “Please, Mama! Just a little while! He’ll be waiting for me…” Your puppy eyes shine as you tilt your head, your lips curling into your very best begging smile.
But she only sighs louder, flicking her wet hands once in frustration. “If you have so much free time, why don’t you help me with chores instead? The laundry is sitting there, the floor needs sweeping, and here you are thinking of playing.”
Your shoulders slump immediately. You loosen your arms from around her legs and step back, staring at the ground. You know better than to push. When mom uses that tone, pleading more is dangerous.
So you turn, your little heart sinking, and spot your father on the couch. The television glows in front of him, the news humming in the background. He sits quietly, half-listening, phone resting beside him. Your last hope.
Biting your lip, you shuffle over, tugging at his shirt sleeve since that’s all you can reach. “Daddy,” you call softly. When he doesn’t look, you climb awkwardly onto the couch, your tiny hands gripping the cushions as you pull yourself up until you’re sitting right beside him. “Daddy,” you say again, more hopeful this time.
He hums absently, eyes still on the screen.
You lean closer, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna play with my friend.” Your voice wavers, the words tumbling out quickly like you’re afraid he’ll say no if you don’t get them all out at once.
He blinks, glancing from the television to you, then to your mother still clattering dishes in the kitchen as she mutters to herself about housework and how no one helps her. He presses his lips together, clearly torn. Staying here meant more of her complaining in the background. Taking you out meant peace.
“Okay,” he mutters finally, grabbing the remote and switching the TV off with a click.
Your eyes widen, disbelief flooding in before joy explodes across your face. “Really?!” you squeal, bouncing a little on the couch. Without thinking, you throw your arms around him in a hug, squeezing tightly.
He chuckles quietly, patting your head once before standing up.
You hop off the sofa, practically skipping to the door, your grin stretching ear to ear. “Thank you, Daddy!”
Pulling on your shoes in a hurry, you rush out, your little feet tapping against the pavement as you skip ahead. Behind you, your father follows at his steady pace, phone in one hand, his gaze occasionally lifting from the screen to keep an eye on you. The playground isn’t far, but to your excited little legs it feels like the most important journey in the world.
Your heart pounds with anticipation. You can already picture Riki waiting, badminton racket in hand, that goofy grin on his face.
You promised. And you kept your promise.
Once you reached the park, you glanced back at your dad. He was still glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily, barely noticing you as you skipped faster toward the swings. The second your eyes caught Riki sitting there, kicking the dirt as his swing rocked back and forth, you forgot all about your father.
“Yah!” Riki huffed the moment he spotted you, jumping off the swing with an exaggerated frown. “Do you know how long I waited? I thought you weren’t coming!” His arms crossed like he was about to stomp away, but his lips twitched at the corners.
You pressed your lips together, puffing your cheeks before muttering stubbornly, “I promised.” Then, louder, prouder: “And I keep my promises!”
His pretend scowl broke into a bright grin. “Okay, okay. I believe you now.” He nodded seriously, as if stamping approval on your words, before holding out the tiny racket in his hand.
Your eyes lit up. “We’re really playing?” you asked, almost bouncing in place.
“Yep.” He puffed out his chest, looking very much like a little coach, and stepped a few paces back. Holding the shuttlecock in one hand, he called out, “Ready?”
You clutched the racket, nodded eagerly, and then—whiff. The shuttlecock fell flat at your feet.
“Oh,” you mumbled, biting your lip. You tried again. Miss. Again. Miss. After six straight misses, you plopped down on the ground, hugging your knees and pouting so hard your cheeks trembled. “I’m sorry I keep missing. I’m just… bad at this.”
Riki tilted his head, his eyes softening. He walked over and crouched down in front of you. “Hey. It’s okay,” he said with a little shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “When I played with dad the first time, I missed sooo many shots. Like, more than you.”
You peeked at him through your knees, unconvinced.
“You only feel sad if you’re not even trying,” he reasoned, leaning closer, his tiny voice gentle. “But you’re trying. So why be sad, huh?”
Before you could answer, his fingers reached forward, pinching your cheeks just enough to tug your lips into a goofy smile. “See? Like that.”
You couldn’t help it—you giggled, swatting his hands away. “Okay, okay! I’ll play again.” You stood up, dusting off your shorts, determination back in your eyes.
“That’s the ghost!” Riki declared suddenly, pointing at you with a grin.
You blinked at him. “…It’s spirit, Riki.” You corrected him seriously, like a teacher.
He just shrugged, unconcerned. “Yeah, yeah. Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, because fighting with your only friend felt silly.
The game went on, and you lost more times than you could count. Still, Riki never complained. He cheered when you hit the shuttlecock—even if it flew the wrong way—and clapped whenever you tried again. His encouragement made the air light and warm, and you forgot how bad you thought you were.
So much so that you didn’t even notice how late it had gotten until your dad finally walked over from the bench.
“Time to go, sweetheart,” he called gently.
Your lips drooped into a tiny frown, and you waved your hand in a slow goodbye. Riki mirrored your frown, raising his own little hand and wiggling his fingers at you until you turned away.
Even as you trudged back to your dad, a small smile tugged at your face. You had learned something new that day—not just badminton, but the strange, wonderful way a promise could tie you to someone.
Your legs feel heavy as you trail behind your dad, his eyes glued to the glowing screen in his hand. You tug at his pants with your tiny fingers, your voice soft and tired, “Daddy… can you carry me? My legs are soooo tired.”
He finally looks up from his phone, sliding it into his pocket as he crouches down in front of you. “Come on, hop on.”
With a small grin, you climb onto his back, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a sleepy little koala. Your cheek presses against his shoulder as you murmur happily, “Riki taught me badminton today.”
“Is that so?” he hums, his voice warm in a way it rarely is these days.
“Mhm. He’s sooo cool, Daddy. Just like you,” you mumble, half-proud, half-dreamy.
That makes him chuckle softly, his pace slowing as something catches his eye. He points ahead, mischief in his tone. “Does my baby want some ice cream? But no telling Mama, alright? Our little secret.”
Your head pops up instantly, eyes sparkling as you spot the vendor. “Ice cream?! Yes, yes, yes! Ice cream!”
He laughs—an honest laugh that makes your little heart flutter because it feels so rare. “Alright then. What flavor does my princess want?”
“Strawwwberry!” you squeal, tripping over the word but too excited to care.
Still perched on his back, you beam as the vendor scoops the pink swirl into a cone and hands it over. Your dad pays, and you immediately lick the melting sweetness, humming in delight. “Mmm! So yummy.”
The night air feels softer with the ice cream in your hand and your dad’s steady back beneath you. Between licks, curiosity bubbles up, and you blurt, “Daddy? Why did you marry Mama?”
He stiffens just slightly, but you don’t notice, too busy giggling at the strawberry smudge on your lips. “Mama’s always mean,” you complain innocently, “but you’re not. Well, you’re also mean sometimes, but not always.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his steps slower now, quieter. The smile he had a minute ago slips away into the shadows, but you’re too busy munching the cone to see.
When you’re done, he gently sets you down a little away from home, wiping your sticky mouth with a handkerchief. “Here,” he says softly, slipping a mint candy into your palm. “So mama won’t know.”
You giggle, unwrapping it quickly. “Best day ever,” you whisper through tiny crunches.
Hand in hand, you step into the house only to hear mom’s sharp voice cut through the air, scolding and frustrated. Your dad says nothing this time, sinking onto the couch with the news playing in the background.
The laughter from earlier feels like a fading dream. Your chest feels tight, like something caged inside, but you don’t quite understand why. You just quietly slip into the big bed you share with them, curling into the middle spot because you’re too scared of sleeping alone—too scared the monsters might find you.
To you, your parents are still heroes, no matter how much they fight. They’re your shield, your safe place. And lately, you’ve found another small safe place too. The playground. Riki. The boy who swings beside you and smiles when you smile, who doesn’t laugh at you when you fail.
He’s only been your friend for a little while, but somehow, with him, you don’t feel so lonely anymore.
At home, things were always confusing. One moment the house would be filled with laughter—your mom clapping her hands at something your dad said, your dad teasing her back—and you’d think, maybe this time, everything will stay like this. But it never did. The laughter would be swallowed up by shouting, voices clashing in the living room, throwing around words you didn’t even know yet
Words too sharp for your tiny ears. You’d sit on the edge of your parents’ big bed, clutching your stuffed toy to your chest, wondering if maybe you were the reason they were angry. Wondering why you felt so small in a place that was supposed to make you feel safe.
⪩⪨
You couldn’t keep it inside anymore. So the next day, when you dragged your feet to the playground, shoulders slumped, badminton racket hanging loosely in your hand, Riki noticed right away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his little brows furrowing, placing one small hand on your shoulder. His touch was gentle, careful, the way kids do when they don’t know how to comfort but want to anyway.
“I’m gonna be a big sister,” you mumbled, your lips twisting into a pout.
For a moment his face lit up. “Oh! Isn’t that good?” His smile was wide, his voice bright, like the news was a celebration.
But you just shook your head hard. The happiness in his eyes faltered when he saw the way yours were glistening with tears.
“Everybody only talks about the new baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “They only care about him. It’s like I don’t even exist anymore.” The words spilled out with the frustration you didn’t even know how to name, your palms covering your face as if hiding could stop the tears from slipping out. You were just a kid, but even kids could feel what it meant to be forgotten.
Riki’s small hands awkwardly patted your back. “I notice you,” he said, his voice soft, almost like a secret.
A broken laugh escaped your lips, muffled against your palms. “I know you do… but you’re not big like them. You can’t make them listen.”
“Why does being big matter?” he asked simply, tilting his head.
You had no answer. Just silence, your shoulders shaking as you sniffled, and his tiny hand still on your back, steady like an anchor.
It was in moments like these, sitting side by side in the half-empty park with your rackets forgotten in the grass, that something unspoken tied you together. A bond you didn’t know how to describe but knew you’d keep forever.
⪩⪨
Afternoons became your escape—chasing shuttlecocks across cracked pavement, your laughter echoing louder than the silence of your home. Riki always had snacks tucked into his bag, biscuits or candy his mother slipped in for both of you. He never seemed to notice the way your eyes softened whenever he handed them over, but you noticed the difference between his world and yours.
His house felt warm, not because it was bigger or brighter, but because his parents treated him and his sisters with a kind of love you couldn’t imagine. The way his mom called him in for dinner with a smile, the way his dad ruffled his hair, the way his sisters giggled with him—it was so normal for him, but for you, it felt like a dream.
And then there was Jiho. Your baby brother. Two years old, stumbling around with that endless grin. Everyone adored him. Your parents’ voices softened for him in a way they never did for you. And though you wanted to hate him for stealing away all the love you once had, you couldn’t. He was too small, too innocent. None of this was his fault. Still, every time you watched your mom cradle him close, every time your dad’s eyes lit up when Jiho babbled his name, your heart ached with something you didn’t have a name for yet.
It wasn’t fair. It was never fair.
So you stayed at the park longer. You stayed at Riki’s house longer. Because being with him didn’t feel like being invisible.
The TV was loud, voices from a drama spilling into the room, but your mom’s own voice was louder to you.
“Stop messing around near Jiho while he’s sleeping.”
Her words came tired, like she didn’t even want to say them, but they still pressed heavy on your chest. You sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping biscuits into the warm milk like you always did, trying so hard to be careful, to be quiet.
But then she said it again, sharper this time.
“Can you be quiet? Don’t wake up Jiho with those sounds.”
You peeked toward the crib where Jiho stirred in his sleep. You didn’t want to wake him, not when mom already looked like she was about to snap. She lay on the couch, her eyes half-closed, like the glow of the TV was more important than you. So you tried to stand, tried to tiptoe away before you could ruin anything.
But your foot hit the cup.
The hot milk spilled across your foot, stinging like fire, and you couldn’t help it—the scream ripped out of you before you could swallow it down. “Mo-m!”
Jiho woke with a wail, his little cry filling the room, and everything seemed to break at once. You thought maybe she’d come to you first. She always did, even if she was mad, even if her words hurt. You thought she’d grab a cloth, wipe your foot, blow on it, say something soft. But instead.
A sharp sting exploded across your cheek.
Her hand.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH HIM OR AROUND HIM!”
Her voice cracked like thunder in your ears. You froze, your tears mixing with the burning on your knee, but the slap hurt worse. It wasn’t just your skin that stung. It was the way her eyes looked at you like you were the problem, like you were too much.
You stared down at your feet because you couldn’t look at her anymore. Your voice was small, shaky, and broken when you whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” but she didn’t even hear it. Or maybe she did and didn’t care.
Your whole body shook as you ran, stumbling toward the door, leaving the spilled milk on the floor, leaving her anger behind, leaving Jiho’s cries echoing in your head. You ran like you always dreamed you could—away, far away, somewhere nobody could tell you you weren’t enough.
The park was empty. The sun was dipping, shadows stretching across the swings. You crawled under the big green dinosaur slide, the plastic still warm from the day. Your cheek throbbed, your foot burned, and you pressed your face against the cool metal floor, trying to make the pain stop.
Your sobs echoed under the hollow slide. Loud, ugly cries that you couldn’t hold in. You wanted someone—anyone—to scoop you up and say you mattered. But no one came. Not your mom, not even Riki.
So you curled yourself small, like maybe if you were tiny enough, nobody would notice you or yell at you or hit you again. Your eyes stung, your body ached, and slowly, slowly, you drifted off to sleep to the sound of your own crying.
And even though you were only seven, somewhere deep inside, you already knew: home wasn’t really home.
After about an hour, you’re woken up by that same sweet voice you always wait here for. “What are you doing here so early?”
You blink, rubbing your swollen eyes with the back of your fists. The voice feels like safety—warm, familiar. “Riki…” you mumble, his name coming out small as you see him standing there. Your cheeks are sticky from dried tears, lips pushed into a wobbling pout as you try so hard not to cry again. But the moment you see him, it breaks.
“Riki…” you repeat, this time a shaky sniffle escaping before your tiny chest caves in. “I– I’m not okay!” The words crack as you burst into messy sobs, the kind that hurt your throat.
Riki just stares at you, wide-eyed and worried. He doesn’t really know how to fix it—he’s just a kid too—but his little heart knows enough. “I know… I’m here… I’m listening.” His hands, small and clumsy, reach forward to hug you. You collapse into him right away, burying your face against the spot where his heart beats. His shirt smells faintly like soap and sunshine, and even though he doesn’t understand everything, he holds you as if he does. His own eyes grow glassy, tears slipping out without him even realising, because seeing you hurt makes him hurt too.
You ugly cry into his chest, hiccupping against him as the words pour out. “Momma… she… she yelled at me… I was only trying to help with brother…” The sobs shake your whole little body, but Riki’s hands keep patting your back in uneven circles, the way he’s seen adults do.
His voice is quiet, careful. “What about your foot?”
You sniffle, following his gaze down to where the skin is red and blotchy. You’d almost forgotten about it, the sting in your chest swallowing everything else.
“I burnt it… I spilled the milk,” you mumble, wincing when his fingers brush too close. “It hurts—don’t touch.”
Riki frowns, his brows scrunching up. His eyes dart between your feet and your face. “Did you… get yelled at because you spilled the milk?”
You nod, lips trembling. His arms tighten around you, and for a moment he hides his face in your shoulder as if he’s the one about to cry harder. He wipes his own tears quickly before using his palm to wipe yours, clumsy but gentle, smudging away the salt from your cheeks.
“Come,” he says firmly, tugging your hand. “You need ice.”
“I don’t wanna go back home…” you whisper, your voice raw from crying. Your nose is runny, your eyes too puffy to open all the way. What hurts most isn’t the burn, it’s that your mom didn’t even notice—and your dad didn’t come looking.
“Then… come to mine.”
You freeze, blinking up at him. “But your parents…?”
Riki shakes his head fast, a faint smile tugging at his lips through the tears. “My mom always says to bring you home. So this would be the first time.” His little hand tightens around yours, not giving you the choice to hesitate.
He pulls you along the tiny streets, both of you sniffling but together. His house isn’t far, and when he stops, you see a simple, neat home, smaller than yours but standing proudly.
“My home!” he announces, chest puffed out as though he’s showing you a castle.
You nod slowly, your hand still in his. The hesitation lingers, but as you step closer, the warm air from inside drifts out, smelling of soup and laundry soap, nothing like the heavy silence you left behind.
“It’s… happy,” you whisper, eyes wide as you take it in. You want to say pretty, but happy feels better—happier than your own house has ever been. And you know Riki wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Riki!! Are you back?”
You flinched at the sound of his mother’s voice. Your hair was tangled, your eyes swollen from crying, and your dress was ruined with sand and dirt from sitting on the ground for so long. You expected her to wrinkle her nose, maybe even scold you for being messy. But instead, her face softened with concern. She looked from her son to you, spatula still in one hand like she had rushed out in the middle of cooking.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did Riki do something? Why are you so…” she trailed off, her lips pressing together. She didn’t want to say “dirty,” even though that was the word hovering on her tongue. She searched for something gentler, more respectful.
“Her mother yelled at her. She spilled milk on her foot, so it’s a little burnt,” Riki answered all at once, too calmly for someone his age, though you could see the traces of dried tears on his cheeks.
His mother’s breath hitched. For a moment, she just stared at you, like the air had been knocked out of her chest. Then she knelt, free hand reaching out to cup your chin and tilt your face up toward her. Her touch was warm, so unlike the sting still burning on your cheek. When her eyes dropped to your feet, her expression crumpled.
“Oh, gosh…” she whispered, her voice breaking. She almost looked hurt herself as she went back inside the kitchen. Before you could say anything, Riki tugged at your hand, urging you gently toward the door. “C’mon.”
“My clothes are dirty,” you murmured, hesitant. The floors inside their house were clean, shining as if someone had spent hours scrubbing them. You didn’t want to ruin them, not when you already felt like trouble.
“Mama won’t mind. C’mon,” Riki insisted, pulling you forward without a second thought. Dirt clung to your dress, flaking onto the spotless floor, but he didn’t care.
Inside, you avoided the couch, too scared of leaving marks on it. Instead, you sank onto the floor, curling up like you were trying to disappear. Your body felt heavy from all the crying, exhaustion pressing down on your little shoulders.
Riki’s mother returned quickly, a small bowl of ice cubes in her hands. Her eyes stayed on you, full of a quiet, aching worry. She knelt again, lowering herself to your level. “Poor girl,” she whispered, more to herself than to you, as she pressed a cold cube against your reddened skin.
You whimpered and tried to pull your leg back, the sting of the ice too sharp, but her hands held you gently, steadying you. Not rough. Not angry. Just firm enough to help.
“Mama…” Riki’s voice was soft, almost pleading. “Can you call her mama and tell her she’s here? She’ll be worried.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. How could he? Riki still believed all mothers worried the same way his did.
His mother’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but she closed them again. She only nodded, though the look in her eyes gave her away—she knew more than she let on. Maybe she wanted to call, maybe she wanted to march over there and scold your mother, but she didn’t. Because people didn’t. They told themselves, what happens in someone else’s home stays there.
And so she said nothing. She told herself it was just this once. That maybe it would never happen again. After all, you didn’t show up like this afterward. Not crying. Not broken like that day. But she was wrong. It never really stopped.
⪩⪨
Instead, things only grew worse as you got older. But somehow, with Riki beside you, it never felt unbearable. He had this strange way of making the weight on your shoulders feel lighter, like life wasn’t just about surviving—it was about finding little reasons to be alive. The roof over your head might have been called home, but it never felt like one. The air there was heavy, the walls held too many raised voices, and yet all of that faded into background noise the moment you were with him.
When his parents decided to switch him to your school, it felt like the universe had handed you a miracle. You still remembered how excited you’d been, buzzing with energy in class, waiting for him to walk in and take the empty seat beside you. That decision—simple as it was—felt like one of the best things his family could have ever done. From then on, your days weren’t just bearable, they were good. Really good.
Your mother and his mother began talking more often after that. Usually it was small exchanges—arrangements to pick you up from Riki’s home, or polite smiles when they crossed paths. Oddly enough, Riki never once set foot in your house. He never insisted, and you never invited him. Some things didn’t need to be explained; you both just understood. He was as much a stranger to the cracks in your home as you were.
Your little brother didn’t make it easier. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you treated him gently at first, the way you thought an older sibling should—patient, protective, forgiving. But he grew into everything you hated. At five years old, he was already testing every ounce of your patience.
He tore your books apart, page by page, laughing while you tried not to cry. And your mother? She brushed it off as innocent curiosity. “He’s just a child,” she’d say, lifting your things onto a higher shelf instead of correcting him. That was what stung the most—not his little hands ripping your hard work apart, but the silence that followed. The refusal to tell him it was wrong. And like a sponge, he absorbed that silence, learned from it.
Soon, he began to cry whenever you were near, twisting the narrative until you were the troublemaker. You got scolded, he got away with it.
Badminton became your escape. You and Riki, rackets in hand, the sound of the shuttle cutting through the air—it was your little therapy session. You’d rant about your brother, about your mother, about all the unfairness packed into the small corners of your house. Riki would listen, really listen, his forehead damp with sweat, his silence full of understanding rather than judgment.
Your father, though, was a ghost. He left early, came back late, his presence measured in shoes by the door or the faint smell of cologne clinging to the air after he brushed past you. It wasn’t suspicious—both you and your mother knew he was working hard, harder than most, to keep food on the table and a roof above your heads. You told yourself you should be grateful. You tried to be.
But there was still this invisible wall between you and him, this widening gap you couldn’t bridge. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was. You didn’t know. What you did know was that the disconnect ached in quiet ways—you wanted him to see you, but he always seemed too tired to.
Still, on weekends, he tried. He really did. You’d catch him sitting on the sidelines while you and Riki played, his face unreadable, his hands folded over his stomach. Maybe he was proud, maybe he was just catching a rare breath from the chaos of his work life. Either way, those moments became the threads you held onto—the proof that he hadn’t given up entirely.
⪩⪨
“You’re gonna participate, right?” Riki asked, the two of you slouched in your usual hideout—that corner of the school where no one could see you, but you could see each other just fine. Badminton rackets lay abandoned beside you, both of you too drained to move after playing until your legs wobbled.
“In the kids’ badminton tournament?” you asked back, voice muffled as you took a bite of the sandwich Riki’s mom had packed. The bread was soft, the edges a little warm still, and it almost felt like comfort more than food.
“Yeah, that one.” He leaned over to steal a bite from your half without asking, chewing with that casual ease that said this is normal. It never made him jealous when his mom did things for you—in fact, it felt like an unspoken pact between the two of you. His mom filled a role yours never did, and neither of you ever talked about it out loud. You just knew.
“Not joining,” you said without hesitation, wiping your fingers on your skirt. “I don’t wanna get humiliated publicly after losing.”
“Who says you’d lose?” His brows furrowed, as if your words personally offended him.
“Riki,” you sighed, shaking your head. “If my opponent was you, I’d walk off the court before I even tried. You’re way too good. But hey—if you need a hype girl, I’ll scream the loudest for you.” You smirked around another bite, crumbs sticking to your lips.
“That’s not what I meant, dumbo.” His voice dropped into a grumble, but his frown gave him away. “If you won’t participate, I won’t either.” He stood up as if he were really about to leave, racket in hand, but then hesitated, his head tilting in that way he always did when his brain was spinning too fast. “Wait… would your mom yell at you if you signed up?” he asked carefully.
You shook your head, lips twitching at his attempt to connect the dots. “Wrong guess,” you murmured, amused at his determination.
“Then… oh! Is it because if you join, you’ll have to place first, otherwise your parents won’t be happy?”
You didn’t even bother denying it, just muttered, “Bingo,” brushing crumbs off your palms like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.
Riki’s face fell. He sat back down, mumbling, “Then don’t tell them. We’ll just… keep it a secret.”
“Oh yeah?” You gave him a pointed look, smacking the top of his head lightly. “And when they ask for a guardian’s number and signature, who exactly am I supposed to write? Yours?”
He rubbed the spot you hit, lips pushing into a pout. His voice came quieter, almost sulky. “So you really wouldn’t try? Not even for me?”
That one stung. You froze, sandwich halfway to your mouth, guilt twisting in your chest. You wanted to tell him you wanted to, that you wished things were different—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, because saying anything else felt like a betrayal of the rules your parents had written into you.
He didn’t wait for more. With a huff, he grabbed his racket and the shuttlecock, stomping away without looking back.
And that emptiness? It settled heavy in your chest, pressing until your throat burned and your eyes watered. You told yourself not to cry, but by the time you walked home, your cheeks were sticky with tears you kept trying to wipe away. By the time your house came into view, you’d forced yourself quiet, but your eyes were still puffy and raw. You kept your gaze fixed on your shoes, praying no one noticed.
“Mom! Noona’s back!” your little brother’s voice rang out the second you stepped through the door.
You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached. Of course he’d notice. Of course he’d announce it like it was breaking news. You turned, glare sharp with all the exhaustion and hurt bottled up in you.
For a split second, he froze, wide-eyed. Your red, swollen eyes must’ve scared him enough that he actually shut up. He looked like he thought you’d kill him right there if Mom wasn’t in the next room. He gulped and quickly looked away, keeping a safe distance as you climbed the stairs. You didn’t even bother hiding your glare—it was sharp enough to make your younger brother freeze for a second before deciding it was best not to push his luck. By the time you reached your room, you slammed the door shut, locked it, and collapsed face-first onto your bed.
The tears came harder now, muffled into your pillow as your chest heaved. Everything felt too much—the pressure at home, the tournament, and that stupid Riki. He didn’t even bother texting you after storming off, and the thought made your stomach twist. You almost wanted to learn every curse word in Japanese just to spit them at him for acting so immature. (Not that ten-year-olds really knew better.)
Instead, you cussed under your breath in your own language when you heard footsteps in the hallway. Yes—three languages: Korean, English, and the language of footsteps. You could always tell who was coming by the rhythm of their steps, and right now, the steady, heavy pace made your shoulders sink. Mom.
“Not even a hello when you came home?” her voice scolded from behind the door.
You pressed your lips together, biting back the words you wanted to say. Go away. Leave me alone. But instead, you exhaled and tried something else—something you’d picked up from all the soap operas she watched. You delivered it flatly, not as a question but as a statement: “I’m joining a badminton kids’ tournament.” There was a pause. “That’s what this is about? Jiho told me you were crying when you came in.”
Your heart clenched. You hated how fast it beat whenever she brought Jiho into things. You wanted to scream at that brat for ratting you out, but instead you muttered, “I wasn’t crying because of that.”
“Then open the door.”
“No. Go away.”
Her sigh was heavy before her footsteps retreated. Relief washed over you, though it didn’t stop the ache in your chest. There was no point in letting her in—she wouldn’t comfort you anyway. She’d probably call you weak for crying over something “so small.” And you weren’t ready to hear that. You hadn’t been ready for years.
Still, at least she hadn’t forbidden the tournament. Small victories. Your dad? He wouldn’t show up either way, buried in his work as always. You doubted he even cared. But somehow, even that faint permission—her not saying “no”—felt like a tiny crack of air in the suffocating space you lived in.
⪩⪨
“Riki!” you yelped, stumbling back a step as you tried to keep up with his hits. He was way too energetic today, smacking the shuttlecock like it had personally wronged him. The tournament was tomorrow, and ever since he found out your mom had finally agreed to let you play, he’d been bouncing off the walls with excitement.
“What? Can’t a guy be happy?” he grinned, smug and mischievous, as you returned the hit with equal force. Your chest tightened a little, the memory from yesterday creeping back in, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Why did you want me to play in the tournament so bad, huh? Do you even know how much it hurt when you just… left like that?”
The shuttlecock shot past him before he could react, and with his usual clumsy grace, he stumbled back, swung too late, and ended up crashing straight onto his butt. You froze for half a second, concern flickering in your eyes—then broke into uncontrollable laughter at the sight of him sitting there in the sand, glaring like a sulking puppy.
“You’re such a meanie. Not even gonna help me?” he whined dramatically, brushing at the dirt on his shorts. Rolling your eyes, you trudged over and offered your hand. He smirked as if the universe had just handed him a golden opportunity. Instead of standing, he yanked you down beside him.
“Riki!” you shrieked, landing hard on the sand. Pain shot up your knee, and you winced as you realized you’d scraped it. “You hurt me, idiot!” You swatted at his arm, glaring at him.
He laughed at first, that same carefree laugh that always got under your skin—but when he noticed the smear of red forming on your skin, his smile dropped instantly. His eyes widened, his hand hovering awkwardly, guilty and panicked all at once.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no—” he stammered, his voice high-pitched in panic. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to prank you, I didn’t think you’d actually get hurt—oh my god—” He reached out without thinking, brushing the edge of the scrape with his thumb. You flinched and smacked the back of his head.
“It hurtssss!” you cried dramatically, clutching your knee.
He blinked down at the little droplet of blood staining his fingertip, frowning at it like it was some dangerous discovery. You gave him a look of absolute disgust. “You’re not about to lick it like a vampire, are you?” you deadpanned.
His head shot up, his face twisting in horror. “What?? Ew! No! Who even does that? I was just—just checking how bad it was!”
You burst out laughing despite the sting in your knee. It was ridiculous, really—if it had been anyone else, you probably would’ve cried and sulked. But with Riki, even pain somehow felt… bearable. “Don’t worry,” you said with a crooked grin. “I’m a strong girl, remember?”
He rolled his eyes at your bravado but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned closer, his hair falling into his eyes, and gently blew over the scrape like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You squealed and kicked your feet. “That tickles! What are you doing?” you laughed, though you didn’t stop him.
“Shh, it helps,” he muttered seriously, mimicking what he’d seen his mom do countless times.
And maybe it was silly, maybe it was childish—but with the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin, and the sand clinging to both your clothes as you sat side by side, none of it really mattered. The world was small and simple in that moment. Just you, him, and the thought of tomorrow’s tournament that made your hearts race in unspoken sync.
⪩⪨
The next day, your mom tied your hair into a neat ponytail — maybe the first time in forever she was actually in a good mood. But, of course, standing right beside her was that little menace, your younger brother, smirking like the devil himself had given him private lessons. You swear, if looks could smack, he’d already be rolling across the ground crying. How could a five-year-old be so good at getting under your skin?
Junhee stood on your other side, beaming like the human version of sunshine, her palm warm as she patted your back. You’d been friends since the moment you stepped into school — or maybe more like she decided you were her friend and that was that. Either way, she stuck. She didn’t know the mess waiting for you at home, but she understood enough.
“You’re gonna do amazing!” she grinned, giving your back another encouraging pat before nudging you gently toward the court.
You silently prayed. Like really prayed. That if God actually existed, He’d spare you the humiliation of going up against Riki. But the universe clearly had jokes, because the moment your name was called, there he was—racket in hand, calm and cocky like losing wasn’t even in his dictionary.
“All the best,” he said casually, like he wasn’t your biggest nightmare wrapped in a ten-year-old’s body.
You tried to smile back, but your face cracked somewhere between courage and panic. Turning quickly, your eyes found Junhee, your mom, and—ugh—your annoying little brother, all watching from the stands.
Your palms were sweaty against the racket handle. The first serve flew, sharp and clean. You hit it back, gritting your teeth. Rally after rally, your arm burned, your legs wobbled, and then—you missed. Once. Twice. A third time. Enough to end it. Enough for him to win.
Losing wouldn’t have stung so bad if it was just between you and him. But losing in front of everyone? In front of your mom? That was a whole new level of misery. Your eyes darted toward the stands, desperate for even one glance of reassurance. Instead, you found clapping hands—not for you. For him. Your mother’s smile stretched wide, your brother cheering like he’d personally won. Not even a flicker in your direction. Not even one.
When the announcement rang out declaring Riki the winner, you trudged off the court, face set in a scowl, your throat tight with words you couldn’t say. “Hey!” you heard him call after you, but you didn’t turn. Not when Junhee was already waiting. Not when shame still burned hot in your chest.
“To a ten-year-old me,” you thought bitterly, “this was the end of the world. Proof that I just wasn’t good enough.”
“You did good, don’t worry,” Junhee murmured, her hand finding its way to your back again. Maybe it was her tone, or maybe it was just the way no one else even tried, but before you knew it, you wrapped your arms around her. No words. Just quiet.
Meanwhile, your mom was busy gushing over Riki, her voice soft and sweet in a way it never was with you.
“You’re my only friend now,” you muttered into Junhee’s shoulder, refusing to spare even a glance in Riki’s direction.
Junhee groaned, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You always say that. And then, like, two days later you’re back on the court with him.”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it.” You plopped into the nearest chair, sulking hard.
But no matter how much you tried to brush it off, the truth clung to you like thorns. Watching your mom fuss over someone else’s kid—your best friend of all people—it was like a nail driven straight through your chest. You wanted to scream: Make it make sense. But you didn’t. Because by now? You were already used to it.
Her words cut sharper than she realized.
On the way back home, she couldn’t stop talking about Riki—how she always knew he was bound to win, how he was a “gifted child,” how you should learn from him. Every sentence left a bitter taste in your mouth. You stared out of the car window, trying to tune her out, but the way her voice carried, the way she sounded almost proud to say you should “be more like him,” it made your chest tighten until all you could do was roll your eyes.
⪩⪨
When you turned twelve, it worsened.
She’d hit you playfully, jokingly, for things your brother had done. But it didn’t feel like a joke. Not when her palm stung against your arm, not when your cheeks burned from humiliation. At twelve, you couldn’t help but think—maybe it really was your fault. Everything was always your fault. So, you hugged your pillow at night, burying your cries into it, biting down hard on your lip to keep from sobbing too loud. Slowly, you even grew distant from Riki—not because of something he did, but because he was the root of the comparisons. If he wasn’t so perfect, maybe things would be different. Maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were always falling short.
When sports day rolled around, you wished your parents would stay home. The thought of them watching, of their disappointment if you failed, made your stomach twist. But of course, they showed up. Your brother tagged along too, his little smirk making your insides churn. You could already imagine the taunts waiting for you if you didn’t place at least third.
You stood on the court, gripping your racket so tightly your knuckles whitened, shaking from the weight of all the what-ifs. Across from you was Minjae—your classmate, someone undeniably good at badminton. Maybe not as good as Riki, but better than you. Much better.
“What? Scared?” Minjae smirked, leaning on his racket.
You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady. “You should be.”
He raised a brow, amused. “Ohh?”
The round began.
Riki was on the sidelines, cheering you on with every hit. His voice gave you courage you didn’t think you had, and for once, you were playing well—shockingly well. Each strike of the shuttlecock made your chest swell with pride, even as Minjae started panting from the effort. Both of you were one point away from winning, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.
And then it happened.
You swung your racket—missed by an inch.
Your heart sank. The shuttlecock hit the ground. Minjae threw his hands up, shouting in triumph. His cheer echoed louder than the crowd’s, louder than Riki’s encouragement, louder than anything else. To you, it sounded like confirmation—confirmation that someone had beaten you. Again.
Back with your parents, you forced a frown into something more neutral, though it didn’t work. You hoped, prayed, they wouldn’t say anything. But of course, they did.
Not in public.
At home.
It was almost cruel how casual it sounded when your mother muttered, “Why did you have to miss that last shot? You were going to end up placing at least third.” She stirred the pot on the stove like she hadn’t just stabbed you in the chest. Your father sat in the living room scrolling through his phone, only shaking his head in disappointment. Your brother giggled. The sound made you want to disappear.
“I tried, okay? I did try!” The words burst out of you. You didn’t even know where the aggression came from—maybe from years of being treated like you weren’t enough. Maybe from realizing you never would be.
“And trying doesn’t matter unless you win,” your dad called out, his voice sharp and dismissive.
Your mom nodded, glaring at you. “Now, you’re going to apologize for raising your voice. Or should I make you?”
Your gaze flickered to the slipper resting near her foot. The air left your lungs. Still, you found yourself whispering, trembling but stubborn: “Why should I apologize when it’s not my fault?”
The words weren’t even fully out before the sting of the slipper landed on your skin.
⪩⪨
“Wait—she hit you with the slipper for that?” Riki’s voice was heavy with disbelief through the phone. You lay curled up on your bed, face buried into your pillow, tears soaking the fabric.
“Yeah,” you sniffled. “She said I shouldn’t yell. But then she went and hit me.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. You hated how powerless you sounded, how small.
You’d tried telling Junhee once, but all she said was, “I don’t believe it. Your mom’s so sweet.” Of course she was sweet—to everyone else. To the neighbors, to your teachers, to anyone who wasn’t you. Sometimes you wondered if you and your mother had been enemies in another life and she alone remembered it.
And your dad? He used to stand up for you. Used to. Now, all he did was nod along with her, back her up, call you a spoiled brat for daring to ask why you were always treated differently. If this was what caring looked like to them, you didn’t want it.
⪩⪨
“How long can I stay here?” you whispered later, sitting on the edge of Riki’s bed. Your eyes were still swollen from crying, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You’d run away—kind of. You weren’t sure how long it would last.
“As long as you want, of course.” He paused, lips twitching into a grin. “As long as you do my homework.”
You smacked his arm, huffing. “You’re so selfish.”
“Am I?” he giggled, before lunging forward to tickle you. The suddenness of it knocked a laugh out of you, and for a moment, you both rolled onto the mattress, giggles spilling into the air.
But then—A knock on the door.
You froze. You weren’t used to parents knocking. At home, doors were barged into, no privacy spared. But here, in Riki’s house, his mother stepped in gently, carrying a tray.
Fresh strawberries.
Your eyes widened. Strawberries were a once-a-year kind of thing at your home, a rare treat. Here, she offered them casually, like it was nothing.
You sat up straight, bowing your head, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you had to shrink to be accepted.
“Always so respectful,” his mother muttered with a fond smile before adding, “You can stay as long as you want, sweetie.”
Your heart warmed at her words, and you bowed your head politely. “Thank you so much, aunty,” you said, your smile stretching wide.
As soon as she left, though, Riki’s expression changed into his usual unimpressed stare. “You’re so respectful to everyone else but treat me like your personal servant,” he complained, dropping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. A tray of strawberries and a little bowl of melted chocolate sat between you two, and he immediately picked one up, dunked it into the chocolate, and popped it into his mouth like a king at a feast.
You scrunched your nose. “Well, if anything, shouldn’t I be the servant? Look at you, having a rich boy snack like you’re in some drama.”
He smirked and without warning shoved a strawberry into your mouth, making you nearly choke. “Just eat, dummy. I bet you skipped lunch again.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “How’d you even know?”
“It’s obvious,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, his tone laced with that annoying mix of smugness and care. “Your stomach’s been growling since you got here. You were too busy crying and complaining to notice, but I did.” His playful expression faltered slightly, his brows tugging together. “But… I’m kinda upset you didn’t tell me. Do you not consider me a friend?”
You stopped mid-bite, staring at him. His words sounded so earnest that it almost caught you off guard. You forced a smile, teasing lightly to keep the air easy. “If I didn’t consider you a friend, why would I be here, huh? I’ve known you for seven years, Mr. Nishimura.”
“That’s not the right way to eat it, idiot,” he cut in, ignoring your answer as he grabbed another strawberry—half-bitten by him, of course—dipped it generously into the chocolate, and held it up to your lips. “Here. Like this.”
You leaned in reluctantly, took a bite, and immediately recoiled, your eyes narrowing at him. “Gross. Don’t ever do that again. Peasant.”
His grin widened, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Why? Afraid you’ll get addicted to my saliva?”
Your hand immediately grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked it against his face. “Yeah, exactly that.”
“Ah—violent grandma strikes again,” he said through his laughter, pulling the pillow away and watching your irritated expression with delight.
You rolled your eyes and grabbed another strawberry, this time dipping it into the chocolate the “proper” way. When you looked back, though, he wasn’t reaching for food. He was just… staring at you. His grin had faded, replaced with something softer, almost serious.
“Can you promise me something?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours.
You paused, blinking. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll always come to me when something bothers you. No matter what it is.” His voice was low, steady, almost too mature for the boy who just joked about saliva.
Your lips tugged into a small smile, though your chest tightened at the sincerity in his gaze. “Of course, duh. Who else is gonna listen to my endless complaining?” you joked, nudging his arm lightly to push the weight of the moment away. “I really hope you’re not pranking me right now.”
“I’m not,” he said simply, still holding your gaze. No grin. No teasing. Just him being Riki in the most honest way.
The room fell into silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward. It was… nice. Comforting. The kind of silence where you didn’t need to fill it with words. You dipped another strawberry into the chocolate, and for once, he didn’t complain about how you were doing it wrong. He just sat there, watching, like that promise meant more to him than he wanted to admit.
⪩⪨
Since that day, it became an unspoken rule. For you, because sneaking into Riki’s room had turned into a habit—even though technically, you didn’t have to sneak anymore. His parents never minded; they adored you, often joking that you were their extra child. But you liked the thrill of rebellion, the way your heart raced as if you were breaking some secret law every time you crept upstairs after a late-night practice session. And for Riki, he had gotten so used to your presence that he would leave the window unlocked without ever asking. It was your little secret.
Many small and big things happened as you both stumbled closer toward their teenage years, but one particular memory stood out in a way you would never forget.
It happened on a regular weekend afternoon. You had been at Riki’s house, hanging around after practice like always. One moment, you had gone to the bathroom. The next, you were locked inside, breath shaky, eyes wide as the sight of dark red stained your underwear.
You thought you were dying.
“Are you mad at me?” Riki’s muffled voice broke through the wooden door, nervous and unsure. His knuckles tapped against it gently, then harder when you didn’t answer. “Why are you not opening? Do you wanna poo poo? Is that why you’re taking so long?”
Your chest tightened, tears spilling over as you clutched your knees. The words escaped in a trembling sob. “I-I’m gonna die. I’m bleeding.”
Riki froze on the other side of the door. His mind scrambled, his small hands shaking even as he pressed them against the cool surface of the wood. “...Bleeding? From where?” His voice cracked, trying so hard to stay calm even though he was on the edge of crying himself.
“My private part.” The words came out barely above a whisper, humiliation burning your cheeks.
“What? I couldn’t hear you. Say it again,” he urged, because he thought maybe—just maybe—he had misheard.
You bit down on her trembling lip before whispering louder, “My private part.”
Riki’s face turned pale. His thoughts went wild—blood was dangerous, blood meant injury, meant danger, meant losing you. And yet, in his panic, his mouth betrayed him. “I should let Auntie know so she can apologise to you before you—”
“RIKI!”
He winced at your shriek, heart hammering in his chest. “Okay, okay, no time for jokes,” he muttered quickly, though the nervous humor had slipped out without meaning to. He thought for a second, voice shaky. “How would you feel if I made jokes while you were bleeding from your—” He swallowed hard, words cutting off. “...Okay, actually don’t say it. I’d die on the spot if that happened to me.”
Your sobs grew louder, echoing in the bathroom. The sound cut right through him. He couldn’t stand there anymore. His legs moved on their own as he ran down the hallway. “Riki! Don’t leave me alone!!” your broken voice cried after him, desperate.
“I’ll be back, I promise!” he shouted over his shoulder, skipping down the stairs two steps at a time. “I’m going to get my sister!”
The urgency in his voice made his older sister’s door rattle with his pounding. Inside, Konon was half-lost in her music, bobbing her head with oversized headphones when the noise finally made her rip them off with annoyance. She swung open the door, ready to scold him—until she saw his face.
Riki was sweating, breathing like he’d just outrun a ghost. His wide, frantic eyes darted up at her as if she were his only lifeline.
“What happened? Why do you look like you saw a demon?” Konon asked, eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s about my friend!” Riki’s words came out in a rush. “She—she’s bleeding from her private part.” His voice cracked on the last words, eyes glossing with tears again. “Should we call an ambulance? Please, I don’t want her to die! We—we even have a school project to finish!” His voice broke, small and raw, as he wiped his tears messily with his sleeve.
Konon blinked. And then—she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Not at you, never at you—but at the sheer panic twisting Riki’s usually calm face.
“Why are you laughing??” Riki snapped, glaring at her as if she were the cruelest sister alive. “Do you not care she’s gonna die?”
“Riki,” Konon said between small giggles, “she’s not dying. She’s just on her period.”
He stopped dead. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips parting as if she had just spoken a language he didn’t understand. “...Her what?”
Konon just sighed, rolling her eyes in amusement before heading back into her messy room. She rummaged through her drawer, pulling out a pad. “It’s called menstruation, idiot. It’s normal. She just needs this.” She waved the pad casually in his face, not even phased by his confusion. “Now, where is she?”
Still unconvinced, Riki hesitated, but his heart ached too much at the thought of you crying alone. “Upstairs,” he muttered skeptically, pointing toward his room. His steps were quick, leading her back, every fiber of his body screaming that he had to protect you—even from something he didn’t fully understand.
The sound of your sobs still leaked under his door when they reached it. Inside, you were a trembling mess, tissues clutched in your fists as you tried wiping blood that wouldn’t stop, underwear ruined, fear clawing at you that something was fatally wrong.
And then came the soft knock. Konon’s voice, calm but firm. “Hey. It’s me. Can I come in? I’ll help you, I promise.”
For the first time in minutes, you felt a sliver of relief. Riki stayed hovering by the door too, fists balled tight, as if guarding you from the world—even though he didn’t yet understand it was the world of growing up you were stepping into.
“Sweetie? Are you in there?” Konon’s voice breaks through your panicked sobs, and you take a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to the cool bathroom door before whispering a broken, “yes.”
The door cracks open just enough for her to slide her hand through, holding out a pad. You blink at it, sniffling as though it might bite you. “What is this?” you ask, staring at the plastic-wrapped mystery.
“Take it,” she says softly. Her tone is gentler than usual, patient even, and you accept it because… well, what other option do you have? You clutch it like it’s some kind of lifeline. “…Am I gonna die?” you whisper, your voice trembling with genuine concern.
“No, you’re not gonna die,” she assures you, crouching slightly so her voice meets you at eye level even though the door is still mostly shut. “It’s just periods. It happens to every girl when she grows up.”
Your brows furrow as you sniff again, whispering, “But… but I didn’t bleed through my private part before…”
Before Konon can answer, Riki—who’s been lurking like a curious cat—blurts, “Wait, wait, wait. She’s BLEEDING?!” His tone is so dramatic that it only makes your panic worse.
Konon shoots him a sharp glare. “Riki. Leave.”
But of course, he doesn’t. He leans against the wall, wide-eyed, whisper-yelling like this is some horror movie. “You mean she’s gonna bleed every month?! Like… every single one?!”
“YES. Now shut. up.” Konon grits her teeth, trying to stay sweet for your sake, but her eyes are promising Riki a very slow death later.
You’re too busy trying not to cry again, fiddling nervously with the pad in your hands. “…But how do I even use this?” you mutter, peeking through the crack in the door.
Konon freezes. Clearly she wasn’t ready for that question. “Uh… okay… so, you… um, you unwrap it, stick the big side at the back of your underwear and the smaller one in the front. It’s… it’s like a diaper, but not. It’ll soak up the blood.”
You nod slowly, not fully understanding but trusting her word. Inside the bathroom, you clumsily follow her instructions, biting your lip in concentration like you’re solving a math problem. When you finally step out after konon had left, your eyes are red and puffy, your nose is still running, but at least you’re dressed again. Riki stares at you like you’ve come back from war. He remembers Konon’s warning and wisely keeps his mouth shut… for all of two seconds.
“You okay?” he asks as you flop onto his bed dramatically, curling into a ball and clutching your stomach.
“Fuck no,” you groan, your voice muffled against his pillow. “My stomach hurts like hell.”
Riki blinks, then concludes with all the seriousness of a scientist. “So this is what turns girls scary every month, huh? My sissy turns into a monster too. You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He freezes, like a deer in headlights, before whispering, “…Yep. Definitely scary already.” The glare intensifies. He gulps and quickly offers you a cookie from his drawer as a peace offering.
⪩⪨
Later, when school lessons finally cover periods properly, you’re absolutely furious. Sitting in the classroom, your pencil snapping in half as you mutter, “Why the hell didn’t they teach this BEFORE when it actually happened?” Riki snickers, elbowing you. “Told you it was like a monster power-up.”
You jab him in the ribs.
But if that was embarrassing, nothing tops what he does at fourteen.
One afternoon, he comes your home bruised, shirt collar crooked, one knee torn open and bleeding. You gasp when you see him limp inside, cotton and antiseptic already in your hands before he can even sit down. “What happened?!” you scold, kneeling in front of him.
He shrugs, wincing as you press the cotton to his wound. “Some guy sat in my seat.”
“…And?” you ask slowly.
“…And I wanted to sit beside you. So I fought him.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “You WHAT?”
He tries to play it cool, lifting his chin. “I wanted to sit there, beside you.”
You let out an exasperated tssch, blowing on his scraped knee before dabbing it again. “You idiot. You could’ve just asked me to sit with you on another bench! Was there any reason to fight someone twice your size?”
Riki winces again but smirks like he thinks he’s cool. “Look, I could’ve won, okay? He’s just… a little stronger.”
“Yeah, yeah. At least you admit it.” You shake your head, trying to suppress a laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Your laughter slips out anyway, and his cheeks flush pink as he shoots you his best glare. “Don’t laugh at your hero.”
“Oh, so now you’re my hero too?” you tease, grinning as you tape a bandage onto his knee.
He grumbles something under his breath, and even though you pretend you don’t hear it, you catch the words “…Always will be.”
⪩⪨
Junhee had been leaning against the railing for a while, eyes following you and Riki. She nudged Minjae with her elbow, whispering like she’d just uncovered the biggest secret in school. “Dating or not?”
Minjae tilted his head, squinting in the most exaggerated detective-like way as if the truth would suddenly appear if he stared hard enough. “Has to be dating. Have you looked at her—she’d literally be blowing on his wound like some drama heroine.” His tone was smug, like he’d just solved a crime.
Junhee rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Please. They’ve been doing that since they were kids. Every time one of them tripped, scraped, or cried, the other would be there. It’s just… them.” She said it with a sigh, like she was tired of explaining the obvious.
“Yeah, but doing it as kids and doing it as teens?” Minjae raised a brow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Totally different thing. They’re probably dating and just keeping it secret. Wanna bet? A full month of homework on the line.”
Junhee finally turned to look at him, unimpressed. “You’re too confident for your own good.” But she extended her hand anyway, that competitive spark in her eyes. “Fine. If they’re not dating by the end of the year, you’ll be my homework slave. If they are, I’ll be yours.”
They shook on it, sealing what might’ve been the most intense deal of the semester.
Safe to say, Junhee walked away victorious. By the end of the year, Riki and you were still… Riki and you. Chaotic, inseparable, loud, but oblivious to every outsider’s assumption. Minjae groaned through every assignment he had to finish for Junhee, and for weeks, he’d glare daggers at the two of you whenever he spotted you together. Sometimes he’d throw in a muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.
You noticed, of course. One day you asked Junhee about it, since she was good friends with him. She just shrugged with that “don’t ask me” look. So you let it go. Maybe Minjae was just being his usual weirdo self.
That evening, you dragged yourself home, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion only fourteen-year-olds seemed to feel after a long day of school and drama. All you wanted was to collapse into bed, bury your face in your pillow, and pretend the world didn’t exist. But then your mom’s voice cut through the quiet of the house, sharp and expectant.
“Did you finish your homework?”
You froze for a second before answering. “Just doing it, Mom!” you called back, hoping your voice sounded convincing enough. Dragging your feet to your desk, you pulled a random math book out of your bag, flipping it open. A pencil found its way between your fingers, tapping on the paper as though deep thought was happening—even though you hadn’t solved a single equation.
A moment later, your door swung open. The hinges creaked, and even though you’d been expecting it, your heart still jumped. Privacy wasn’t a concept in your house. The “no locking doors” rule wasn’t just a rule—it was law. You’d argued about it once, but where else could a fourteen-year-old go? You learned to live with it.
Your mother stepped in, her eyes scanning the scene: you at your desk, pencil poised, homework open. She gave the briefest nod. “Good.” That was it. No smile. No pat on the back. Just that single word before she turned and left, the door swinging shut again.
It was rare, her saying anything close to approval. “Good” was the highest form of praise she allowed herself, like the word might burn her tongue if she lingered on it too long. And as much as you told yourself it didn’t matter, it always stung. Which was probably why, every time Riki told you he was proud of you—no matter how casually, no matter if it was over something as small as answering a quiz question right—you felt the burn of tears behind your eyes. You’d bite your lip and laugh it off, but deep down, his words filled a space that had been empty for a long time.
Badminton had long slipped out of your life, and you couldn’t help but miss it. Back then, it came with the crushing weight of expectations, yet you still found comfort in the sound of the shuttlecock, in the way your body moved instinctively across the court. Now, it was forbidden territory. Your days weren’t spent chasing birdies across a net but staring blankly at diagrams of the human heart, all the while wondering why the one beating in your chest felt so hollow and lonely.
It was just you and your pitifully low grades. Not because you were stupid—you knew that much—but because somewhere along the way, you had lost the will to even try. And when you did try, when you sat down to actually study, your mother’s sharp words—“What’s the point of studying if you can’t bring in the grades?”—would slice through the fragile focus you’d built. They made you want to give up entirely, so eventually, you did.
Riki noticed. He always noticed. He tried to rope you in with group study sessions, dragging Minjae, Junhee, and you together in one room. But the truth was, those evenings ended up being less about textbooks and more about whispered gossip, inside jokes, and laughter that never stayed quiet. Still, he tried. He explained the topics you stumbled over, walked you through problems patiently. But even he couldn’t keep sacrificing his own grades for the sake of yours.
⪩⪨
Slowly, you began to feel the space between you grow. He still waited for you after school, still walked you home, still made time for you the way he always had—but the bond felt… thinner. You clung to the rituals, though, as if they were proof that nothing had changed.
By sixteen, everything else about you had. Your bob cut was long gone, replaced by silky black hair that fell down your back, always tied up in a ponytail to prevent shedding (your paranoia after googling about hair loss was unmatched). You had bangs now, cut professionally—because the last time you’d tried to do it yourself, the mirror had nearly made you cry. That memory alone was enough to swear you off scissors forever.
Riki had changed too. Taller, sharper features, and—according to everyone else—undeniably attractive. The steady stream of confessions he received from other girls should have been easy to ignore, but instead, they left an ugly bruise on your self-esteem. You weren’t jealous because you wanted him, but because nobody had ever confessed to you. Nobody had looked at you like that. And it left you wondering if maybe you weren’t good enough to be seen, to be chosen.
So you turned to paper. A diary became your confidante, soaking up the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say aloud anymore. You stopped telling Riki about the cracks in your home life, about the little battles that left you exhausted before the day even began. Instead, you pressed those secrets between pages and ink, letting your thoughts bleed into lines only you would ever read. It wasn’t that Riki was replaced—he was still there. Just… not for everything anymore.
“Read it!!” your mother screams, her voice slicing through the walls like a blade.
Your cheek burns from where her palm struck, the sting spreading across your skin until it feels like your whole face is on fire. You hold it with trembling fingers, stunned, the echo of the slap ringing louder in your ears than her words. Your father stands beside her, stiff and unreadable, anger tucked behind his frown. Your brother, Jiho, watches wide-eyed—half shocked, half entertained, as though he’s enjoying the spectacle of you breaking apart.
You don’t cry. You can’t. The shock cages your tears in your throat, suffocating you from the inside out. The diary shakes in your hands. That little book that held your secrets, your quiet desperation, words you never said out loud—your only safe place. And now, ripped open. Violated.
“Read it!” she shouts again, louder this time, her voice raw enough to rattle you. You flinch so hard it feels like your bones crack. A single tear escapes anyway, sliding down your cheek as your lips part to obey. You force the words out, your voice stuttering, cracking, fragile: “m-my mom… she… she makes me not want to live and she—”
The sentence dies in your throat. Another slap lands. Harder. Your diary slips from your grasp, pages fluttering as it crashes to the floor. Tears finally spill freely now, blurring your vision, and you stare at her through them—stare at the same sharp glare she’s always had for you. But for a second, just one second, her eyes flicker. They hesitate. And then she doubles down.
“You ungrateful brat!” she spits, voice breaking but cruel all the same. “What have I ever not done for you? I just wish you were never born!”
The words are a knife twisting into your chest. Her arm lifts again, her palm ready to strike, but your father catches it midair. His grip is firm, his expression tight, as if he’s urging her to calm down. And when you glance at her, you see it—tears in her eyes. Tears. Why? Why is she the one crying when she’s the one shattering you piece by piece? Why does she get to weep and play the victim while you’re left bleeding silently inside?
Jiho just shakes his head, disappointment etched across his features. But what does he know? He doesn’t understand a damn thing. If this is family, if this is what family means—then you don’t want it. You really don’t.
“Stop crying!” your mother yells, her voice cracking like thunder. “You did this! It’s your fault!”
Something inside you snaps. You lift your head, voice shaking but louder now, daring to fight back: “Yeah? My fault? I don’t even get the grades, so what? That makes me useless to you?”
Your words quiver, your lips trembling as you choke them out. You turn desperately to your father, eyes searching, pleading, hoping he’ll be different. That maybe he’ll stand by you. But he doesn’t. He looks away. Cold. Detached. And then his voice comes, low and cutting, sharper than any slap. “What? Stop looking at me. Your mom is right. You don’t help in household chores and you don’t get good grades either. So what are you good at, if you're not useless like you say?”
The words gut you. They gut you deeper than her hands ever could. You don’t even feel the tears anymore—they’re just pouring, endless, leaving you hollow. “Is that what you think?” you whisper, lips quivering, heart breaking open in front of them. “Then okay… I’m useless.”
You can’t breathe in this house anymore. Your legs move before your brain catches up. You grab your phone with shaking hands and rush toward the door, the walls around you closing in as though they’re eager to trap you here forever. But you break free.
The world outside feels too big, the air too sharp. Your legs tremble as you stumble forward, wiping your tears, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. And there he is. Riki. Waiting, just like always, leaning against the familiar spot with that patient calmness only he seems to carry. His eyes catch yours instantly, his brows furrowing, that frown you dreaded and needed all at once. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s always known. And you don’t even have to say it.
“Did you hear that?” you asked awkwardly, wiping at your wet cheeks as you stepped out of the gate. Your steps were rushed, desperate to leave the house behind before you broke again. You knew they wouldn’t chase after you—your parents were far too proud for that.
“I did,” Riki said softly.
“The entire thing?” you sniffled, glancing up at him. He nodded, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. You could see him hesitate—half wanting to hug you, half afraid that if he did, you might shatter completely.
“She slapped me…” The words came out bitter, almost like a joke you’d told too many times. By now, the sting of it wasn’t new. And Riki… he was almost used to hearing it. “Why?” His voice was quiet, careful, as if afraid he’d scare you off.
“Because I wrote about her in my diary.” You shoved a Kopiko into your mouth, the sweetness doing nothing to hide the sour burn in your chest. Punished for just writing down what you felt. For just speaking your mind. What kind of messed-up logic was that?
“Oh…” he mumbled. And then, as the two of you reached the empty playground you used to haunt as kids, Riki finally gave in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He was taller now, broader too, so when you cried into him, it was like leaning into a wall that wouldn’t collapse. Your “cool girl” mask slipped, and you sobbed until your throat ached.
“Stop pretending you’re fine. I know you’re hurt…” His voice was quiet, rough. One of his hands cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the faint, angry mark her slap had left
“Riki… why is it always me? Why am I the only one who has to hurt like this? Why couldn’t I just have a normal family like yours, or Junhee’s, or Minjae’s? Everyone else runs home after school, but me? I… I dread it. Because home doesn’t feel like home. It feels like hell…” You hiccuped through the words, pressing your cheek harder against his chest, like maybe if you stayed there long enough, the ache would go away.
“I know,” he muttered, and there was so much helplessness in those two words that it made your chest tighten. He let his hand fall, watching you burrow closer into him, desperate for warmth. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, almost childishly. “Like… mentally or physically?”
“It hurts both,” you admitted before he could question more. “Inside and outside. All of it.”
He sighed, tightening his hold for a moment. “I’m taking you home. A little ice will help.” His chin rested gently on top of your head before he pulled away.
Your tears had slowed by then, replaced by the hollow grumble of hunger. You patted your pockets and found them empty. Great. No money either.
“Don’t worry,” Riki said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “My mom probably already made snacks.” He expected you to protest, to tease that they were his snacks, but instead you just nodded. That small shift made his throat ache. He turned away quickly, blinking back tears you weren’t supposed to see.
“Why are you crying?” you nudged his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. You were so used to pain, you brushed it off like it was nothing. Forgave too easily. It scared him.
“I’m not crying,” he muttered. “I’m just… angry. Angry this happened to you. They’re supposed to protect you, not…” He trailed off, jaw tightening, hand reaching instinctively for yours. His grip was firm, like he needed to tether himself before he drowned in your sadness.
You squeezed back gently, almost smiling. “I’m fine, Riki. Really.”
But he knew better.
“I’m fine. I’m really fine,” you murmur, though the words wobble as if they’re too fragile to stand on their own. By the time you and Riki reach his house—a place that has always felt more like home than your own—you’re already slipping into the familiar rhythm. No knocking, no pretending. Just the two of you rushing upstairs before anyone can ask questions.
He closes the door behind you with a quiet click, the sound strangely heavy in the air. You drop onto his bed in a starfish sprawl, limbs spread out like you’re trying to claim some piece of comfort for yourself. The ceiling blurs above you, but when you glance over, his eyes are fixed on you—unmoving, unrelenting, as if he’s trying to memorize every crack in your armor. Your heart stutters. For the first time all day, not because of fear, but because of him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, pushing yourself upright, suddenly hyperaware of every flaw on your face, of the redness around your eyes.
Riki doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand lifts—hesitant at first, then certain as his palm cups your cheek. You close your eyes, a sharp breath escaping when the warmth of his touch meets the sting that still lingers beneath your skin. You bite hard against the tears threatening to spill again. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. The slap, the words—I wish you weren’t born. They echo louder inside your skull than any physical pain.
“Maybe she’s just stressed,” you whisper, clinging to excuses like lifelines, your voice brittle, breaking.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you against him. His chest is solid, grounding, but his voice is anything but calm. “That doesn’t give her the right to slap you.” His tone trembles with frustration, his hand rubbing circles against your back, desperate to soothe but unable to disguise his anger. “You’re always stressed because of her—do you lash out at people? Do you hit anyone when you’re breaking down?”
You swallow, guilt clawing at you. “But… Riki, that’s my mom.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes burning, his voice almost sharp. “So what? If you were stressed, would you hit a little kid? Would you break someone smaller than you just to unload what’s eating you alive?” His words dig deep, stripping away the fragile defenses you’ve built, forcing you to face the truth you don’t want to admit.
“I… wouldn’t.” The confession falls out, small, unsteady, but true.
His chest rises and falls unevenly, as though every second of silence between you is choking him. Then it spills—the words he’s been holding back for far too long. “Do you know how much I fucking dread seeing you cry? Do you know what it does to me? I’d lie awake at night thinking about what I would’ve done if I were you, and I can’t. I can’t, because none of it makes sense. The people who are supposed to protect you—why the hell are they the ones breaking you?” His voice cracks, raw and furious all at once.
You can only stare, breath hitched, heart pounding at the sheer weight of his anger—for you, never at you.
“I even told my mom,” he admits, softer now, as though confessing a secret. “She wanted to step in, but you always begged me not to push. I respected it, even when it killed me. But you need to understand—family isn’t supposed to feel like this. Family isn’t chains that keep you trapped. Family isn’t meant to tear you down until you hate yourself.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “Family is the people who stay through the storms. Family is the ones who make sure you’re not alone when it gets unbearable.”
Your lips part, but no words come out. Your chest tightens, a mix of shame, grief, and something else—something warmer that burns under your ribs when you look at him.
“I don’t know why I’m saying all this,” he breathes out, pressing his forehead lightly to yours for a second. “But I want you to know—if they can’t be your family, I will. I’ll be it. I’ll always be it.” His arms close around you again, firm but tender, one hand stroking your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.
Anyone walking in would never believe you’re just friends. The way he holds you—careful, precious—says more than words ever could. And maybe, for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re replaceable.
“Please,” his voice trembles as he rocks you gently. “Please don’t let their words be the measure of your worth. You’re more than that. You always were.”
Something inside you breaks, but in the gentlest way. Your hand lifts, almost on instinct, clutching the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath your ear, steady, grounding, a lullaby you never knew you needed. It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to grow heavy. Exhaustion drags you under, but not before you hear him murmur against your hair, soft and resolute, “I promise this pain won’t last forever.”
You hum faintly in response, already slipping into sleep. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, his fingers tracing soothing lines across your hair. His lips twitch, not quite into a smile—because he can’t bring himself to—not yet. Not until he finds a way to end this pain for you.
⪩⪨
And so, after Riki’s stubborn insisting—on his parents, on you, on everyone—you find yourself sitting at the dinner table, fidgeting with the loose cuff of your sweater. Your family and Riki’s family all gathered in the same space, around the same table, as if this were just some normal evening. The excuse for the dinner was simple: “It’s been too long since the families met in person.” Maybe the last time was when you and Riki were still running around playgrounds, your hands sticky from popsicles and your knees bruised from climbing too high. But this? This feels nothing like that innocent memory.
You’re restless, your leg bouncing under the table, but then your eyes catch the spread before you—and despite yourself, your stomach flutters with excitement. The table is covered with steaming bowls and plates of authentic Korean food. Dishes that take hours of effort, the kind of food you don’t get to eat often. You had helped a little here and there, chopping vegetables, stirring broth, but most of this was your mom’s doing. And as much as there are days you wish you could distance yourself from her, you can’t deny that her cooking is the one thing that still feels like home. It’s frustrating—how you can resent someone and still crave the taste of what they make.
“The kids have grown so much,” Mrs. Nishimura says warmly, breaking the silence as she folds her napkin across her lap. Her voice tries to glide over the heaviness in the room, trying to smoothen the edges. Your mother hums, a polite smile tugging at her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And as they are teenagers, we should be a little more understanding of how they feel,” she continues, still smiling as she glances between you and Riki.
The words sting like a dart hitting the bullseye. Your mother’s head snaps toward you instantly, her glare sharp and accusing. You flinch before you can stop yourself, shaking your head quickly under her gaze. It wasn’t me. I didn’t tell her anything. You want your eyes to say it for you, to plead it, but you already know she won’t believe it.
Under the table, Riki’s fingers find yours. His hand closes around yours firmly, steady and grounding, as if he knows exactly what that silent exchange meant. You squeeze back once, clinging to that little comfort while your heart beats too fast.
Across the table, the men seem unaffected by the tension. Your father and Mr. Nishimura are already deep in conversation about politics, their voices rising and falling in animated agreement. It’s strange how easily they bond, like they’ve known each other all their lives. The mothers, though—your mother and his—eat in near silence, every move sharp, deliberate, the air thick with unspoken words.
You try to focus on your food instead, dipping your spoon into the hot soup, savoring the rich, layered flavor you’ve missed. It tastes like home, like the past, like something that could have been safe if only the circumstances were different. When you glance sideways, Riki is wolfing down his food without hesitation, chopsticks moving quickly, cheeks puffed slightly as he chews. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but when his eyes flick up and catch yours, there’s something in them—a reassurance, a quiet “I’ve got you.”
He told you this would be just a normal dinner. Just two families eating together, catching up after years. What he didn’t tell you was that his mom had no intention of letting your mom’s behavior slide quietly. That her comments tonight would be knives hidden in smiles. And from the way your mom’s knuckles are white against the chopsticks she’s gripping, you know—deep down—you’re going to pay the price when this dinner ends.
“You’re lucky to have a son like Riki. Good at sports, good at academics. Our daughter just keeps… slagging off.” The familiar words sliced through the air like they always did, sharp but dulled from repetition. You should’ve been numb by now—God knew you’d heard them often enough—but somehow they burned more when said in front of others. Said in front of him. Your chopsticks froze mid-air, rice slipping back into your bowl. A flicker of shame and irritation sparked in your chest, and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend you’re used to it.
“She draws really nicely, though,” Mrs. Nishimura said, voice warm as she tried to cushion the blow. “And her English is excellent.” you looked up at her in surprise, that small kindness striking harder than expected. Someone noticed. Someone saw something worth defending in you. But before the gratitude could settle, your mother’s scoff flattened it. “Those skills aren’t useful.” The words landed like a slammed door.
Mrs. Nishimura, however, didn’t back down easily. “They can absolutely be turned into a successful career, Mrs. Yoon. Art, design, translation—”
“She’s going to be a doctor,” your mother cut her off, tone sharp as she looked at you, daring you to contradict her. “Not an artist, or whatever else. Right? I’m not forcing this on you, am I?”
Your throat tightened. The rice in your mouth felt like gravel as you hurriedly swallowed, choking a little before Riki’s hand rubbed circles on your back. The tiny gesture kept you from bolting from the table altogether. “R-right. I… I want to get into medical school,” you murmured, voice small and brittle.
Riki’s eyes flicked toward you, disbelief written plainly on his face. He knew. You could see it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, in the storm gathering behind his usually calm gaze. His mother, too, seemed to catch on—but she said nothing, likely aware that interfering further would only make things worse.
You lowered your gaze and focused on the food, suddenly tasteless despite its richness. One by one, you gathered empty plates and stacked them, muttering that you’d clear the table. Riki wordlessly followed, carrying dishes into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Once the door swung shut behind you, the silence broke. He set the plates down, then pulled you into a hug so sudden you stiffened before melting into it. His chin rested against your hair as his frown deepened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt dripping from every syllable. “I didn’t know it’d turn out like this. I thought… I thought it would help. I thought it would make things better for you.”
You laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “Hey, don’t apologize. You tried, Riki. You actually tried. No one else bothers.”
“But still,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to cup your face, his hands warm against your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, soft but heavy with conviction. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me. I know how much you already go through.” his eyes searched yours, as if memorizing the cracks in your mask. You pushed his hands gently away, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
Before he could reply, the door creaked and in waddled Jiho—your eleven-year-old nightmare of a brother—clutching his stomach and letting out a dramatic burp that echoed through the kitchen.
“Ugh, seriously?” you muttered under your breath.
Jiho grinned wickedly, ignoring your glare. “Enjoyed the food, dear sister?” His tone was sugary sweet, the kind that made your skin crawl.
You gritted your teeth. “Enjoyed being a pig, dear brother?”
Instead of biting back, he smirked and turned his attention to Riki. “Hyung, you should stay away from her. She beats people up like a beast. She’s just pretending to be nice in front of you.”
Riki’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and discomfort. You groaned and smacked the back of Jiho’s head lightly. “Go upstairs before I actually prove your point.”
Jiho yelped but didn’t retreat just yet. Instead, he tiptoed closer to Riki, cupped his hand around his mouth, and whispered something in Riki’s ear—something that made Riki’s brows furrow instantly. Then, with a devilish grin, Jiho dashed out of the kitchen and thundered up the stairs, leaving only his laughter echoing behind.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, groaning. “I hate him. So much.”
Riki looked at you, still processing whatever Jiho had said, his expression a mix of discomfort and—something else.
You nudged Riki with your elbow, eyebrows raised. “What was that? What did that little brat whisper to you?” you muttered, your stomach twisting with curiosity, almost growling for the truth.
Riki shook his head with a tiny laugh, brushing it off too easily. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, that gentle smile tugging at his lips before he turned away and slipped back into the kitchen. But you weren’t convinced—not even a little. You knew Jiho, that devil in disguise, and you had a sinking suspicion he had spilled one of your secrets. The dread sat heavy in your chest like a stone.
From the dining room, you heard the scrape of chairs against the floor—your parents were standing up, their voices mingling with polite goodbyes. You lingered at the edge of the hall, awkwardly hovering by the door before bowing to the Nishimuras as they prepared to leave. They bowed back politely, and you felt your lips curve into the faintest smile. At least Riki seemed to have enjoyed the food—even if it wasn’t what he usually ate. Being japanese, he probably didn’t have korean food like this very often, so in some twisted way, you counted that as a win for the night.
By the door, you noticed your father still in conversation with Mr. Nishimura, his face lit up with an ease you rarely saw. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time your dad smiled that much—he was usually the quiet type, a little too comfortable hiding in his shell. You figured you must’ve inherited that introvert gene straight from him (lucky you). Seeing him with a friend—actually connecting—was strangely heartwarming.
Your mother though… she was another story. The way she kept glancing at you, lips pressed thin, made your stomach churn. You could practically feel the scolding simmering in her throat, waiting for the Nishimuras to leave so she could unleash it.
The door clicked shut behind them, and immediately, Riki shot you a look. The kind of look that said, I’ll keep ice packs ready in case you have to crash at my place tonight. You rolled your eyes. Clearly, this boy had zero faith in your ability to defend yourself. Still, you weren’t about to wait around to see if his prediction came true. Quick escape was the best strategy, so you spun on your heel, ready to bolt upstairs before the storm hit.
“Wait.”
The single word froze you in place. You turned back slowly, bracing yourself. The sharp edge in your mom’s voice told you all you needed to know—she wasn’t finished with you yet. “Do you… badmouth me to your friend’s mother? Is that what you do now—talk about family matters outside of home?” your mom’s voice came sharp and steady, each word hitting harder than the last.
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t tell them anything… I swear, Mom… I didn’t,” you said quickly, shaking your head like the faster you denied it, the truer it might become. But she didn’t say anything else. She just turned and walked away toward the bedroom she shared with your dad. No yelling, no lecture—just silence. And somehow, that silence was worse. Because yelling meant she cared enough to get mad. This? This was like you weren’t even worth the words.
Your dad lingered for a second, his expression unreadable, then followed after her. The lump in your throat burned now, and you blinked fast. It was almost a relief when Jiho spoke. “Hey, noona… don’t think too much.” His voice was small, almost hesitant, and when you turned to him, your eyes were already glimmering with the tears you’d promised yourself you’d only let out in your room.
You couldn’t stand the softness in his voice. Not from him. Not right now. “Shut up,” you muttered, brushing past him, climbing the stairs before he could see more of your face. He trailed after you, his footsteps light but insistent, until you slammed the door shut between you.
Leaning back against the door, you exhaled. He was the reason this happened. If he hadn’t opened his mouth downstairs, you wouldn’t be standing here with your chest heavy and your stomach in knots. Your life had been so much simpler before Jiho was born. But no matter how many times that thought crossed your mind, you couldn’t make yourself hate him. At the end of the day, he was still just a kid—like you.
A knock came a moment later. No voice. Just the dull thud against your door. You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Who’s there?” you asked, your tone dripping with irritation. No answer. Just silence. You frowned. “I’m not in the mood for your taunts, Jiho. I swear I’ll hunt you down if it’s you.” Still nothing. You waited a minute, maybe two, until curiosity got the better of you. Pulling open the door, you looked down.
On the floor sat a pile of snacks—chips, cookies, candy packets—and a folded note. Blinking in surprise, you crouched to pick it up. The handwriting was messy, rushed, definitely Jiho’s. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You held the note for a long moment, the words blurring as your eyes filled. A shaky sigh left your lips, the kind you let out when you’ve been holding too much inside. Carrying the snacks in, you shut the door quietly this time.
Tears slid down before you could stop them. Maybe it was just the shock of Jiho being kind for once. Maybe it was that you’d been bracing for cruelty, and kindness felt like a trap. It wasn’t comforting, not the way you thought it should be. It felt… strange. Unsettling. Like you were the odd one out for not knowing how to accept it. You wiped your eyes quickly and even laughed a little at yourself before setting the snacks aside on your desk.
The homework on your bed sat untouched. Biology. Not even a subject you cared about. And tomorrow you wouldn’t even have that period. You could always copy Riki’s work anyway. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be annoyed, and then hand it over.
But your mom’s words wouldn’t stop circling in your head. Doctor. As if. As if you were even cut out for that kind of future. You couldn’t imagine yourself saving lives. If anything, you could picture yourself sitting on the other side of the table, a patient, not the one in the white coat. And the way she’d asked if she was forcing it on you—like she didn’t already know she was.
Your feet carried you to the window before you even realized. Outside, a couple walked slowly down the street, sharing an ice cream, their hands brushing before finally intertwining. Their laughter floated faintly in the summer air. “I wish that was me,” you whispered, lips tugging into a pout.
Life had been nothing but bitter lately, every day tossing you something harder to swallow. Was it really too much to want something sweet for once? Something that felt like it belonged to you? Didn’t you deserve that too? “Would I even experience that at all?” you whispered to no one, the thought hanging heavy in the dim room.
And suddenly, like a dam breaking, you were washed over by a wave of emotions you couldn’t stop. The sobs ripped out of your chest before you even realized it, your knees giving in as you stumbled toward the bed. Grabbing the nearest pillow, you hugged it tight against you as though it could fill the emptiness pressing on your ribs. Your body shook with every sob, muffled into the fabric, and for a moment the world blurred with tears.
You had always told yourself you’d never fall for someone. That love wasn’t for you. That you were better off keeping your walls high, your heart locked away. But deep inside… you wanted it. God, you wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted someone’s arms around you, someone whispering that it would all be okay. You wanted the simple, stupid intimacy of sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone who cared, of kisses that didn’t feel like fantasy, of hands that would reach for yours in silence.
And yet—your heart twisted—how could you ever have that? With the way your luck had been since birth, with the way life seemed so determined to break you down, wasn’t that hope already stolen from you? Why would anyone choose you? What was there to even choose?
You couldn’t name a single thing you were good at, not one thing that felt like a redeeming trait. Your parents’ words echoed cruelly in your ears—you weren’t pretty enough, not smart enough, not athletic enough. Not enough. Never enough. You pressed the pillow harder against your face, crying harder, the ache in your chest almost unbearable. It felt like you were doomed forever, like you’d already been sentenced to live without the warmth you longed for.
⪩⪨
By morning, your eyes were swollen and raw, your face blotchy no matter how much you tried to fix it. You lingered in front of the mirror, dabbing at your reflection as though you could erase the proof of your weakness. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you cried—it felt humiliating. Vulnerability wasn’t a luxury you thought you deserved.
At the table, your parents didn’t speak to you. Not even a glance. The silence was louder than shouting, and somehow it stung worse. You didn’t bother eating breakfast, your throat too tight, your stomach too heavy with anger and sadness. You shoved on your shoes, glaring at the house once before stepping outside, as if your anger could burn holes into its walls.
The flowers that usually softened your mornings stood in their usual place, swaying gently with the breeze. On any other day, their colors and fragrance would’ve tugged a small smile from you. But not today. Today, even they annoyed you—their cheerfulness, their beauty, their resilience felt mocking. You hated them for daring to be bright when you felt so utterly dark.
At the gate, Riki was waiting. He noticed you instantly. “Did you get beaten last night?” he asked, half-serious, half-trying to lighten the mood with a laugh. But the smile faltered when he saw your face. His brows drew together, concern flickering in his eyes. “...Did you not?”
“Shut up, Riki.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, thick with leftover hurt. “Nothing happened. They were just… disappointed. And that hurt way more, not gonna lie.” You bit down on the tremor in your throat, looking at him with a frown.
Without a word, he reached for the bag slung on your shoulder and shifted it onto his own, so now he was carrying two. “You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off.
“Just let me. You’re already carrying too much… including the guilt of thinking you’re doing something wrong by telling me your problems.”
You froze, blinking at him. “How do you—?”
He only smiled faintly. “I just figured. Guess I know them better, huh?”
Something in your chest cracked open, a small smile breaking through your tears despite yourself. He knew. He really knew.
But as the two of you reached the school gate, your thoughts shifted again, sourness creeping in. You frowned at him, unable to stop the words spilling out: “Why’d you pick computer science and not arts?” He just shrugged with a soft smile. “It’s okay. We still get to walk back home together after school, right?”
When he handed your bag back, you stumbled under the weight shift, managing to steady yourself, but the sudden absence of his help left you feeling oddly hollow. “Sure,” you muttered, upset, though you weren’t sure at what—or who. Him? Your parents? Yourself? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. You walked ahead of him, forcing your feet forward, even though the knot in your chest stayed.
Math was first. The shared class every student had to suffer through. You used to love math—numbers had once felt like puzzles waiting to be solved, a rare place where you found comfort. But now? Now math was just another reminder of how you didn’t fit anywhere. Another subject demanding too much from a brain that was already exhausted. You couldn’t help but wonder why you had to learn any of this. Wasn’t knowing how to add and subtract enough? It wasn’t like solving equations would fix your life, or teach you how to heal, or show you how to stop aching inside. And yet, you dragged yourself into the room anyway, carrying your bag, your puffy eyes, and the invisible weight no one else could see.
“Here!!!”
Your head snapped toward the voice, that familiar brightness cutting through the otherwise half-empty classroom. “Junhee!” you called, rushing to her side. Relief washed over you just seeing her, and without a second thought, you plopped your bag down next to hers and sat beside her. “I thought you weren’t gonna come,” she muttered, confusion clear in her tone as her eyes scanned your face.
“Why would I not come?” you frowned, already pulling out your math notebook, trying to act casual.
“Well… that’s what Riki said. That you’d… you know, need ice packs after last night.”
Your jaw dropped. For a second, you just stared at her, heat rising in your face as your eyes shot to the back row. Sure enough, Riki was there, lounging on the last bench like he owned the place. The second he felt your glare burning holes into his skull, he raised his hands defensively, mouthing a silent not my fault—as if he hadn’t just doomed you.
“Do you two… do dirty things together?” Junhee blurted, leaning closer, her voice lowered but her curiosity blatant. You practically choked on air. “W-what?! No!!” you shook your head so fast it almost hurt, your hands flailing like that would somehow erase the image she’d just implied.
“Then why’d you stutter?” she teased, eyebrows wiggling as if she’d caught you red-handed.
“Because you caught me off guard!” you hissed, your cheeks flaming.
“Then what did he mean by ice packs?” she pressed, leaning her chin into her palm. “Does it mean he went too rough on you or—”
“Junhee!!” you nearly yelled, smacking her arm as your eyes widened to saucers. She was way too amused by this. “Okay, okay, fine,” she giggled, clearly enjoying your suffering.
Taking a deep breath, you forced your voice steady. “It’s not like that. Riki just… he thought I’d hurt myself or something. I’ve been having nightmares lately, so he said it as a joke. That’s all.”
The lie slipped out smoother than you expected, but it still left a bitter aftertaste. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Junhee—if anything, she was the one person at school who made you feel seen—but… telling her meant exposing a part of you that you weren’t ready to show. You’d learned the hard way that people didn’t always handle your truths with care. And when you’ve been hurt enough times, keeping things locked inside feels safer than handing someone else the key.
“ohh, I see.” Junhee mumbles, still kind of suspicious, but her attention drifts away when the teacher finally walks in.
You let out a quiet sigh of relief, though in your head you’re already making a note to smack Riki later.
The class drags on, chalk scratching against the board, footsteps echoing with every move the teacher makes, and your stomach growls loud enough to make you want to curl up. You forgot lunch—of course you did. And now every sound feels sharper, every second heavier, until it’s unbearable.
Junhee leans closer, her voice a soft whisper, “you okay?”
You barely open your mouth when the teacher’s gaze flicks toward you, suspicion already in her eyes. Junhee reacts faster. “Her head hurts. Can she just keep her head down?” she blurts out.
The teacher narrows her eyes, clearly not convinced. “really?” The word stretches out, and suddenly you feel every single classmate staring at you. Heat rises in your cheeks. You just nod weakly, wishing you could disappear under the desk. The teacher mutters something about “kids these days being so weak” before turning back to the board, chalk tapping again like nothing happened.
You bury your head into your arms, shutting the world out. The irritation, the exhaustion—it all just folds over you, pulling you into an unexpected sleep. Somewhere through the haze, you feel Junhee slip her uniform jacket around your shoulders, tucking you against the chill of the wind sneaking through the windows. She pats your back once before returning to her notes, letting you rest.
Behind you, Riki watches in silence. He wants to do something—anything—but you’re the one who set the rule: no talking at school, no rumors, no shipping. So he waits.
Another period ticks by. Chemistry. The air smells faintly of chemicals, the teacher’s voice rising and falling, but you don’t stir. Junhee glances at you now and then, deciding it’s better to let you sleep. Whatever’s weighing you down must be heavy enough if you’ve given in to rest in the middle of class. And so she just lets you be.
“Hey, wake up. It’s lunch.” Junhee’s gentle nudge pulls you out of your hazy sleep, and the loud growl of your stomach betrays just how empty it is. The bell rings a second later, sharp and echoing through the classroom, making you flinch as you sit up too quickly. “Already?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes as you glance around the room—beside you, in front, behind—trying to piece together how much time has passed.
Junhee raises a brow, her lips tugging into a faint smile. “Girl, you’ve been sleeping since morning. Were you really that tired?” She pulls her tiffin out of her bag and starts unwrapping it, clearly planning to head to the cafeteria once you’re ready.
“I guess my body really needed that break,” you admit, stretching your stiff arms before sighing. Then the thought hits you, uninvited and annoyingly sharp. “By the way, where are Riki and Minjae?” You frown under your breath, the irritation bubbling up at the idea that Riki didn’t bother waiting for you. Seriously, how mean does he have to be sometimes?
“They went early,” Junhee says simply, organizing her food. “Minjae was starving.” You gape at her, the annoyance growing. “He didn’t wait up for me?”
Junhee just shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, chill. They knew I was here with you, so they figured there was no need for him to stick around. Don’t overthink it.”
You nod, though you’re far from satisfied. If anything, the mental tally of how many smacks Riki deserves has now doubled. Maybe even tripled.
When you unzip your bag, the disappointment sinks in all at once. No lunch box. You only now remember how angrily you stomped out of your house that morning, storming past the rows of flowers your mother had carefully tended in her shop’s front yard. The thought stings—you’d walked right past her world of blossoms, but she hadn’t even noticed you’d left without lunch. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care. That possibility makes your chest feel heavy. You take a deep breath, trying to bury the ache before it spills over.
“I forgot lunch,” you mutter quietly, half-hoping Junhee won’t hear, half-expecting her to just leave you to deal with it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slips her hand around your arm and tugs you up from the bench. You blink at her in confusion as she pulls you along the hallway.
“And?” she says simply, her tone leaving no space for arguments. “You’re sharing with me.” By the time you realise where she’s leading you, you’re already inside the cafeteria. She drops her bag onto an empty table, sits down, and without hesitation shoves a foil-wrapped sandwich across to you.
“Jun, I can’t.” You stare at the sandwich like it’s contraband, guilt tightening in your throat. The thought of taking her food makes you feel small.
“You’re eating it,” she interrupts firmly, eyes narrowing in that no-nonsense way only she can manage. “No arguments.” Something about her tone silences you completely, and for once you feel tiny in front of her. With a sigh, you peel the foil back and finally take a small bite.
And God, it tastes good. Maybe it’s the fact you haven’t eaten since morning, or maybe it’s just because Junhee is Junhee, but it feels like the best thing you’ve ever had. She hums softly, munching on her half of the sandwich, and though she doesn’t say it out loud, the smile tugging at her lips tells you she’s glad you’re eating.
You drop your gaze to your lap, chewing slowly as the warmth spreads in your chest. It’s not sadness this time—not the kind you usually drown in when you think about your family—but something gentler. Something heavier, too. You never expected this much kindness from anyone, not when even your own family couldn’t show you half of what Junhee just did without thinking twice.
“Hey, cry baby, just eat up. No time to cry.” Junhee teased, nudging your elbow with hers as if it were the easiest thing in the world to pull you out of your thoughts. Her grin was playful, but her eyes were softer than she let on. You puffed your cheeks and shook your head, forcing a smile. “I’m not crying.”
“Oh, you were! Don’t lie—I saw you.” She exaggerated her voice, even scrunching her face into a ridiculous expression that made you laugh. Honestly, if someone took a picture right now, it’d be meme-worthy.
“Fine,” you admitted between chuckles. “So what if I was? Not like everyone has such a great friend, you know.” That wiped the smug look right off her face. She looked away instantly, cheeks turning a little pink, and you smirked. Pushing your luck, you added, “Yeah? Ever heard of someone sharing their lunch when they’re still hungry? Even Riki wouldn’t.” Junhee waved her hand like you were being dramatic, though the corners of her lips twitched in the tiniest smile. “Stop it.”
But oh, how wrong you were. If Riki knew you hadn’t eaten, he probably would’ve shoved his whole lunchbox at you without blinking. He just… wasn’t here, and maybe it was better you didn’t know that side of him yet.
Before you could tease her again, a voice cut through the cafeteria hum. “Isn’t that the girl who keeps topping from the last?” You froze. The words weren’t even whispered that quietly. They slid under your skin, sharp and cold.
Junhee’s head snapped up immediately. “Who was it?” Her tone wasn’t playful anymore—it was dangerous, the kind that silenced the tables nearby.
“Junhee—” you tried, but she was already standing, her chair scraping back.
“I ASKED WHO WAS IT?” she barked, her voice echoing across the room. Conversations around you died mid-sentence. People turned to stare. You could practically feel the tension thickening around the tables. Your stomach flipped as her eyes locked on a nearby bench. One of the girls there shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact, and that was all Junhee needed.
“Junhee, please, no.” You tugged her arm, voice low, desperate, but her glare at you was sharp enough to make you swallow your words and let go. You could only watch helplessly as she strode over, her presence towering. The girl shrank back instantly, her face pale.
“You were the one who made that comment on my friend, weren’t you?” Junhee’s voice was low but steady, laced with steel.
The girl stammered, trembling. “I—I didn’t know she was y-your friend.”
Junhee’s lips curled into something close to a scoff. “And? Even if she wasn’t my friend, that doesn’t give you the fucking right to insult her.”
The sharpness in her words made the girl flinch, nodding furiously, eager to make this end before Junhee’s infamous temper proved the rumors true.
And there you were, standing just a few feet away, your heart pounding in your chest. Junhee was brave in all the ways you weren’t. Somehow, that was exactly why you’d clicked—her fire balancing out your quiet fear.
“what? Cat got your tongue? A nod isn't gonna do it. Get up and go to her. On your knees. And apologize.” Your head shoots up in shock, eyes widening as Junhee’s voice slices through the murmurs in the room. A few students gasp, some stifling laughter, but no one dares say anything. The girl who had been giving you a hard time freezes in her spot, her face draining of color as every gaze shifts onto her.
Your eyes flick back to Junhee, half-stunned, half-worried. “umm, Jun… isn’t this too much?” you whisper, tugging lightly at her sleeve, but she doesn’t even look at you.
“just shut up. I really need to teach these people a lesson so that nobody bothers someone else like this ever again.” her tone leaves no room for argument. Sharp, final. And you know better than to push when it comes to Junhee—her word has always carried weight, even when she’s saying it casually. So you shut your mouth, pressing a finger against your lips as if sealing them. Your stomach twists with guilt and surprise as you watch the girl slowly stand, trembling, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor echoing far too loudly in the silent cafeteria.
Every step she takes toward you feels heavy, forced. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides, and when she finally stops in front of you, her pride crumbles. She sinks onto her knees, shoulders hunched, voice shaking as she mutters through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, shame burning across her face, and for a second you almost want to tell her it’s fine—that she doesn’t have to do this. But the words don’t leave your throat. You’re too stunned, too thrown off by the weight of what just happened.
Junhee leans back in her seat, satisfied. She doesn’t gloat, doesn’t smirk, she simply nods like justice has been served. The girl quickly scrambles back up, not daring to look anyone in the eye, and bolts out of the cafeteria—probably to cry in the bathroom where nobody can see.
Your heart twists uncomfortably. The image sticks with you, and yet, in the same breath, you can’t deny the relief that follows. Relief that Junhee had stood up for you so fiercely, even if her way was… intense. Odd, maybe. But effective.
That day, one thing becomes painfully clear—Junhee’s methods might not be the gentlest, but she knows how to silence anyone who tries to mess with you. And somehow, that makes you admire her even more.
The rest of the day blurs past. Teachers drone on about formulas, reactions, and paragraphs, but your mind isn’t really there. It lingers on the girl’s trembling voice, Junhee’s unwavering tone, and the way everyone looked at you after. By the time the final bell rings, your chest still feels heavy. You don’t even notice Riki until he’s walking beside you. His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “why are you looking at me like that?”
He notices the glare you’re giving him, the way your lips press into a thin line, and for once, you don’t hand him your bag like you usually do. Instead, you sling it onto your own shoulder, jaw tightening. “why am I looking at you like that?” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes. “you didn’t wait up for me during lunch.”
He blinks, taken aback by your sharp tone. “i thought you had Junhee. And besides, Minjae wanted to eat early.” His voice is calm, almost casual, but it only fuels your irritation.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “oh really? Then she’s my best friend from today onwards. You’ll just be a friend.” You walk ahead, quickening your pace like you want to put distance between the two of you. Riki immediately skips a few steps, catching up, his pout evident as he nudges your arm.
“really? You gonna forget your best friend of years for a girl you just met a few grades back?”
But you don’t respond. You just keep fast-walking, stubborn, avoiding his gaze. The silence between you stretches, prickly and awkward. So he cuts in front of you suddenly, blocking your way, making you bump into his chest. You try to swerve past, but his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist, holding you still.
“am i seriously not your best friend anymore?” His voice is quieter now, softer, paired with those stupid puppy eyes that always used to make you cave. But this time, you don’t. You meet his gaze and answer, firm: “yeah. You’re not. Have you ever even taken my stand? She’s probably the only person who has taken my stand and that too… verbally.” The memory of the cafeteria flashes in your mind. You know he understands what you mean. You know he remembers the way he stood frozen while Junhee raised her voice.
“oh.” It’s all he says. Just that one word. His grip loosens, fingers slipping away from your wrist as he takes a step back.
You try to lighten the push against his chest, but he doesn’t fight it. He just turns, walking a different path home. His voice is barely audible as he mutters, “then be best friends with Junhee only.” And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there with your heart sinking into your stomach.
You continue walking alone, the quiet settling over you like a heavy blanket. Each step feels slower, heavier, as the guilt creeps in. You curse yourself under your breath. Why did you even get so mad? Why did you say all that? He was a kid too. He didn’t know what to do back then. He didn’t know how to stand up for you. How could he?
But even as you reason with yourself, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers: Junhee would’ve. And that thought lingers all the way home.
You step into the house, the faint chill of sweater weather still clinging to your skin. All you want is to disappear into your room, bury yourself in the safety of your blanket, and forget the world. But as you take your first step toward the stairs, you hear it—crunch. Your heart sinks.
You glance down, and your eyes widen in dread. Under your foot lies a crushed model car, its shiny red paint scratched and wheels bent out of shape. Jiho’s car. That idiot still plays with it like he’s six, and of course today—out of all days—you had to step on it.
“NOOO!” a scream erupts behind you. Jiho stands frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, a glass of water slipping from his hands. The shatter rings out across the living room, water spraying across the tiles. And then—his loud, piercing wail.
You mutter under your breath, “Fuck.” The last thing you want is another family drama. “Jiho, it’s just a car. Shut the fuck up.”
“MOM!” Jiho howls like he’s been stabbed. “She broke my car and she’s swearing at me!”
You barely have time to roll your eyes before your mother comes storming out of her room, panic and irritation written all over her face. But the moment her gaze lands on Jiho, she softens—like always. “What happened, baby?” she asks, crouching by his side.
“She broke it,” Jiho hiccups, “and she doesn’t even care.”
Your mother’s eyes flick to you, sharp and cold. “Of course she did. After all, she doesn’t consider us her family anymore.” The words hit you like a slap. Not again. Not after last night.
“When have I ever said that, Mom?” you snap, your voice cracking, but not from fear—from frustration. From exhaustion. Jiho immediately falls silent, his crocodile tears drying up as he senses the tension. He knows when to shut up, when to let the storm move away from him.
“Your actions tell enough,” your mother shoots back, her tone laced with bitterness.
Something inside you twists. Your chest burns. “Oh, really? Then what about your actions? Did you even notice you didn’t give me lunch today?” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to keep it steady.
Her arms fold across her chest. “I thought since you’re always so bothered by me, you’d cook for yourself.”
The air leaves your lungs. For a second, you just stare at her, the weight of her words pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe. Then, in a voice lower, quieter, but edged with raw hurt, you whisper, “Fine. Then know this—your daughter is dead to you from today.” And you leave before she can say anything else.
You take the stairs two at a time, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. The door slams behind you, muffling the world outside. And then you crumble. You throw yourself onto your bed, face buried in the pillow, the sobs tearing out before you can stop them. “Why? Why me?” Your voice is muffled and shaky, hiccups catching in your throat. Your phone lies abandoned beside you, screen dark and empty. No calls. No texts. Not even a single notification from Riki. The boy who used to be your safe place feels a million miles away.
“Guess even you’re gone,” you whisper, hugging your pillow tighter, tears soaking the fabric.
Dinner comes and goes downstairs, but you don’t move. You just curl up under the blanket, body trembling as waves of loneliness wash over you. “God, do you hate me that much?” you whisper to the ceiling, voice breaking. “Isn’t this much personality development enough? Why are you still hurting me?”
Your chest heaves, each sob making you feel smaller, more fragile. You sneeze once, then twice, but you don’t even care enough to reach for tissues. You just hold your pillow like it’s the only one left who’ll listen, shivering as the night grows colder. Your mind spins in cruel circles. Would anyone ever marry me for me? Would anyone ever love me without gold to pull them close? And if I have no gold… will I just stay alone forever? The thoughts are sharp, cutting into you, and you cry harder, biting your lip until it stings.
Eventually, exhaustion takes over. Your tears slow, your sobs turn into sniffles, and your body sinks deeper into the mattress. Wrapped in your blanket, with your pillow hugged tightly against your chest, you drift into a restless, shivering sleep—empty stomach and all. Maybe this is just training for the future, you think drowsily before sleep swallows you half.
“I don’t want to die alone… there must be someone for me, right? Or—” your voice cracked as you buried your face into the pillow, “—do you want me to date women?” The words slipped out, half a sob, half a joke, but they fell flat in the silence of your room. All that came back was the sound of your own shaky breathing. You were so tired of feeling alone, of carrying that weight in your chest. But were you really alone?
A bitter thought pressed against your heart: you had Riki. He’d been there since you were five. Always there. And yet—your chest ached in the hollow places that even his presence couldn’t fill. The ache pulled you down into an uneasy sleep, your body curled tight beneath the blanket, shivering even though the room wasn’t that cold.
⪩⪨
When you woke, it was to silence. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful but wrong. The house was still, no hum of conversation, no creak of movement—just the low, haunting calls of owls perched outside, their glowing eyes catching in the dark like tiny lanterns. You hugged your phone close, already dialed to 112, thumb hovering in case something—someone—was waiting for you in the shadows.
The kitchen tiles were freezing beneath your feet. You opened the fridge carefully, its dim light spilling out like a secret. It was ridiculous—sneaking in your own home. You almost laughed at that thought, but hunger clawed harder than humor. Your eyes landed on the frozen fish. Already cooked. Good enough.
The pan hissed as you placed it on the flame, the sharp crackle of oil filling the quiet. You clutched the spatula like a weapon, flipping clumsily. You didn’t care about technique—you were starving enough to chew your own arm if it came to that. And as the smell filled the kitchen, so did the ache in your chest. Not because of hunger this time, but because of him.
Your dad.
How he never checked on you. How somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your father and had simply become your mother’s husband. You’d stopped expecting anything from him, but still—the disappointment clung.
By the time you turned the gas off, your legs were trembling from weakness. You plated the fish quickly, sprinkling over some chopped onions and tomatoes that had been sitting in the fridge, squeezing lemon across it like you’d seen on TV. It looked messy, but to you it smelled like salvation.
You crept back to your room with the plate, shutting the door softly behind you. The main light stayed off—too risky. Your brother had a radar for food. So instead, you turned the lamp on the dimmest setting, creating a cocoon of faint gold.
The first bite nearly made you cry. Not because the fish was good—maybe it wasn’t—but because it was warm and yours.
You ate slowly, savoring each piece like it was the last thing you’d ever get. Then, with the plate licked clean and your stomach finally quiet, you rinsed your hands in the tiny sink in your room. Still… even full, even safe in bed, something felt off. A heaviness sat in your chest, pressing down. You brushed it away, told yourself it was nothing. Curled up under the blanket again.
And eventually, you drifted off.
The next morning, you woke up with a blocked nose and swollen red eyes.
“Not again,” you groaned, glaring at your reflection in the mirror. You dabbed some cream over your puffy eyelids, silently wishing they’d settle down for once. Still, you forced yourself into your uniform, ignoring the weird heaviness in your body. With a deep sigh, you hurried out of your room and down the stairs—nearly slipping midway.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, catching yourself before you tumbled. Shoes half-laced, you rushed out the door, already rehearsing the apology you owed Riki for unloading on him last night. But he wasn’t there.
You froze for a moment, staring at the empty spot where he should’ve been waiting. The air suddenly felt colder. “This fucker,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “What, is he on his period or something?”
Irritation flared as you stomped toward the nearest convenience store, refusing to go back home and beg for breakfast when your mom had already made it clear she wouldn’t cook for you. You grabbed a handful of snacks and stuffed them into your bag, jaw tight. Fine. Lunch problem solved. And knowing Riki, he’d probably show up later anyway, begging for a share. Greedy bastard.
By the time you passed through the school gates, a wave of dizziness made you slow down. You shook it off. No big deal. Just hunger or lack of sleep, whatever. You slipped into class, ready to collapse into your seat—only to find Junhee sitting right next to Riki.
Of course she was. And he wasn’t even looking at you. Not once. Just smiling and chatting away with her like you didn’t exist.
Your fists clenched. Your chest tightened. The petty, ridiculous urge to march over there and rip his hair out nearly won.
“Are you even listening?”
A hand on your shoulder jolted you out of your spiraling thoughts. You blinked, realizing how deeply you’d been invested in a conversation you weren’t even part of.
“Why? You like Riki or something?” Minjae asked, leaning back in his chair beside you. His eyes studied you, a little too amused for your liking.
“What? No, obviously not.” You groaned, tugging at your sleeve as your lips pulled into a pout. “I’m just pissed they’re both ignoring me. Especially when I needed to vent.” Your voice softened into a mutter as you dramatically rested your head against his shoulder. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be sitting next to Riki?”
“He told me he wanted to sit with Junhee.”
Your frown deepened, the muscles in your jaw tightening. Of course he did. “Does he… like her or something?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Immediately, regret clawed at your chest, making you want to crawl back into your room and bury yourself under the covers.
Minjae shrugged. “Not sure. But look at him—he’s literally smiling at her like she’s the funniest person alive.”
You didn’t dare look. The burn in your eyes was already too much. Quietly, you buried your face in Minjae’s shoulder, whispering against the fabric of his uniform, “You’re my only true friend, Minjae. Don’t betray me like those two rats.”
He froze for a moment, clearly taken aback. His hand lifted, hovering, before gently brushing against your forehead. “You’re burning up. You’re sick. You should’ve stayed home.”
But you only sank deeper into his shoulder, muffling your words through your small sobs. “Maybe it would’ve been better if I had stayed in bed instead of witnessing… this heartbreak.”
Then something weird you felt in your lower abdomen. You gasped and pulled back immediately, eyes wide. Did you just—you scrambled, fumbling through your bag until you found what you were looking for, then bolted from the classroom. Luckily class hadn’t started yet.
Minjae sat there stunned, his arm still half-raised from when you’d been leaning on him. He debated chasing after you, but before he could move, Riki suddenly shot up from his seat and rushed after you. Junhee, still beside him, raised a brow and turned toward Minjae, confusion written across her face.
“What just happened? Why did she run out like that?”
Minjae let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Not sure. But why are you sitting with Riki? She was on the verge of tears.” His voice carried disappointment, like he hadn’t expected this from Junhee at all.
Junhee blinked. “Wait—what? Riki just said he wanted to get back at her. I didn’t realize it would make her that upset.”
The two exchanged a bewildered glance, both looking toward the door where you and Riki had just vanished.
“Wait!” Riki’s voice echoed down the hall as he ran after you. But you had already disappeared into the women’s restroom. He stopped dead in his tracks, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. It was almost time for class, and he was pretty sure no one else was inside—but still, he couldn’t exactly storm in after you.
Riki taps his foot against the tiled floor, shoulders pressed to the wall, hoodie pulled low over his face like it can somehow hide the embarrassment of standing outside the girls’ washroom. His ears burn every time someone passes by. He looks like he’s plotting a heist, not waiting for you.
When you finally step out, wincing slightly, his head snaps up. “Riki. Just leave,” you mutter, brushing past him.
He falls into step beside you, lowering his voice. “...red days?”
You stop mid-stride, glaring up at him. “Why would you care? You shouldn’t care about that.” Your voice is flat, but there’s a sharp edge to it, the kind that threatens to cut.
He exhales through his nose, eyes darting away. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just—upset after yesterday. I handled it stupidly. Immaturely.”
“What’s the difference, Riki? How are you any different from them?” you snap, your steps quick and uneven. “You say you’re there for me, but honestly, it feels like a lie. You’re slowly becoming just like the rest—hurting me just because you’re upset.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks a little, harsher than intended. “Don’t compare me to them.”
“It’s the truth,” you fire back, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “You know what’s going on at home. And yet—you still had to pull that stunt this morning. I thought you were the one person I could trust with this, but if you’re just gonna be petty and take revenge too…” Your throat tightens. “How am I supposed to trust you then?”
“Please don’t say that.” His voice softens as he turns to you, holding out his hands. When you don’t move away, he laces his fingers through yours, grounding you. His gaze is heavy, searching your face. “You don’t mean it.”
“Maybe I don’t,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “But I was upset. I even prepared how I wanted to apologize. And then—you weren’t there. Not outside my house. Not waiting. And when I got to school, trying so hard to pretend it was just a normal day—you were with Junhee.” Your voice breaks as tears spill before you can stop them. “You took the only other person I could talk to. You’re so bad.” Your words crumble into a quiet sob.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, pulling you against him before either of you can think. His arms lock around you like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. “I knew what you were going through and still—I messed up. I’m sorry.”
You bury your face into his chest, clutching his uniform shirt. “No… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You’ve been here since we were kids, and I—” Your voice shakes. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses his face into your hair, trying to hide the way his own eyes burn. “Let’s not fight again, okay?” he murmurs into your hair, his hand stroking it gently.
The shrill bell cuts through the moment, forcing you both to step apart. He frowns when he sees your flushed face, presses his palm lightly to your forehead, and winces. “You’re burning up. Why couldn’t you just stay home?”
You try to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he mutters, but he still holds your hand as the two of you walk back to class. Inside, the teacher’s not there yet, but all heads turn. Nobody misses the sight of your hands locked together. Riki ignores them and pulls you down into the seat next to his. For once, he doesn’t care about rumors.
You whisper, anxious, “Everyone’s staring.”
He shrugs, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over your shoulders without hesitation. The class immediately erupts into a chorus of teasing “ooohh”s like they’re watching a live-action drama.
“Just shut up,” Junhee’s voice cuts from the back row, surprisingly sharp. The noise dies down at once. You silently thank her before leaning toward Riki. “…Do you like Junhee?”
His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “What? No. Ew. Why would I ever like her?”
You smack his arm lightly. “You could’ve just said no. Why ‘ew’? She’s a nice girl.”
“Of course you’d say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.
⪩⪨
The day drifts by in a blur after that. Riki ends up caught with his phone in class, sentenced to detention. You shake your head, disappointed, though you know deep down you were the one begging him earlier to check the time for Illit’s new song premiere.
Junhee leaves school early, her schedule different from yours. And somehow, even with everything that happened, you realize—you don’t feel as heavy as you did this morning.
And you wished you had just left with her earlier—because now it was raining. Raining hard. And, of course, you hadn’t brought an umbrella. Not that you would’ve anyway, even if you’d known. Why would you? The sun had been shining like it was mocking you all morning, and now suddenly the skies decided to throw a tantrum.
“No umbrella?”
You turned at the sound, blinking up at Minjae as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. You shook your head sheepishly. Without hesitation, he shoved his umbrella into your hands. “Wait—no, no. Take it back. How are you gonna get home?” you asked, panicked, fingers curling around the handle but already trying to hand it back.
He just shook his head, almost amused. “I’ve got good immunity, don’t worry. But you—” his eyes softened as they scanned your tired face, “you’re already sick. I don’t want your fever to get worse. So just… take it. Go.”
And before you could argue again, he turned and walked off into the downpour. No hood, no hesitation. Just striding through sheets of rain like some kind of main character in a drama, the water soaking into his uniform but not once making him falter.
You stood frozen, guilt twisting in your chest, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Carefully, you opened the umbrella and stepped out, watching his figure shrink in the blur of gray.
The rain hit the ground so heavily it made tiny puddles burst at your feet. You hated it—the way muddy water could splash up on your clothes, the way it clung to your shoes. Rain was only nice when you were inside, wrapped up in blankets, not when it turned the world outside into a soggy, cold mess.
Somewhere nearby, frogs croaked like they were celebrating. You kicked a pebble, sighing, one hand tightening on the umbrella handle. That’s when you realized. Oh, hell. You still had Riki’s uniform jacket draped over you. You pulled it closer instinctively as the wind whipped against your skin. It smelled faintly like him—soap and something fresh—and the realization made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.
The streets were quiet, everyone else having already run for cover. By the time you reached your gate, you noticed how alive the garden looked—flowers glistening with raindrops, colors brighter as if they loved the storm. You folded the umbrella, toes curling against the cold porch as you slipped off your shoes and socks. That’s when you noticed a frog trying very hard to climb your stairs. With a squeak, you darted inside and slammed the door before it could follow.
Unfortunately for you, the little creature hopped right into your abandoned shoes on the porch, curling up like it had just signed a rental lease.
You pressed your back to the door, catching your breath, before your thoughts wandered back to Riki. A pang of guilt twisted in your chest. He was out there—probably still being punished, still getting drenched—all because of you. And that thought sat heavy in your heart, no matter how warm Minjae’s umbrella and Riki’s jacket kept you.
“Noona! Whose jacket is that? You got a boyfriend?” Jiho’s voice cut through the hallway, his grin wide and irritating as always.
“Just go do your homework,” you muttered, brushing past him. You didn’t have the energy to deal with his teasing. Upstairs, you shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft thud, peeled out of your damp uniform, and changed into something warm before collapsing on the bed. The day had drained every last bit of you. Too many odd, heavy moments—the way Riki had acted out of character, Minjae handing you his umbrella so casually—it all swirled in your head until your eyelids grew too heavy to fight.
You slipped into sleep curled on your side, the sound of rain steady against your window. Somewhere in the haze, you felt the blanket shift, tugged higher around you, and the faint aroma of chicken soup drifted in. Your forehead burned, and through the fever haze you caught snippets of sound: slippers brushing against your floor, the faint clink of a faucet turning on and off in the bathroom. Even in sleep, you knew someone was there.
When you woke, there was a damp cloth cooling your forehead and a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup waiting by your bedside. You sat up slowly, your body aching, and cradled the bowl in both hands. The warmth seeped through your fingers as you slurped at the broth, each sip grounding you. That’s when your gaze dropped to the pair of worn slippers at your door—your father’s. A lump formed in your throat. He must’ve come in quietly, set the cloth, left the soup. And if he had… then mom must’ve made it for you.
You hated moments like these. They always left you raw. Because if they were capable of this kind of tenderness—of showing you warmth and care—then why not more often? Why only now, when you were too weak to fight back? A single tear slipped down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away quickly.
So you just kept eating, letting the simple comfort of hot soup chase away the overthinking. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was enough that mom had cooked this with you in mind.
Your phone buzzed, breaking the silence. The group chat lit up with messages, your classmates reminding you about unfinished biology homework. You sighed, dropped the bowl on the side table, and reached for your phone, the rain outside still drumming on the glass like an unshakable rhythm. “Guys, I’m too tired to write it. I’ll just take the punishment instead,” you texted in the group chat, tossing your phone aside before closing your eyes. You wanted to sound calm, unbothered, maybe even bold—but your heart told a different story.
⪩⪨
The moment you woke up the next morning, panic hit you like a storm. Your hands shook as you flipped through your untouched notebook, dreading what would happen.
Beside you, Riki slid into his seat like nothing in the world could faze him. He glanced at you once, catching your restless expression, then silently pulled your notebook toward himself. Without a word, he began copying his homework into yours.
On the other side, Junhee raised her hand with practiced innocence. “Ma’am, I’m a little confused about this question… isn’t rough endoplasmic reticulum because of the presence of ribosome?” Her tone was serious, almost too convincing.
The teacher, Ms. Kwan, adjusted her glasses and leaned over Junhee’s desk, ready to correct her. All the while, Minjae sat sprawled in his chair, doing his best to look invisible, one leg bouncing nervously under the desk.
You watched the three of them in silence, your chest warming despite the tension. These were your friends—the kind who would bend rules, distract teachers, and risk trouble just so you didn’t have to face it alone.
By the time Ms. Kwan circled back to your row, Riki slid your notebook across the desk as if nothing had happened. You straightened in your seat, forcing composure as she flipped through your work. Her sharp eyes lingered on your pages a moment too long before she gave a skeptical nod and moved on. Relief washed over you, though you caught her frown when she checked Riki’s work right after. She didn’t say anything, though—just clicked her pen shut and strode to the front. “Alright, class. We’re starting a new project. Pair up—groups of two.”
Immediately, chatter filled the room. You barely glanced at Riki before your hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Don’t even think about teaming with Minjae. You’re with me.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by how serious you sounded, but he didn’t fight it. Your grip only tightened until you saw your names recorded together in the teacher’s diary. Victory.
The rest of the day blurred. Classes were dismissed so everyone could get a head start, which left you sitting in the library booth with Riki, surrounded by notes, books, and scattered pens. Your fever had lessened after the soup last night, but fatigue still weighed you down.
For a while, you tried to focus—scrolling through your phone for research, typing out fragments of information—but your thoughts drifted. Questions you didn’t want to face bubbled up: What are you even doing with your life? What if you fail? What if everything collapses?
The weight of it all pressed on you until you let your head drop against Riki’s shoulder. He shifted under you, clearly confused, but said nothing and continued working, letting you lean. You sighed, staring at the screen without really seeing it. At one point, you even considered using ChatGPT, but the thought of risking suspension made your chest tighten. You couldn’t drag yourself—or him—into that kind of trouble.
“...I’m hu—” Before you could finish whining, a small packet hit your lap. You looked down to find chips, tossed carelessly by Riki. He didn’t even look up from his notebook. You shot him a glare but ripped the packet open anyway, munching between words. “Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks puffed. He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Hours slipped by like that—you watching him, him working steadily. There was something about his calm, the quiet way he focused, that pulled you in. It was strange how just existing beside him eased some part of your chaos.
At some point, you must’ve drifted off. The last thing you remembered was the soft scratch of his pen. When you woke, his handkerchief brushed your lips, wiping away a faint trace of drool. His voice was low, gentle. “Hey. Time to leave.”
You blinked at him sleepily. “Already?”
He nodded once.
Stretching, you sat up and finally noticed the mess of papers and wrappers you two had left behind. You groaned at the sight, but Riki was already tidying, stacking papers neatly, tossing trash aside. You watched him, exhaustion weighing your shoulders down. “I’m so tired of everything,” you whispered without meaning to. The words slipped out raw, heavy with more than just schoolwork. “Like… so damn tired of it all.”
Riki paused mid-movement, his gaze lifting to yours. For a long moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable. His lips parted, like he was about to say something—something important. But he stopped. Swallowed hard. And whatever truth sat on his tongue that night never made it out.
⪩⪨
After that day, the rumors started spreading like wildfire. Whispers in the hallways, snickers behind cupped hands, and the occasional bold classmate asking directly—everyone seemed convinced that you and Riki were secretly dating.
“Are you two not together?” one of your classmates asked, eyes glimmering with curiosity as though they already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you confirm it.
You shook your head quickly, a small laugh escaping as you tried to brush it off. “No, of course not. We’re just friends.”
The words left your mouth easily, like second nature, but the weight of them was different for Riki. He stood a few steps away, pretending not to care, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, almost as if he was waiting for you to say something else—something more. He didn’t understand why your answer made his chest feel heavy. It was the truth, and yet it stung like a lie.
That afternoon, he didn’t walk home with you. Neither did Minjae. Only Junhee tagged along, and though you didn’t want to admit it, the absence of the other two left the walk home strangely quiet. Too quiet. “This is weird,” you muttered under your breath.
Junhee glanced sideways at you before draping an arm casually around your shoulders. Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp with curiosity. “Be honest with me. Do you really not like Riki? Not even a little?”
You froze for a second before giving her the most logical answer you had. “Of course I like him. He’s a great friend of mine.”
Junhee raised a brow. “So you wouldn’t mind if I dated him, then? If I held his hand, hugged him, maybe even—”
“Junhee, stop.” You cut her off immediately, a little too quickly, your voice sharper than intended. “Don’t say stuff like that about him. It’s… weird.” The word hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You walked a bit faster, hoping she would drop it, but Junhee only smirked knowingly.
“If it feels weird, then it means you like him.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing off her words. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh, but it is.” Her tone was playful, yet there was a hint of truth behind it that made your stomach twist. “Think about it. All the things you’ve done with him that feel normal, even comfortable… now imagine doing the same with Minjae. If it feels different, if it feels wrong—then maybe you’ll finally understand.”
She let go of your shoulder and split off toward her house, leaving you alone with her words. You sighed, heading toward your own home, but the theory echoed in your mind. Against your will, you began running through moments in your head—moments that felt too natural with Riki but would’ve felt strange with Minjae. Like sharing snacks without a second thought, or leaning against him when you were tired, or the way he’d grab your wrist lightly to guide you through crowded halls. With Minjae, those things would feel awkward. With Riki, they felt… right.
Meanwhile, across town, Riki was dealing with the same kind of pestering—but from Minjae. “You feel your heart flutter when you see her, don’t you?” Minjae pressed, his grin mischievous as he leaned closer, as though he were interrogating him.
Riki scoffed, brushing past him. “What’s that got to do with her?”
“Everything.” Minjae’s voice sing-songed, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s the most obvious sign, idiot. You like her. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Listen,” Riki muttered, his tone firm though his ears warmed. “If I liked her, I’d know. I’m not that dumb.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking away with his bag slung over his shoulder. And yet… Minjae’s words lingered in his head. Because now that he thought about it—there were times. Small times. Times where he did feel something flutter in his chest when you smiled, when you looked at him longer than a second too long, when your laugh bubbled out unexpectedly.
That night, you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. At his home, Riki lay in his own bed, headphones in but no music playing. And despite the distance between you, both of you were thinking the same exact thought. What if I actually liked my best friend? The question didn’t feel as strange as it should have. And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
One of the memories that stood out was how you once fell asleep on your desk in the middle of class. Your cheek pressed against the notebook, pen slipping from your fingers, exhaustion clear on your face. Riki, without saying a word, had quietly reached over and turned your notebook so that the cover would hide your face from the teacher’s view. He even leaned forward a little, blocking the line of sight with his own shoulder. And when the teacher eventually caught on and narrowed their eyes at your desk, he had casually rested his head too—like he’d been the culprit all along—ready to take the punishment in your place.
At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it. You’d just laughed it off later, wondering why he would do something so dumb for you. And truthfully, Riki himself couldn’t explain it either. It wasn’t something he’d planned or even thought through. It was instinct—like his body moved before his mind could.
Then there were the times you’d show up at his house after another one of those exhausting days, eyes red and voice shaky from holding in your tears at home. You’d collapse onto his couch or bed, unable to carry the weight anymore, and he’d just pull you into his chest without asking questions. His arms would hold you steady, his chin resting lightly on your hair, as if to remind you that no matter how chaotic everything else was, you belonged somewhere—right there, in his arms. You never saw it as anything unusual before. He was just Riki, your best friend. But now, looking back, you realized… if someone else had held you like that, if someone else had been the one to make you feel safe enough to break down—you might have fallen for them without even noticing.
There were his doodles, too. Silly little things scrawled across the margins of your notebook during class. Tiny stick-figure versions of you smacking him with a badminton racket, or a crooked drawing of a family with him circled in red, proudly labeled as the “real protector of all.” You had scolded him countless times for scribbling over your notes, rolling your eyes at his nonsense. But now that you thought about it, it had been his quiet way of cheering you up, his way of leaving pieces of himself for you to find later when you were bored or tired. He never explained why he did it, and maybe he didn’t even know himself—but the thought warmed you now more than you wanted to admit.
Or the way you’d reach out to fix his tie without even realizing it. It was just habit by now—he’d show up half put-together, and you couldn’t stand it. So you’d tug his tie straight, smooth the wrinkles, and step back like it was nothing. But if you pictured doing that with Minjae, or any other guy, the idea immediately made you cringe. With Riki, though? With him, it had always felt natural. Comfortable. So much so that when your classmates teased you both with dramatic “oohs” and “aahs,” you’d rolled your eyes and brushed it off… but secretly, you wondered if you’d react the same way if it were someone else fixing someone else’s tie in front of the class. Probably. Maybe even louder.
And then there were the library moments. When you’d rant endlessly, blaming him for things that weren’t even his fault—like getting scolded because of something he started. Anyone else would have grown tired, would’ve walked away or snapped back. But not Riki. He’d stay. Always. Sitting beside you with his chin propped on one hand, tapping his pencil against the table. Every time you zoned out mid-rant, he’d poke your cheek with the eraser, grinning when you snapped back at him. It had been his little ritual, one you hadn’t thought twice about. But now… you realized how rare that patience was. How rare it was for someone to stay, even when you weren’t being fair to them.
That night, lying in your bed, hugging your pillow to your chest, your mind kept circling back to these little fragments—these small, ordinary things you had brushed off for so long. They didn’t feel ordinary anymore. They felt precious. They felt like pieces of something bigger, something you were only just beginning to name. And when your heart fluttered at the thought of his laugh, or your chest ached at the idea of him with someone else… you finally admitted to yourself that maybe Junhee was right. Maybe this wasn’t just friendship. Maybe—just maybe—you’d been in love with your best friend all along.
During matches, you were always the loudest one cheering for him. It didn’t matter if he won or lost—you were the first voice he heard, screaming his name, clapping until your palms stung. And no matter the result, your arms were open for him afterwards, wrapping him in the same warmth that always made the world a little softer.
He would look at you after every match, eyes scanning the crowd until they found yours. You’d quit the sport long ago, but he hadn’t—and though part of you sometimes missed playing together, you never once blamed him for staying. If anything, you wanted to support him in the way he always supported you.
Now, lying on his bed with his arms folded behind his head, Riki thought about those little moments and couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. He thought about the both of you as kids, about the way nothing had really changed between you—except for the way his heart felt heavier now whenever he thought of you. Somewhere along the way, without realizing, he had lost his heart.
Because why else would he have spent his entire pocket money at the arcade just to win you a bunny keychain? Why else would he have insisted on getting himself the matching bear one so you could clip them to your bags, side by side, like a secret sign that you belonged together? Friends, he told himself at the time. They were just matching friends. But now, the word sat wrong in his chest. “Friend” didn’t feel big enough anymore.
Even on FaceTime, he found himself slipping. That one study session with you, Junhee, and Minjae had proved it. You were bent over your book, hair falling into your face, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Minjae called him out. Everyone laughed, and you brushed it off like a joke. But later, lying awake, you couldn’t help but think: What if it wasn’t a joke? What if he really was looking at me the way I look at him? The session had ended awkwardly, and though everyone said goodnight as usual, there was a strange tension that clung to the silence afterward. You went to bed with those memories buzzing through your mind, and for the first time, you let yourself admit: maybe you did like him. Maybe Junhee had been right all along.
But another fear came crashing down just as quickly—what if it wasn’t real? What if you only liked him because he was always there for you? What if it wasn’t love but just… attachment? That thought scared you more than anything else. Because hurting him… was the last thing you’d ever want.
⪩⪨
“Read the instructions properly and solve the questions.” Miss Kwan’s sharp voice echoed through the exam hall, pulling you back to reality. You swallowed hard, staring at the pre-final exam paper in front of you. Your mind was blank. Not because you hadn’t studied, but because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the boy just two rows away, calmly solving his paper as if nothing in the world could shake him.
You glanced at Riki, frowning. He looked so focused, pen scratching smoothly across the page. How can he concentrate so easily? Doesn’t he think about me the way I think about him?
The truth was—he hadn’t studied at all last night. He’d spent the entire evening tossing and turning, mind circling around you, around the way your laugh lingered in his ears and the memory of your hand brushing his. The answers he was writing now were purely things he had memorized before, running on autopilot while his heart refused to quiet down.
Desperate, you glanced at Minjae. Maybe he’d at least pass you some hints. But the boy’s page was almost entirely blank. He was staring at the paper like it had betrayed him. “I’m doomed for sure,” you muttered under your breath, fighting the urge to cry.
Minjae, already halfway to giving up, pressed his palms together as though in prayer. Miss Kwan’s taunt wasn’t far behind. “If you can’t solve this paper, don’t even dream about passing the finals.” You and Minjae exchanged a look that said it all—you were both done for. Meanwhile, Junhee scribbled furiously, and Riki’s pen never seemed to stop. It felt unfair. So unfair.
That unfairness followed you to dinner that night. Your parents’ voices were sharp, comparing you once again to Riki. “Look at him. So good in school, so disciplined. Why can’t you be more like?”
“So what if he’s good?” The words burst out before you could stop them. “Maybe I’m just good at something else!” The silence that followed was worse than the scolding. Your father’s voice cut through, cold and final: “Pass the finals. Or don’t bother showing your face here.”
The appetite drained from you instantly. Pushing your plate away, you walked out into the night, the weight of their words pressing down harder than the dark sky above you. And then—you saw him. Riki. Standing outside with an umbrella, as if he had known. As if he’d been waiting for you all along. He stepped forward quickly, lifting the umbrella to shield you from the drizzle. His silence wasn’t awkward. It was steady. Comforting. But something inside you snapped. “Do you enjoy it, huh?”
“What?” His brows furrowed in confusion.
“You like it, don’t you? Being perfect all the time. Topping every class. Getting praised by everyone while I get yelled at just for existing in the same room as you.” Your voice cracked, eyes stinging. “Is that why you’re even friends with me? To make yourself feel better? Is that it?”
“hey that's not…” he started, but you stepped back, shaking your head.
“Just leave me alone for once,” you whispered, voice breaking. You stepped out from under the umbrella, letting the rain soak through your clothes as you walked faster, tears mixing with the downpour.
“Please stop!” His voice rose behind you, desperate. He was scared you’d slip on the wet pavement, scared you’d keep running away from him forever.
“I said leave me—” You didn’t finish. Because his lips crashed onto yours. The umbrella clattered to the ground. His hand cupped your cheek, the other gripping your wrist as though you might vanish if he let go. His eyes were closed, lips trembling against yours with urgency and fear. Yours stayed open at first, wide with shock. Your knees wobbled, the rain streaming down your face as if begging you to shut your eyes, to just feel. And when you finally did, everything blurred—the sound of rain, the ache in your chest, the trembling of your heart.
When he pulled back, both of you were breathless, faces inches apart. He didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers curled tightly around yours, anchoring himself in the storm. You stared at him, chest heaving. Then you shoved at his chest with all your strength, making him stumble backward. “W-why’d you do that?!” Your voice cracked, tears spilling freely now. “That was my first kiss, you bastard!”
He froze, lips parted, raindrops sliding down his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He didn’t know how to explain it—how the words had failed him, how the feelings had taken control. “I—I don’t know,” he whispered finally, touching his fingers to his lips as though the kiss still lingered there. A shiver ran through him, sparking down his spine. He wasn’t lying when he admitted to himself, silently, that he wanted to do it again.
Once he saw those tears welling in your eyes, Riki’s first instinct was to rush over, to wipe them away with the sleeve of his hoodie like he always did whenever you cried. But this time… he froze. After what just happened—after that kiss—it felt wrong, almost too much. His chest tightened as he watched you turn away, your shoulders trembling, and walk back home without saying a single word. No glance back. No explanation. Just silence.
Your clothes clung to your skin, heavy with rainwater, but the storm outside wasn’t nearly as loud as the storm inside your chest. That kiss—his lips against yours—kept replaying over and over again in your mind. The way it came right after your outburst, tangled with anger, confusion, and longing… it left your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break your ribs. Even when you touched your lips with your finger, you swore you could still feel him there.
You carried it with you. Into the bathroom where the mirror only made the memory sharper. Into your room where even fresh pajamas couldn’t wash the feeling off. Into your bed where sleep refused to come because every time you closed your eyes, the scene played again. That moment, that kiss, that boy.
Days slipped by, each one heavier than the last. You couldn’t bring yourself to sit beside him in class, couldn’t bring yourself to laugh at his stupid doodles in your notebook anymore. You avoided his eyes, his presence, even his shadow. And Riki, the boy who never once failed to walk you home, never once left you behind, suddenly wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t call. He didn’t wait at the corner like he used to. It was like the kiss broke some invisible bridge between you, and neither of you knew how to fix it.
You feared it—feared this was it. That whatever the two of you had, whatever strange bond that made him sit with you through your storms, was gone for good. And that thought alone made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t put into words. At night, when your pillow grew damp beneath your cheek, you found yourself whispering into the dark, I just need him back. Even if it’s not as a friend. Even if it’s something more. Just… don’t let him disappear from my life.
Junhee and Minjae noticed, of course. They weren’t stupid. They exchanged looks every time you came in with puffy eyes or when Riki walked past with his head lowered, shoulders slumped. They tried everything to drag you back together. Junhee once “forgot” her homework just to rope Riki into helping you solve a question you pretended to struggle with—but the room only filled with awkward silence. He wouldn’t look at you, and you couldn’t breathe when he was too close. Their tricks fell flat, leaving them sighing in defeat as they watched two people too stubborn—and too scared—to speak.
Meanwhile, at the Nishimura household, Riki wasn’t much better. He lay sprawled on the couch, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“What’s up with him? He’s acting like a zombie,” Konon asked, raising an eyebrow as she kicked lightly at the couch. Mrs. Nishimura chuckled from the kitchen, arms crossed. “He’s just riding that teenage wave, dear. Remember when you moped around for weeks? Exactly like that.”
Konon rolled her eyes, leaning down to shake her brother’s arm. But the moment she saw his face—eyes swollen, lids red from lack of sleep—her teasing stalled. “Wait… what’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you—” she gasped, then smirked. “—broke up already?”
Riki groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “Please, just leave me alone, dear sister,” he muttered in a tone so polite it almost sounded wrong. He shoved at her halfheartedly, but even his strength seemed drained.
“Ohhh, so it is a breakup,” she sang, backing away before his infamous temper snapped. Her giggles echoed down the hall while Riki curled deeper into the couch, face pressed into the pillow like it could swallow him whole. “Can’t a guy just have a little privacy?” he muttered to himself, voice muffled and cracked.
In the kitchen, Mr. Nishimura raised a brow at his wife. “Is it really a breakup?” His wife only shrugged, lips twitching into a small smile. “Who knows. But it sure looks like one.” Neither of them moved to comfort him. They poured tea, as though heartbreak was just another passing cold he’d grow out of.
And across town, you hid your own heartbreak in silence. Because you knew if your family found out—if your mother discovered that Riki of all people had kissed you—she’d lose her mind. She already hated that he was always around, always by your side. To admit you let him close enough to kiss you? That wouldn’t just be another fight. That would be a death sentence. So you held it all in, lying awake in your room, both of you trapped in the same ache, both too afraid to reach across the space the kiss had left between you.
“She’d probably not only disown you but his reputation in your mother’s eyes would get tainted,” you thought, almost laughing bitterly. Honestly, you would’ve done the same if the roles were reversed. You already knew how her dialogue would go, too—word for word. “We provided you a roof over your head and this is how you repay us? Betrayal?!” Blah blah. Cue dramatic hand gestures, guilt trips, and at least two days of the silent treatment.
But you didn’t get much time to dwell on the imaginary lecture, because Jiho leaned closer and whispered something that made your body stiffen. “W–what?”
“You look like you’ve been kissed,” he muttered, almost too casually, but his eyes were way too sharp. “Was it Riki, huh?”
Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. You forced out a laugh, shaking your head so fast it looked rehearsed. “Obviously not. We’re just friends.”
“Oh?” Jiho tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Cool. Just asking.” He returned to scrolling on his phone, but the glare he’d given you lingered in your head like a scar.
You avoided his gaze, sat at the dining table, and prayed—begged—that he wouldn’t bring it up at dinner. The clinking of plates was too loud, the silence too heavy.
Your dad was the first to notice. “Why are you so giddy?” he asked suddenly, squinting at you like you’d been caught sneaking snacks at midnight.
You almost choked on your rice. Three pairs of eyes—dad’s, mom’s, and Jiho’s—zeroed in on you.
“I—it’s nothing,” you stammered, shoving food into your mouth like it could save you. You kept your head down, finished quickly, and excused yourself before anyone could interrogate further.
The second you shut your bedroom door, you leaned against it, heart hammering. Calm down. Calm down. Instead, you grabbed your phone and did what you always did when reality got too loud—you went delusional online. You typed, “How do you know if you’re in love with someone?” into the search bar and waited.
The answers popped up in neat bullet points. You started scrolling.
When it feels like home with them. You thought about Riki—his annoying smirk, the way he’d toss you snacks without asking, the quiet way he’d listen when you rambled. He always felt… safe. Even when he was teasing, even when he was immature. He was steady. Home. One box ticked.
When you can just exist together without doing anything. Your mind flashed back to afternoons spent sprawled in his room—him bent over homework, you lying on his bed scrolling through your phone. No need for words, no need for effort. It just was. Normal, you told yourself. But is it?
When seeing them happy is a reward. You frowned. That one confused you. You were happy when Junhee or Minjae smiled, too. So what made Riki different? You bit your lip, scrolling further.
When you have someone already in your head while typing this question. Your stomach dropped. Okay, that was… kind of unfair. Obviously, you thought of him when searching this up. Who else would you be thinking about? You kept scrolling, but your breath hitched at the next one.
When you can’t stand the thought of them gone from your life. You froze. You could live without Riki, right? You had to. Life would go on. But the thought of him vanishing—never speaking again, no more teasing, no more warmth, no more safe silences—Your chest twisted, and you hated it. With Junhee or Minjae, you knew you’d be sad, but you’d move on. With Riki… the thought alone made your throat tighten like you were already grieving something you hadn’t even lost yet.
You hugged your knees to your chest, staring at the glowing screen. Maybe I do love him. And with that terrifying realization, one thing was clear—there was no going back to how things used to be.
⪩⪨
The two of them smear cream onto the half-baked cake like they know exactly what they’re doing, but to Riki it just looks like a disaster in the making. He squints, skeptical, shifting the bowl in his hands. “Are you guys sure this is… how it’s supposed to be made?” he asks, his voice quiet but full of doubt. His hand almost reaches out for a taste before Junhee smacks it away with the reflexes of someone who’s swatted him before.
“Just do as we say.” Junhee doesn’t even look at him as she commands it, already busy arranging strawberries like she’s on a cooking show. Minjae hums in agreement, too focused on folding another piece of paper. And just like that, Riki finds himself cornered—dominated in his own home by the two of them. It’s not like he could stop them anyway. He sighs as he watches them take over, shaking his head at the mess of cream and crumbs.
“Don’t shake your head, lil mistake. Go put the decorations on.” Junhee shoots him a glare sharp enough to shut him up, and Riki sighs again, resigned, moving to string up the letters on the wall. Beside them, Minjae carefully places an origami butterfly he had made—folds crisp, delicate wings catching the light. He really is annoyingly good at it.
“I just hope she likes this,” Riki mutters under his breath, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His chest feels heavier than it should, weighed down by the thought that maybe—just maybe—he trusted the wrong people with something this important.
Meanwhile, you’ve curled up in your room, sleep stealing you before you can fight it off. When you open your eyes, Riki is there, leaning over you, glowing faintly in the dim light. Your breath stutters. He looks too close, too warm, too real.
You gulp, frozen, until his lips brush yours. It’s soft—hesitant at first—but when you kiss him back, it deepens. Your lips move together like you’ve been waiting for this without knowing it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer—Until your knee knocks painfully into the edge of your table. You jolt awake, realizing you’d been twisted up in an awkward position the whole time. Just a dream. A dream about him.
You drag a hand down your face, cheeks burning even though no one’s here to see. And when your eyes flicker to the calendar on the wall, your stomach twists. It’s your birthday. Seventeen. The number looks big and small all at once. You wait for the smile to come but… it doesn’t. The thought of celebrating feels hollow. Still, you force a smile onto your face, the kind you’ve practiced too many times, and head downstairs. Maybe—just maybe—someone will say it. A simple happy birthday.
But your parents walk past you without even glancing your way, too wrapped up in themselves to notice. Your brother frowns at you, confused, like you’re acting strange for no reason. The forced smile cracks. “Do you… really not know that it’s my birthday?” you ask him quietly, your voice trembling despite how hard you try to keep it steady. You think about the cake you made for him three months ago, the balloons you blew, the way you remembered every small detail.
His brows knit together. “It’s your birthday?” The confusion on his face makes it clear—he has no idea. None at all. Something inside you deflates. You bite down hard, forcing out a shaky laugh. “Oh? Of course not. I was joking. It’s tomorrow.” And he believes it instantly. No questions. No second look. Your mother doesn’t even glance up, doesn’t even care to ask what you’re talking about.
The tears come before you can stop them. You wipe one away quickly, angry at yourself for letting it fall at all, and walk straight out the door. The air outside is sharp, cool, and it stings a little more than it should. Maybe no one else will remember. Maybe no one will care. You shove your hands into your pockets and head down the street, deciding that if no one else will make today feel like your birthday, then you’ll do it yourself. You’ll buy a small pastry, something sweet enough to trick your heart into thinking today matters.
But before you can even step inside the bakery, your phone buzzes in your pocket. “Hey…umm... Riki… he’s unconscious, just come here, please.” The panic in her voice sends your heart plummeting. Without a second thought, you’re out the door, phone clutched in your hand. The air still carries that damp sweetness after rain, brushing against your hair as you sprint down the street toward his house.
Unconscious? What happened? Your chest aches with worry as you push his front door open. It’s quiet—too quiet. His parents never come home on weekdays, so you don’t stop to question it. You head straight for his room, only to find it swallowed in darkness. Fumbling for the light switch, you hear the faint clatter of utensils somewhere inside. Relief sparks for a moment as you call out softly, “Junhee? Minjae?”
But before you can take another step, an arm slides around you, hand covering your mouth. You gasp, eyes widening, until you’re gently pulled down to the floor and pinned. When your gaze adjusts, you see him. “Riki?” Your voice trembles. “She said you were unconscious—”
Instead of answering, he just holds you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder as if he’s afraid to let go.
You squirm, cheeks heating. “Oh, please. Can you not? You already stole my first kiss.” The words slip out sharper than you intend, but your heart is hammering too fast to take them back. He lifts his head, eyes catching yours in the dark. “And? That was my first kiss too.” His voice is low, steady. “And I’d do it again. Every chance I get.”
You freeze, breath stuck in your throat. “Then… do it.” The challenge falls from your lips before you can stop it. And he does. His mouth presses against yours in an instant, warm and desperate, and the world tilts. You gasp into the kiss but your hands betray you, clutching his shirt as if you’d been waiting for this. Your lips move with his, and the ache of missing him pours into every stolen second. It doesn’t feel like payback. It feels like coming home.
“W-what—” Junhee’s voice cracked as she and Minjae flicked on the lights, both frozen in place. They were holding a cake, wide-eyed as they took in the sight of you and Riki kissing on the floor.
You caught them staring and instantly pushed Riki off, scrambling to your feet. “W-what’s all this?” you blurted, hoping your confusion would steer the attention away from what they’d just witnessed.
Junhee blinked, still processing. “Uh… your birthday, but—”
“Oh my god,” you cut in quickly, forcing a laugh as you gave her a sheepish smile. “You guys are way too good.” Your tone was light, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. Junhee looked like she wanted answers, but she let it go—for now.
“Happy birthday, birthday girl,” Minjae said, stepping forward. He held out a small box, awkward but genuine. Inside was a handwritten card, his neat but slightly shaky handwriting filling the page. It wasn’t expensive, but somehow, it felt warmer than any polished, pricey gift you’d ever gotten from your family. Junhee finally set the cake down with a sigh. “Happy birthday. But seriously—” her eyes cut toward Riki, “if I find out he hurts you, I won’t let him get away with it.”
“You sound like a jealous boyfriend,” Riki muttered, smirking as he wiped his lips.
“Shut up,” Junhee shot back, rolling her eyes. The two of them bickered, and you couldn’t stop laughing—even through the tears that were threatening to spill. Because in that moment, standing there with them, you realized: your friends felt more like family than your real family ever had.
You giggled as you blew out the candle. “My girl’s growing up so fast,” Junhee murmured, hugging you from the side. She didn’t need to say it out loud, but you knew she had figured out the truth about your messy home life. Junhee was smart that way.
⪩⪨
From that day on, something shifted in you. You studied harder, cut back on phone calls with Junhee, barely played around with Riki. It was like you had transformed, throwing yourself into finals with everything you had. And still—Riki surprised you. You thought he’d avoid the subject of that kiss, but instead, he asked you out on your birthday night. You said yes, even though fear gnawed at you—the fear of ruining the friendship you cherished so much.
At home, your parents seemed to notice your effort. They stopped criticizing as much. Your mom even started leaving sliced apples on your desk when you were in the shower. She didn’t say anything, but those small gestures spoke louder than her words ever had.
The dinner table was different too. No more constant comparisons. Instead, your mom brought up random moments—like how you’d won a gold medal in relay back in third grade. You didn’t really care anymore, but deep down, that younger version of you—the little girl who just wanted to be seen—was giggling and kicking her feet at finally hearing the words.
Still, the thought haunted you. If they could compliment me now, why couldn’t they do it back then? Why didn’t they tell that little girl she was enough? You remembered too well—the night your dad shoved your medal aside because it wasn’t academic. You’d cried into your pillow, believing you weren’t worthy of their pride. If you could, you’d hug that child so tightly, shielding her from the ache she was never supposed to bear.
One evening, it spilled over.
“Why are you doing this?” you asked at dinner, voice trembling. “Why now—when I’m finally trying to heal? Don’t do that to me. Just… don’t.”
Your mom blinked at you. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t praise me for my past,” you snapped, pushing your empty plate away. “Every time, Jiho was the one in the spotlight. I was five when it started, and nobody even noticed. Don’t you regret it? Don’t you feel anything about it?” The silence was unbearable. She had no answer, and that stung worse than anything. You shoved back your chair and stormed off to your room.
Your dad and mom exchanged helpless looks at the table, regret written all over their faces. But regret couldn’t rewrite the years you had craved their love. Regret wasn’t going to give you back the childhood you’d been denied.
⪩⪨
“Is this pretty?” you asked Junhee as the two of you waited outside the restaurant. You tugged slightly at the blue ruffle top and tugged at your baggy jeans—the outfit was her choice, after all.
Junhee just grinned, giving a quick nod. “Pretty as hell,” she muttered, and you laughed at her bluntness.
“Look,” you whispered, pointing subtly, “they’re here.” Riki and Minjae walked toward you both, and your stomach did a little flip. You glanced at Junhee, who looked completely unfazed. Somehow, she didn’t even seem the slightest bit nervous. “Why aren’t you nervous? I mean, I’m not the only one dating here, you know,” you murmured.
Junhee leaned closer, whispering in your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Actually… I’m just zoning out.”
You burst out laughing. “Geez, girl.”
By the time Riki and Minjae reached you, you couldn’t help but notice how normal and relaxed they both acted. The two of them had started dating not long ago—what began as a silly bet had somehow turned into actual love—and it showed in their easy, natural banter.
You had wanted to walk in with Riki, hand in hand, but the way Junhee gently grabbed your hand told you instantly: maybe a double date wasn’t such a great idea. “So, what are you ordering?” Junhee asked, nudging you as you scanned the menu. She sat beside you while Riki sat across, Minjae mirroring him. Both guys seemed focused on their menus, though Riki’s gaze occasionally flicked up, sneaking glances at you.
You could feel his eyes on you even as you checked your purse to see how much you could spend. “I guess… whatever you guys want is fine,” you finally said, trying to sound casual, though your heart was hammering.
Riki noticed you glance up and down the menu, the slight hesitation in your movements. He caught the way your fingers fiddled with the edge of your top before settling on a dish. “You sure? You’re looking like you’re about to solve a math problem instead of pick dinner,” he teased softly, leaning back in his chair.
“So, I’ll be having carbonara,” you finally say, passing your menu to Riki. You feel your hands fidget as you glance at your purse, already calculating if this was within budget.
Minjae follows with a grin, “Then I’ll have the steak.” He’s tight on money too, but today he wants to splurge just a little.
“I’ll have salmon and risotto,” Junhee announces casually, swiping her credit card like it’s nothing. She watched a K-drama last week with that exact meal and insisted it looked aesthetic enough to deserve ordering. You can’t help but roll your eyes a little, but also admire her confidence.
“I’ll take a seafood platter,” Riki says without hesitation, barely glancing at the menu. Your heart tugs a little—this was going to cost a fortune, wasn’t it? You start scanning your purse again, mentally figuring out if you could chip in.
The waiter scribbles down the orders. “Sure, will be in a minute,” he mutters.
Riki notices your nervous glances, your hands hovering over the menu as if you’re still calculating costs. He doesn’t say anything, but the faintest corner of his lips curl up. He’s got this covered, he thinks. He bought enough to cover yours too, not wanting you to stress.
When the food arrives, your carbonara looks… fine, but honestly, it doesn’t smell appealing. You stare at it, suddenly wishing you had picked the seafood platter instead.
Junhee, meanwhile, isn’t touching her food. “Let me take pictures first—this looks so aesthetic,” she says, snapping photos of everyone’s plates. Minjae and Riki exchange a look of mild irritation, clearly impatient but letting her have her moment.
“Are you done?” Riki asks quietly, voice low, eyes flicking between his plate and yours. His stomach growls slightly, though he masks it well. Minjae’s stomach audibly growls as well.
Junhee finally nods, engrossed in posting the photos online. Meanwhile, you stare down at your carbonara with a pout. The smell is too much. You just want something edible. Riki leans over, fork in hand. “Here,” he says softly, cutting a small portion of your pasta and twirling it for you. He brings it closer to your lips. You shake your head, recoiling from the smell.
He frowns, tilting his fork slightly to taste it himself. His eyes light up. “Hmm… not bad,” he mutters, swapping plates silently. He gives you his seafood platter and takes your carbonara. Your eyes widen. “You… you didn’t have to.” Riki shrugs casually, though his lips twitch upward in amusement. “I want you to enjoy your meal. Simple as that.” Your face brightens, cheeks flushing lightly at the small gesture. You dig into the seafood, instantly loving it.
Minjae, meanwhile, is struggling with the steak. “Which fork do I even—ugh, forget it,” he mutters, stabbing it with one he thinks is right. He bites down and his eyes widen. “Okay… wow. Yeah, this is worth it,” he says, a little too loudly, making Junhee roll her eyes.
You try peeling a shrimp from your platter but fumble awkwardly. Riki notices and silently slides your plate closer to him, deftly peeling the shrimp with careful fingers. You freeze, cheeks heating instantly. “You’re… you’re too good at this,” you whisper, trying not to sound flustered, though your voice betrays you.
Riki smirks lightly, handing you the shrimp once it’s peeled. “I like seeing you happy,” he says softly, almost under his breath. Junhee, still glued to her phone, nudges your arm lightly. “You’re turning into a tomato,” she whispers, grinning knowingly.
You bury your face slightly in your hands, heart racing, as Riki leans back, watching you with that faint, soft smile only you ever seem to notice. “He’s feeding you like you’re both married,” Junhee teases, eyes sparkling with amusement.
You freeze for a second as Riki gently brings a peeled shrimp to your lips. You gulp, heart fluttering, and open your mouth. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist—you’re just two people caught in your own little world. Junhee and Minjae are talking somewhere off to the side, but you can’t even focus on what they’re saying.
He cracks open a crab leg for you with ease and hands your plate back, wiping his fingers on a tissue before picking up the carbonara. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters under his breath, watching you chew the shrimp he peeled.
Junhee and Minjae, distracted from their conversation, burst out laughing at the exchange. “Look at Riki though! He actually knows how to treat his girlfriend right,” Junhee points out. You and Riki share a soft laugh, glancing at each other. Meanwhile, Minjae fusses over his steak, theatrically cutting a piece and feeding Junhee.
“Here you go, my fussy princess,” Minjae says, grinning as Junhee playfully smacks him on the head. She fusses over him, adjusting his napkin like a tired mother, and all of you laugh, even as she looks completely confused by your amusement.
You dip another shrimp in the sauce and devour it, watching Riki slurp down the carbonara. You had judged his choice earlier, but honestly, seeing him enjoy it—and seeing him care enough to switch plates—makes you grateful beyond words. Some sauce smudges your lips, and Riki reaches over with a tissue, gently dabbing it away. Junhee and Minjae break into dramatic gasps, and you’re frozen, dumbfounded but secretly thrilled. You pick up a fork and feed him a piece of shrimp in return, laughing softly.
“Can you two not do that in PUBLIC?” Junhee gasps, a hand over her mouth. Minjae nods, as if he hasn’t just let Junhee feed him from her own fork.
“You should be the last person to point that out, Jun,” Riki teases, rolling his eyes but smiling softly at you.
Almost done with the meal, everyone’s satisfied but still craving something sweet. Junhee pipes up, “How about we share dessert? That way, we spend less.”
You glance at Riki. “Do you want dessert?” you ask quietly. He squeezes your hand across the table. “Yeah… let’s do it.” You smile back, a little heart swelling at the gesture.
“I’ll only share dessert with Junhee,” Minjae adds, winking. You pout playfully, but Riki gently intertwines his fingers with yours and whispers, “Okay, then we’ll share another dessert—just us.”
Soon the waiter brings the desserts: chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream for you and Riki, and strawberry shortcake for Junhee and Minjae. Your eyes widen at the chocolate cake, molten and soft, and the ice cream looks perfect. You go straight for the ice cream while Riki lunges for the lava cake, and your spoons clatter against each other. You giggle.
“Guess you’re stealing my part,” he says, eyes glinting with playful mischief as he watches you savor the ice cream. He scoops the gooey center and pretends to complain while feeding it to you. You devour it happily, cheeks flushed with delight.
Minjae plucks the strawberry off Junhee’s shortcake and pops it into her mouth before she can protest. “I thought you were gonna eat that!” she mutters, laughing. He bites his cake, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide. “Totally worth it,” he says, grinning. Junhee retaliates, playfully shoving a large piece of cake toward him. Minjae opens his mouth to catch it and almost chokes, causing you and Riki to burst out laughing.
“You already took my heart, now you’re trying to kill me?” he gasps dramatically, wiping cake crumbs from his lips.
“I didn’t know it would end like this, I swear,” she says, laughing as the four of you dissolve into happy chaos.
When the check comes, you reach for your wallet, but Riki shakes his head, pulling it from you. “How about you just treat me on future dates? For now, let me do this.” You can’t help but smile, heart swelling. He’s always been sweet, but moments like this make it impossible not to feel… full, in a way words can’t describe.
As you step out of the restaurant, you hug Junhee and Minjae goodbye, the air filled with that soft, unspoken warmth that comes with a perfect evening. Riki stays close, hands brushing yours occasionally, and for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at ease. Safe. Happy. And maybe, just maybe, exactly where you’re supposed to be.
You walk beside Riki, the evening calm and the streets quiet, lined with orange-glowing streetlights. The air smells faintly of rain that had passed earlier, carrying that clean, fresh scent you both liked. Normally, you’d be chatting, teasing him, but tonight, you’re unusually quiet, lost in your thoughts. The double date had been perfect, yet your mind keeps drifting to finals and the looming uncertainties of the future.
Riki seems to notice without saying anything. His hand brushes against yours, and before you can react, he gently intertwines his fingers with yours. The simple gesture alone makes your chest feel lighter, like he’s silently telling you he’s there.
Finally, you give in to the pull of your worries. “What if I don’t get into a good college? What if I end up… stuck, while everyone else moves forward?” Your voice is low, almost lost to the quiet night, but Riki tightens his grip just slightly, letting you know he’s listening. He glances at you, holding your hand firmly, observing you the way he always has since childhood—calm, patient, and unwavering.
You keep talking without thinking, words tumbling out. “My grades… they’re not as good as Junhee’s. And my parents… they’ll just compare me to you again. I don’t know if I can handle more of that.” Your voice cracks, trembling with vulnerability, and Riki stops walking immediately. His stillness makes you pause too, the weight of the night pressing down.
“You don’t have to be like me. Or Junhee. Or anyone,” he says, voice steady, calm, and entirely sincere. You know he means it because he always does, the certainty in him making your chest ache. He reaches out, tugging your sleeve lightly so you turn to face him. “You’ll get where you’re supposed to go. And if it’s not where you thought, I’ll still be there. Cheering for you.”
Something inside you loosens, and you hug him immediately, burying your face in his chest. You don’t cry—just hold him like you’ve wanted to do ever since dinner at the restaurant, silently leaning into him as though his presence alone could shield you from everything else. “You make it sound so easy,” you mutter, voice muffled against his shirt.
He smirks faintly. “That’s because you make everything too hard,” he teases softly, then his voice drops a notch, gentler now: “But I’d rather you rant to me a hundred times than keep it all inside.” His hand moves almost awkwardly, palm against your back, a subtle, practiced motion that reminds you of all the little ways he’s comforted you since childhood. Somehow, even now, it feels completely right. You hesitate for just a moment, but then hug him back, the quiet intimacy of the gesture grounding you both. It’s your first truly public, tender moment together, without teasing or banter.
He squeezes you lightly, firm and reassuring. “Besides… no college, no grades, no parents… none of that decides if you’re worth something.”
You look up at him, streetlight catching the side of his face, and it hits you—really hits you—how much he means it. How much he means to you.
The moment stretches between you, heavier than usual, wrapped in the quiet night, a soft foreshadowing that everything will change after finals—but for now, you’re here. Together. Safe. And somehow, that’s enough.
⪩⪨
After the final exams ended, you couldn’t help but stand outside the results board a few days later, heart hammering in your chest. The crowd around the board was bigger than expected, people jostling and whispering, and you immediately frowned—crowds had never been your thing. Still, curiosity got the better of you. Before you could inch closer to see your marks, a familiar voice called out. “Hey! Over here!”
You turned to see Riki waving, phone in hand. He sprinted toward you, breathless, a wide grin on his face, and without a second thought, wrapped you in a tight hug. The warmth of him enveloped you instantly. “Did you… top?” you asked quietly, almost forgetting your own results in the excitement of his presence.
“No… but,” he pulled back just enough to grin at you, eyes shining. “You passed with flying colors!”
You blinked, confused. “You’re serious?”
He held out his phone, showing the picture he had taken of the results board. Zooming in, you squinted at your own name, seeing the marks clearly. Your heart skipped—was that really you? Capable enough to pass with marks you had never imagined for yourself? “Your hard work paid off,” Riki murmured, pulling you into another hug. His grip was firm, protective, and you hugged back, smiling through the relief that this chapter of stress was finally closing.
Just then, Junhee’s teasing voice broke through. “What did you get, stupid?”
You pulled away and saw the two of them playfully fighting. You looked at Riki and couldn’t help but smile—he returned the grin effortlessly. At least their relationship was blossoming just like yours.
“I’m your boyfriend, stop calling me stupid,” Minjae muttered, a mock glare in his tone.
“You’ll always be my stupid,” Junhee shot back, before running off as Minjae chased her, giggling and scooping her up. You pulled out your phone, quickly snapping a picture to tease them later.
“They’re cute,” you murmured softly, still watching the chaos. Riki leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “And so are we,” he whispered.
“Oh, shut up. We’re the cool couple,” you replied, smirking. But his fingers found your sides, tickling you mercilessly. You glared, laughing, and he just gave you that cheeky grin—the one that made it impossible to stay mad.
⪩⪨
When his birthday came at the end of the year, you were already packing for college. Both of you had secured places in colleges in different cities, but you wanted to make sure his birthday was special. You stepped into his mostly empty old house, cake in hand, and called out. “Riki!”
He appeared at his bedroom door, eyes widening at the sheer size of the cake. “For whom?” he teased instantly.
“For my boyfriend, so don’t even dare eye it,” you replied with a laugh, setting the cake carefully on his empty desk.
“Oh? Then? You shouldn’t step into a strange guy’s room,” he countered, moving swiftly to playfully grip your waist and pin you to the bed.
You gasped at the sudden energy, eyes wide, cheeks flushing. “What? You should expect that, especially when you come into someone’s room without checking if it’s your boyfriend,” he said, but his lips were already brushing the corner of your mouth.
He whispered, “Look at me,” before pressing a proper kiss to your lips, deep and lingering. Your hands were free now as his hand roamed under your shirt, grazing the edge of your bra. You pushed him gently but firmly, voice trembling, “Not now! We said we’d wait.” He pouted, muttering, “I forgot. But sure.” Though you knew, even as he said it, he was reluctantly respecting the rule you’d set.
“Happy birthday, Riki! Happy turning 18. Now you’re dating a minor,” you teased, smirking despite your flushed cheeks. He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh right? A minor that’s gonna turn 18 in a month or so,” he muttered, but when you hugged him immediately afterward, all trace of his annoyance melted away.
“I’m just so happy we didn’t stop talking back then,” you whispered, pressing close.
“I know. I love you,” he replied softly, placing a kiss on your forehead before pulling you onto the bed with him, curling around you in a warm embrace. Cake could wait—this moment, this closeness, was more important.
“Please don’t fall in love with another guy over there,” Riki mutters softly, burying his face in your shoulder as he hugs you tight. His voice is light, joking, but the slight tremor in it betrays the insecurities he can’t quite hide. “I know I’m not great at reading minds, but I can read your heart just fine.”
You chuckle, cupping his face gently. “Of course I won’t, dummy. Even if someone gave me gold, I’d still pick my trash over everything.”
“Wait—are you calling me trash?” His pout is playful, but you can see the faint glimmer of worry in his eyes.
“Of course not,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re the diamond.”
He doesn’t let go. He just hugs you tighter, as if holding on would make the distance easier to bear. You return the embrace, feeling the same pang of longing yourself. “Don’t worry,” you murmur. “We’ll still meet during holidays.”
“As if that’s supposed to make me happy,” he mutters, tightening his hold. “I’m used to being by your side every day.” You hug him back just as tightly, heart aching in a mix of love and fear. Soon, the warmth and the exhaustion of the day carry you both into sleep.
“I love you,” he whispers sleepily, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. “I love you too,” you mumble, your words garbled in sleep. He smiles, even half-asleep, pulling you closer and letting your head rest on his chest.
The birthday cake still sits on his desk, untouched—a quiet reminder of celebrations waiting to happen, just like your life, ready to begin.
⪩⪨
The four of you hardly got time to talk these days, and when you did, it was chaotic—full of background noise, dropped calls, and everyone talking at once. But Riki? He called you every single morning and night. Sometimes he even begged to keep the video on while he fell asleep. He just wanted to see your face, to have you there even if you weren’t physically in the room. And secretly—you had no idea—he kept your photo frame on his bedside table, just to stare at when he couldn’t sleep.
“I don’t have charging, Riki,” you mumbled one night, almost apologetic, as he whined at you to stay on the call. You were sharing a room with a classmate who was already dead asleep, leaving you alone with him on the screen.
Hesitantly, you plugged in your power bank, and there he was—gripping his pillow to his chest, eyes soft and a little sleepy, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world. Watching him like that, it hit you how much he just… needed to see you, and how much you’d come to need him, too. He joked that it cured his insomnia, but honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.
You didn’t know if you liked having him more as your best friend or your boyfriend. And maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Because one thing was clear: Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who sticks around, who actually cares.
And for you, that was Riki, Junhee, and Minjae—your little chaotic, loving, ridiculous family. People you chose, people who chose you back, people who’d stay even when the rest of the world didn’t. They were your home, and no matter what, you’d carry them in your heart forever—even if the world forgot.
And in that moment, seeing Riki’s sleepy little smile through the screen, it felt like everything was going to be okay. After all this was the family that mattered.
pairing: gamer!yeonjun x gamer!reader, non idol au
genre: slowburn romance, friends to lovers, gaming AU, light humor
summary: in which two competitive gamers don’t realize they’ve been falling for each other both online and in real life while constantly driving each other absolutely insane.
w/c: 12.1k
warnings!!!: they’re stupid and oblivious to each other’s feelings, lots of playful bickering, occasional petty arguments, minor misunderstandings, gaming rage moments.
a/n: this one took a while for literally no reason, but an author i love liked my last post so i had motivation to hurry this up
i completely restarted this fic halfway through so i made it more of a short one to keep my sanity, not my personal fav
The group chat was already blowing up by the time I got home from work. Beomgyu was spamming GIFs of a raccoon holding bread, which usually meant one of two things: either he’d found a new meme to obsess over, or he was trying to bait people into asking what we were doing tonight.
Beomgyu: ok so listen up losers
Beomgyu: my place. 7pm. snacks provided if you don’t mind me eating 70% of them
Beomgyu: also someone new is coming. don’t be weird.
I read that last part twice. Someone new. Which meant the usual line-up—Beomgyu, Taehyun, Soobin, maybe Hueningkai if he didn’t bail to play something online—was about to be thrown off balance.
I tossed my bag on the couch and replied:
Me: define “someone new”
Beomgyu: you’ll see 😏
That stupid smirking emoji was all I got.
By the time I got to Beomgyu’s place later, the front door was already open, a faint thrum of music and chatter drifting out. His apartment always smelled faintly like kettle corn, probably because he actually ate it for dinner more often than was socially acceptable.
I stepped inside and found him sprawled across the couch like he owned it—because, well, he did—feet propped on the coffee table, hair a little too perfect for someone who claimed to “just wake up like this.”
“You’re late,” he said, grinning like a cat who’d caught something.
“I’m literally on time.”
“Yeah, but everyone else is early, so in my mind, you’re late.”
I rolled my eyes and glanced toward the kitchen. Taehyun was there, looking like he’d been recruited into snack duty against his will, slicing fruit with unnecessary precision. Soobin was already flipping through Beomgyu’s game stack like he was curating a museum exhibit.
And then—there he was. The new guy.
Leaning casually against the counter, he had that kind of presence you notice before you even realize you’re noticing. Dark hair pushed back like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, the easy posture of someone who didn’t feel the need to fill silences. His smile came quick when Soobin said something, but the moment his gaze flicked over to me, it shifted—less warm, more assessing.
Beomgyu noticed the way I froze and pounced. “Oh, right. This is Yeonjun. He’s… new.”
“Wow, great intro,” Yeonjun said dryly, pushing off the counter to offer a lazy little wave. “Nice to meet you…?”
I gave him my name, and he repeated it slowly like he was trying it on for size. There was something faintly mocking about it—not enough to call him out on, but enough to make me narrow my eyes a fraction.
“You two are going to get along great,” Beomgyu announced, which was apparently the universe’s way of cursing me.
It started small—the sarcasm.
During charades, I mimed a bow and arrow, aiming directly at Taehyun, and Yeonjun guessed, “Mediocre aim?” with a straight face.
When we argued over which game to put on next, he leaned over the couch just enough to say, “Do you always pick the boring option, or is tonight special?”
And when I finally snapped back with, “Do you always talk this much, or is it just to hear yourself?” he actually laughed—like I’d just told him a good joke instead of an insult.
Worse, everyone else seemed charmed by him. Soobin kept chuckling at his comments, Beomgyu was egging him on, and even Taehyun smirked once or twice. It was like I was the only one immune—or maybe the only one allergic.
By the end of the night, I’d decided two things:
Yeonjun was the human equivalent of clicking the wrong button in a menu and ending up somewhere you didn’t want to be.
I could absolutely never be friends with him.
But even as I left, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye—leaning in to tell Beomgyu something, grinning like he knew exactly what I’d been thinking all night.
Which, obviously, he didn’t.
…Right?
I wasn’t expecting to run into him again so soon.
It had only been a week since Beomgyu’s place—since I’d met Yeonjun and firmly placed him in the mental folder labeled People I Can Tolerate in Group Settings Only. That folder had a strict rule: no contact outside of group events.
But fate clearly had other plans.
It was Friday night, and Beomgyu had rallied a last-minute dinner at a small Korean place down the street. I’d shown up assuming it would be the usual crew, maybe a couple of extras. Instead, the moment I stepped inside, my eyes landed on him.
Yeonjun was already seated at the far end of the table, leaned back in his chair like he owned it, chatting with Soobin. He looked up just in time to catch my hesitation at the door, and the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth.
“Wow, twice in one week,” he said as I slid into the empty chair across from him. “Starting to think you’re following me.”
“Trust me,” I replied, reaching for the menu, “if I were following you, I’d be making worse life choices than I already am.”
Beomgyu choked on his water. Soobin just shook his head with a grin.
It should have ended there—quick jab, mutual eye-roll—but Yeonjun had that look. The one that said he was already gearing up for round two.
Over the course of dinner, he found ways to comment on everything—my food choices (“That’s the least exciting thing on the menu”), the way I held my chopsticks (“Functional, but boring”), even the fact that I ordered sparkling water instead of soda (“Pretentious and fancy, impressive combo”).
I matched him hit for hit, of course. It became a kind of unspoken challenge—how far could we push before the others told us to shut up?
Apparently, very far.
That night, after coming home and kicking off my shoes, I did what I always did to unwind: logged onto my PC.
The familiar glow of my dual monitors lit up the room. I checked my friends list—there it was, the little green dot next to yawnzzn.
Me: you on for ranked or are you gonna chicken out again?
yawnzzn: bold of you to assume i’d play with someone who throws every other match
Me: ONE bad game and suddenly i’m a liability??
yawnzzn: that’s not sudden. that’s statistical accuracy.
I laughed—actually laughed out loud. No one else could get away with that kind of trash talk.
We queued into a match, settling into the rhythm we’d built over months. He’d cover angles without needing to be asked, toss out callouts in that laid-back tone that somehow still made me listen. I’d back him up without hesitation, even when the smarter play was to bail.
It wasn’t just skill—it was trust.
Between rounds, we drifted into the usual venting.
“So there’s this guy,” I started, fingers flying over the buy menu.
There was a pause before he asked, “So why not just ignore him?”
I snorted. “Because he’s in my friend group now. Can’t exactly pretend he doesn’t exist.”
“Huh,” he said, drawing the word out. “I’ve got someone like that too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Always has a comeback for everything. I swear, they live to argue with me.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
Another pause. “Or maybe the highlight of my week. Hard to tell.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just focused on the next round.
By the time we logged off, it was past midnight. I sat there for a moment, headset still warm against my ears, thinking about how strange it was—how easy it was to talk to yawnzzn online, how exhausting it was to talk to Yeonjun in person.
Two completely different people.
And I was perfectly fine keeping it that way.
If there was one thing I’d learned in the past month, it was this: Yeonjun turned everything into a competition.
It didn’t matter if it was a video game, a board game, or seeing who could drink their bubble tea fastest—he needed to win. And if he didn’t, he needed an excuse.
Which is how I ended up watching him sulk in a café because Beomgyu had beaten him to the corner booth.
The group had decided to meet up after work for “coffee and vibes,” which translated to an excuse for Beomgyu to get caffeine at 8 p.m. and for the rest of us to people-watch from the window seats.
I got there just in time to see Yeonjun stand in the middle of the café, eyeing the booth like it was a finish line, only for Beomgyu to slide into it with a smug grin.
“Unfair advantage,” Yeonjun muttered as I walked past.
“What, being faster?” I said, settling into the seat opposite Beomgyu.
“Being willing to commit to an undignified sprint,” he shot back, dropping into the chair beside me. “I could’ve won if I wanted to look ridiculous.”
“You already do,” I said, and Beomgyu nearly spat out his drink.
From there, the afternoon devolved into our usual brand of chaos. Soobin tried to teach Hueningkai how to fold paper cranes, which resulted in a mangled origami zoo. Beomgyu argued with the barista about whether oat milk was “a scam” while sipping his oat milk latte.
Yeonjun, naturally, challenged me to a latte art contest.
“You don’t even work here,” I pointed out as he grabbed the milk frother.
“Details,” he said, already pouring.
Five minutes later, we were presenting our drinks to Soobin for judgment. Mine looked vaguely like a heart. His… might’ve been a cat? Or a cloud?
“Mine’s obviously better,” he declared before Soobin could even speak.
“It’s objectively not.”
“Subjectivity is what makes art beautiful.”
I groaned. “You’ll argue about anything, won’t you?”
He grinned like I’d given him a compliment.
That night, after a full day of coffee-fueled banter, I logged on to find yawnzzn already in voice chat.
yawnzzn: was about to play solo. you saved me from that misery.
Me: you’re welcome. now invite me before i change my mind.
We queued up, falling into the easy pattern we always did. He sent me a ridiculous meme mid-match—a picture of a cat in a hoodie with the caption “ready to commit crimes.” I countered with a late-night playlist link I’d been curating for weeks.
yawnzzn: why is this playlist actually good?? i was ready to roast you.
Me: because i have taste. unlike you.
yawnzzn: says the person who picked that cursed weapon skin last week.
The banter was familiar, comfortable in a way my in-person arguments with Yeonjun never were. Online, the back-and-forth felt like a shared joke. In person, it felt like a tug-of-war neither of us was willing to drop.
By the time we wrapped up our matches, it was close to 2 a.m., and I was smiling at my screen like an idiot.
If I’d been paying closer attention, maybe I would’ve noticed the overlap—the way Yeonjun always had to win at everything, the way yawnzzn teased me in that same confident, cocky rhythm.
But I didn’t.
Not yet.
Beomgyu had texted the group chat at 10 a.m. with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for holidays and free pizza.
Beomgyu: GAME NIGHT AT MINE. mandatory attendance.
Beomgyu: losers bring snacks.
Soobin: define “losers”
Beomgyu: you’ll know when you are one.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the “mandatory” part, but the promise of snacks—and the knowledge that Beomgyu’s version of “mandatory” usually involved dramatic follow-up texts until you caved—was enough to get me there.
By the time I arrived, his apartment looked like someone had raided a board game café. Stacks of games were piled on the coffee table, card decks splayed out like crime scene evidence.
Yeonjun was there, of course, sprawled on the floor like he owned the place, sorting through a box of trivia cards.
“Finally,” he said without looking up. “We can start now that the competition has arrived.”
I raised a brow. “You’re assuming I’m competition?”
“Bold, isn’t it?” he said with a grin.
Beomgyu, acting as self-appointed referee, announced that we’d be playing in teams. Naturally, he paired me and Yeonjun on opposite sides.
Round one: Pictionary. He drew something that vaguely resembled a dinosaur, and his team guessed it instantly. When it was my turn, I went for “airplane,” but Yeonjun kept shouting “banana” just to throw my team off.
Round two: trivia. He nailed a question about obscure 80s music just to gloat. I scored on a question about geography, and he loudly insisted it was “a fluke.”
Round three: Jenga. The air was tense enough to cut with a butter knife.
He went for a risky middle block, wiggling it free with all the care of a bomb defusal. I took the next turn and deliberately picked a block near the top—unstable, but doable. He immediately accused me of “cowardly” play.
“It’s called strategy,” I shot back.
“It’s called boring,” he countered, leaning forward so we were practically nose-to-nose over the Jenga tower.
The game inevitably ended with Beomgyu bumping the table “accidentally” and sending the blocks crashing. Yeonjun declared victory anyway.
Hours later, after the chaos wound down, I went home with the lingering adrenaline of competition still buzzing in my veins.
Logging onto my PC felt almost like muscle memory at that point.
Me: you on?
yawnzzn: always. queue?
We jumped into a ranked match, but it went south fast—one bad push, two unlucky picks, and suddenly we were staring at the defeat screen.
Me: ugh. i’m trash tonight
yawnzzn: nah. your team’s trash. you’re fine.
Me: i was the team.
yawnzzn: exactly why i’m saying it wasn’t your fault.
It wasn’t like him to be so direct. Usually he’d tease me out of a bad mood with sarcastic jokes or ridiculous memes. But this time, the words hit different—like he was, in some weird way, protective.
Me: wow. soft side unlocked.
yawnzzn: don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold.
I grinned at my monitor, suddenly less annoyed about losing.
If I’d been paying attention, I might’ve noticed that the rush I got from bickering with Yeonjun and the warmth I felt talking to yawnzzn weren’t so different after all.
But, again—I wasn’t.
The thing about Yeonjun was that he never shut up.
The man could turn ordering lunch into a verbal sparring match if given the opportunity.
Which is why it threw me completely when, for once, he didn’t make it about himself.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and Beomgyu had roped me into helping him return some camera equipment he’d borrowed for “a project” (read: an overly ambitious vlog idea he’d abandoned halfway through). We’d met at the rental shop downtown, only to discover that Beomgyu had “accidentally” double-booked himself and had to leave early.
“Yeonjun’s nearby,” he said casually, shoving the box into my arms. “He can help you carry this back to the car.”
I blinked. “Why would I—”
But Beomgyu was already gone, sprinting across the street like the devil was chasing him.
A minute later, Yeonjun appeared, hands in his pockets, expression somewhere between amused and reluctant.
“Guess I’m your backup muscle,” he said.
“You don’t exactly scream ‘muscle,’” I replied, shifting the box.
“Wow. You wound me. Here, give me that before you drop it on your foot.”
I hesitated, but he just reached out and took the box from me like it weighed nothing. We walked in silence for a block, which was so uncharacteristic of him I almost checked if he was sick.
Halfway to the car, the strap of my tote bag slipped off my shoulder, and before I could hitch it back up, he’d already caught it and slid it into place.
“You’re going to give yourself a back spasm carrying stuff like that,” he said, almost absently, like it wasn’t worth making a joke out of.
“Thanks… I guess.”
“No problem.”
And that was it. No sarcastic follow-up. No sly smirk. Just—help.
That night, I logged on as usual. yawnzzn was already in the lobby.
Me: let’s just play casual tonight. my brain’s fried.
yawnzzn: long day?
Me: yeah. errands, heavy stuff. shoulders hurt now lol.
yawnzzn: you’re gonna wreck your back if you don’t start letting people help you carry stuff.
I froze for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
It was… uncanny. Almost word-for-word what Yeonjun had said earlier.
Me: what are you, my chiropractor?
yawnzzn: just saying. you should let someone take care of you once in a while.
It left a strange warmth in my chest, the kind that lingered long after we’d logged off.
I told myself it was just a coincidence.
And I believed that.
Mostly.
The first time it happened, I didn’t think much of it.
Yeonjun was halfway through telling a story at Beomgyu’s apartment—something about a failed attempt to assemble a flat-pack shelf—when he wrapped it up with, “Anyway, moral of the story? Never trust anything with more than five screws. That’s how they get you.”
The words barely registered until they did.
Because a week ago, yawnzzn had said exactly that while we were loading into a match.
I could picture it perfectly: me complaining about IKEA furniture mid-queue, him laughing and going, “Never trust anything with more than five screws. That’s how they get you.” Same cadence. Same slight pause before “that’s how they get you.”
For a second, I stared at him like maybe the pixels on my monitor had somehow leaked into real life. But then Beomgyu started laughing, and Yeonjun was grinning at his own story, and I told myself it was nothing. People recycled lines all the time.
Still… weird.
That night, I logged on expecting the usual trash talk.
Me: you ditched me last night
yawnzzn: couldn’t help it. had a group hangout thing.
Me: …what kind of group hangout
yawnzzn: you know. food. people. questionable decisions.
The timing made my fingers pause on the keys.
Because last night was the same night Beomgyu had mentioned Yeonjun couldn’t make it to the usual café run.
Because he’d been “busy.”
I almost typed something—what city do you live in?, maybe, or how many people were there?—but it felt weird to pry. So I let it go.
For now.
The second coincidence happened a few days later, during another group meet-up.
We were at a little bowling alley that smelled faintly of fried food and childhood birthdays. I was up against Yeonjun in the current round, which meant neither of us was taking it seriously—he was trying to distract me by making faces from behind the ball return, and I was deliberately aiming for the bumpers to watch him cringe.
Between turns, Soobin asked something about his week. Yeonjun launched into a mini-rant about a player in one of his games who’d run straight into enemy fire without listening to his callouts.
“Some people,” he said, “should come with a warning label. Like, ‘Cannot be trusted with decision-making.’”
And my stomach did that weird flip again, because just two nights ago, yawnzzn had said the exact same thing about one of our random teammates.
Later that night, we queued up together online, and I couldn’t help myself.
Me: so how often do you hang out with your group?
yawnzzn: depends. sometimes a couple times a week. sometimes not for a while.
Me: do they know you game this much?
yawnzzn: nah. don’t think they’d care tho.
It was vague. Too vague.
But I wasn’t ready to connect the dots.
Not yet.
If there was a thread tying these moments together, it was still loose, still easy to ignore. But it was there, wrapping tighter with every little overlap.
And I had no idea how tangled it was about to get.
It started the second I sat down.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Beomgyu said, leaning back in his chair like he was the host of some daytime talk show.
“She was only five minutes late,” Soobin pointed out.
“Five minutes too long,” Yeonjun added, already smirking. “I was about to send a search party.”
I rolled my eyes and set my drink down, refusing to give them the satisfaction. “Sorry to interrupt your Very Important Discussion About… what even is this?”
“Pizza toppings,” Taehyun said. “Which, apparently, is a war zone.”
“It’s not a war zone,” Beomgyu protested, “it’s just that Yeonjun’s taste buds are wrong.”
Yeonjun gasped, hand to his chest. “You take that back right now.”
By the time I’d even opened my menu, they were all laughing, and I was already regretting coming. Not because I didn’t like them—far from it—but because once the group teasing started, it was like trying to swim upstream in a river made entirely of sarcasm.
The real trouble started when the conversation shifted from toppings to relationships.
“Honestly,” Soobin said, “you two bicker like you’ve been married for ten years.”
I froze. “Who’s ‘you two’?”
“You and Yeonjun,” Beomgyu said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Yeonjun didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“You literally started it!” I said.
“See?” Taehyun grinned. “Married couple energy.”
And that was it—fifteen solid minutes of mock wedding vows, bad nicknames, and Soobin pretending to officiate our “ceremony” using a breadstick as a microphone.
I wanted to be annoyed. I really did. But Yeonjun kept laughing at everything they said, and I hated how easy it was to laugh with him.
Later that night, I queued up with yawnzzn.
Me: you’re late
yawnzzn: only five minutes
Me: five minutes too long
The pause before his reply was almost suspicious.
yawnzzn: wow. already starting with the married couple banter?
I just stared at the screen for a second, because the overlap was so blatant it was almost funny.
Almost.
Me: what is WITH you tonight
yawnzzn: just saying. we fight, we play, we win. sounds pretty domestic to me.
And the thing was… he said it with the exact same rhythm Yeonjun had used earlier at the restaurant.
I didn’t connect the dots. Not out loud. Not even to myself.
But the thread pulled tighter.
And I couldn’t help wondering how many more “coincidences” it would take before it snapped.
The night air was cool enough that my breath clouded slightly in the streetlights. Beomgyu had offered to call me a rideshare, but I’d waved him off. It wasn’t late, and Yeonjun was already walking in my direction.
We fell into step without talking, the sounds of the city filling the gap—traffic, muffled music from a bar across the street, the quiet rhythm of our footsteps.
“Your friends are insane,” I said finally.
He smirked without looking at me. “Takes one to know one.”
I shot him a glare, but it only made his grin widen. It was easier to roll my eyes than to give him the satisfaction of a comeback.
We stopped at a crossing, the red light painting everything in a strange glow.
“You did well tonight,” he said suddenly.
I blinked. “At… what? Surviving a table full of chaos?”
He tilted his head. “Holding your ground.”
It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but there was something in his voice—something almost familiar—that made me pause. I couldn’t place it, but it had the same teasing undertone I’d heard so many times before. Just… somewhere else.
When the light changed, we kept walking, and he slipped his hands into his pockets.
“You know,” he added casually, “you get that same face in game. When you’re about to prove someone wrong.”
I slowed my steps before I could stop myself. “In… game?”
He glanced over like it was nothing. “Board games, card games… whatever.” He shrugged, but there was the tiniest flicker in his eyes before he looked ahead again, like he’d caught himself mid-sentence.
The thing was—he’d said in game exactly the way yawnzzn always did. Same tone. Same timing.
And even though I told myself it was a coincidence, I couldn’t shake the way it sounded lodged in my brain.
When I got home, I logged on without thinking.
Me: you on?
yawnzzn: you survived dinner with the chaos crew then?
I stared at the message. The phrasing wasn’t exact, but it was close enough to make my stomach tighten.
Me: how do you know about that?
yawnzzn: you told me yesterday, remember? you said “pray for me”
I racked my brain. Maybe I had. Maybe I hadn’t. It was easy to lose track of conversations with him—they blurred into each other like threads in the same knot.
Me: right. forgot.
yawnzzn: you were fine though. i could tell.
I didn’t reply for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Because “I could tell” was something Yeonjun had said to me just twenty minutes ago, standing under a red light in the middle of an empty street.
It started the way most bad ideas do—quietly. Not with some grand decision, not with an “I’m going to figure this out” moment, but with a restless itch I couldn’t stop scratching.
By morning, the itch had taken shape: I needed to know.
I told myself it was harmless. Just… curiosity. If I noticed patterns between Yeonjun and yawnzzn, well, that didn’t mean anything. People could have similar humour, similar habits. Coincidences existed.
But coincidences didn’t make your stomach flip when someone used the exact same inflection for the exact same word.
The plan, if you could even call it that, was simple. I wasn’t going to interrogate him. I’d just… tilt conversations in a certain direction and see what slipped through.
Subtle. Low effort. Completely deniable.
And if it felt a little like setting bait, well, nobody needed to know that part.
That afternoon, I found myself sitting across from Yeonjun in the corner of a coffee shop, both of us killing time before Beomgyu was free. He was halfway through telling a story about a mutual friend’s disastrous haircut when I saw an opening.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you ever play games online?”
He didn’t even look up from his drink. “Sure.”
“What kind?” I asked, keeping my tone light, like it was idle conversation.
“Whatever’s fun. Party games, shooters, co-op stuff…” His eyes flicked to mine. “Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.” I leaned back in my chair, sipping slowly.
He went back to his story, but I was barely listening. The way he’d said whatever’s fun was almost identical to something yawnzzn had typed to me just last week.
Relax, I told myself. It’s two words. You’re reaching.
Later, when we were walking toward the bus stop, I tested something smaller.
“So if you win, what’s your victory dance?”
Yeonjun shot me a look like I’d grown an extra head. “My what?”
“You know. Your little routine. Everyone’s got one. Even the quiet players.”
He smirked faintly. “Guess you’ll have to see it to believe it.”
I laughed like it was a joke, but my mind caught on the phrasing—nearly word-for-word what yawnzzn had said when I’d once accused him of being smug in victory.
Back home, I logged on.
Me: do you have a victory dance?
yawnzzn: guess you’ll have to see it to believe it ;)
My fingers stilled on the keyboard.
It wasn’t proof. It wasn’t even suspicious unless you were looking for it. But I was looking.
And now I couldn’t stop.
I told myself it was just a normal day.
Nothing strategic. No plans. No schemes.
If I so happened to notice certain overlaps between Yeonjun and yawnzzn, that was purely coincidental. And if my brain filed them away in neat little mental folders, well—that was just how brains worked. Totally natural. Definitely not suspicious.
We were supposed to meet at the corner store because Yeonjun wanted “movie snacks” even though we hadn’t actually decided on a movie yet. I spotted him loitering outside, hood pulled up and hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to look inconspicuous but failing spectacularly.
“You look like you’re about to ask me if I want to buy a stolen watch,” I said as I walked up.
He smirked. “Only if you’re interested.”
The automatic door whooshed open, letting out that faint cold air smell of cheap air conditioning and too many bags of crisps.
We wandered the aisles, talking about everything and nothing. He had Opinions about popcorn flavours (“Caramel is a betrayal to real popcorn”), and I pretended to defend sweet popcorn just to watch him get riled up.
Every so often, I’d throw out something yawnzzn had said in voice chat—changing the context slightly so it sounded like a random thought—and watch his reaction.
Most of the time, he didn’t flinch. Once, though, I mentioned a very particular phrase—something about “chaos being an art form”—and he laughed in exactly the same timing yawnzzn had.
It was… interesting.
Not proof. But interesting.
When we left the store, the sky had that flat, grey look like it couldn’t decide if it was going to rain or not. We walked without much urgency, our bags bumping against our legs.
“You know,” Yeonjun said suddenly, “if this movie’s bad, it’s your fault.”
“Why mine?” I asked.
“Because you picked it.”
“I didn’t!”
“Well,” he said, grinning sideways at me, “you look like you did.”
Back at my place, we didn’t end up watching the movie straight away. We sprawled on the floor with snacks between us, talking in that lazy, meandering way where the conversation kept looping back to old topics and splintering into new ones.
At some point, he teased me about being terrible at first-person shooters.
“That’s slander,” I said, tossing a pretzel at him.
“It’s not slander if it’s true.”
The part of my brain that was meant to be off-duty wondered how he would know that.
We finally put the movie on, but by then I was more interested in his commentary than the plot. He had that rare ability to make a throwaway observation sound like the funniest thing you’d ever hear.
And maybe—just maybe—the same rhythm in his delivery as someone else I’d spent far too many late nights laughing with.
But like I said… just a normal day.
Almost nothing.
By the time Saturday rolled around, I’d talked myself in and out of ten different theories.
Every coincidence I’d noticed—phrases, habits, timing—felt huge when I replayed them in my head. But the second I said them out loud, even just to myself, they sounded ridiculous.
So I decided not to think about it.
Which, of course, meant I thought about it the entire walk to the station.
Yeonjun turned up fashionably late, as if his life depended on annoying me. He jogged over from across the street, hair flopping, hoodie half-zipped.
“You’re late,” I said, arms folded.
“You’re early,” he shot back, still catching his breath. Then, with a sly grin: “Guess that means you were excited to see me.”
I gave him a flat look. “Excited to reconsider my life choices, maybe.”
“Admit it,” he said, falling into step beside me, “I’m the highlight of your week.”
I snorted. “You’re the highlight of my patience.”
We drifted through the streets without a plan, Yeonjun insisting we “just see where the universe takes us.” Which meant stopping every three minutes because something caught his attention—a music shop, a puppy in the window of a pet store, the smell of fresh bread wafting out of a bakery.
“You can’t keep getting distracted like this,” I said as he doubled back again. “You have the attention span of a—”
“—genius?”
“—goldfish.”
“Goldfish are underrated,” he said seriously, like he’d been waiting his whole life to defend them. “They live longer than people think. They’re survivors.”
I stared at him. “You’re actually insane.”
We ended up at a bubble tea place, tucked between two neon-lit clothing shops. Yeonjun insisted on ordering for both of us, ignoring every protest I made.
When he slid the cup across the table to me, I frowned. “What is this?”
“Limited edition flavour. Trust me.”
“That’s what you said about the chips.”
“And you loved them.”
“I tolerated them.”
He leaned forward, smug. “You finished them.”
The conversation wandered easily, like it always did—jumping from gossip to dumb hypotheticals to Yeonjun mocking the way I bent my straw. He had this way of making every tiny thing sound like the most important joke in the world.
Still, my brain wouldn’t shut up. Every little comment sparked the same quiet thought: Does he remind me of someone? Or am I just reaching?
So I tried something small, something harmless.
“Do you ever play games?” I asked, keeping my tone as casual as possible.
Yeonjun raised a brow. “Games?”
“Like… online stuff.” I shrugged, pretending I wasn’t watching his face too closely. “I dunno. You just seem like you’d be competitive.”
He smirked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can already picture you raging at strangers.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Not true. I’m very calm.”
I gave him a pointed look.
“…Okay, maybe not calm,” he admitted. “But fun. You’d want me on your team.”
It was a perfectly normal answer. No flicker of recognition, no weird pause. Just Yeonjun being Yeonjun.
And yet, a corner of me filed it away anyway.
By the time we left, the sky was deep navy, streetlights buzzing overhead. We walked side by side through the crowd, Yeonjun humming something under his breath. It was half-tune, half nonsense—like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.
I couldn’t place it, but it tugged at something familiar.
Not proof.
Not even close.
Just one more thing to tuck into the growing, tangled list in the back of my mind.
If there was one thing I should’ve learned by now, it was that hanging out with TXT as a group always ended in chaos.
They never did anything halfway. If someone suggested a game, it wasn’t just a game. It became a full production, complete with rules that made no sense, forfeits no one wanted, and an audience of four other boys ready to mock you into oblivion.
So when Beomgyu shouted, “Truth or dare!” in the middle of our supposedly normal movie night, I should have known the evening was doomed.
The movie was abandoned within minutes, popcorn bowls shoved aside. We were all squished around Soobin’s ridiculously large living room rug — cushions scattered, blankets everywhere, the half-empty soda bottles already threatening to topple over.
Beomgyu was practically vibrating with excitement as he shuffled a deck of cards. “We’re gonna mix it up. No boring spin-the-bottle version. Cards decide your fate.”
“That sounds fake,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
“It’s innovation,” he corrected with mock solemnity. “Pick a card, any card. Red means truth, black means dare. Simple. Elegant. Foolproof.”
“Idiotic,” Taehyun muttered, but he didn’t move to stop him.
Yeonjun was lounging to my right, one knee bent, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he owned the place. He caught my eye and smirked, as if silently agreeing with me that this was about to get ridiculous.
And he was right. It got ridiculous fast.
Soobin drew first and was immediately dared to rap the chorus of a song in a baby voice. (Which, horrifyingly, he did with zero hesitation.) Taehyun was forced to text the third person in his contacts “I believe in you.” Beomgyu got stuck with a truth and had to admit which person he’d let cut his hair (he refused to answer, which earned him a chorus of boos).
By the time the deck circled to me, my stomach already hurt from laughing. I reached forward, pulled a card, flipped it — red.
“Truth,” Beomgyu declared. “Let’s see… oh! If you had to date one person in this room, who would it be?”
The whole room erupted in noise — groans, whistles, fake gasps.
I choked. “Excuse me?!”
“That’s not even creative,” Taehyun deadpanned.
Beomgyu ignored him. “Answer. The people demand answers.”
I shot him a glare, trying to play it off, though my pulse jumped stupidly in my throat. “I’d date literally anyone who wasn’t you.”
The room howled. Beomgyu clutched his chest like I’d stabbed him. “Cold-blooded betrayal!”
“Truth fulfilled,” I said, tossing the card back into the pile like that ended it.
Except Yeonjun was still smirking beside me. His eyes lingered just a second too long, amusement dancing there like he knew something I didn’t.
It made me want to hit him. Or maybe just look back too long. Which was worse.
The game spiraled on until it was his turn. Yeonjun pulled a card, flipped it, black.
“Dare,” Beomgyu crowed, already scheming. His gaze darted between me and Yeonjun and then lit up with evil satisfaction. “Perfect. You have to—”
“Whatever it is, no,” Yeonjun cut in immediately.
“No backing out!” Beomgyu wagged the card at him. “The dare is… hold hands with her for one full round.”
The room went loud again. Groans, whistles, Kai cackling.
I nearly choked. “That’s so middle school.”
“Then it should be easy,” Beomgyu shot back, clearly delighted.
Yeonjun gave him a look sharp enough to kill. But he didn’t refuse.
Instead, he turned to me, one eyebrow raised like, Well? You in or not?
And before I could overthink it, his hand slipped into mine.
It was supposed to be stupid. Just a dare. Just a joke.
But the second his fingers brushed against mine, everything inside me stuttered. His hand was warm, solid, his palm fitting against mine too naturally. He didn’t grip tight, just enough so it counted — his thumb resting lightly near the edge of my knuckles.
It should have been nothing. It wasn’t nothing.
The game went on — questions, dares, shouting — but I couldn’t focus. Not when every nerve in my arm felt wired straight to where his hand touched mine.
And then I made the mistake of glancing up at him.
Yeonjun was already looking at me. Not smirking this time. Just watching, eyes a little darker than usual, like he’d noticed the silence between us stretched longer than it should.
I looked away too fast. My laugh came out awkward, too high.
Dangerous. That’s what it felt like. Not holding hands, not the dare — the way the air seemed to hum like we’d crossed some invisible line we weren’t supposed to.
When the round finally ended, he let go like nothing happened. Easy, casual. Like he didn’t notice my pulse had been sprinting the entire time.
But when Beomgyu groaned “boring,” I swore Yeonjun’s lips twitched — just enough to look like a secret only he knew.
That night, when I logged on, “yawnzzn” was already waiting in the lobby.
yawnzzn: took u long enough
you: sorry. got stuck playing stupid games irl
yawnzzn: truth or dare?? lol
I froze at the keyboard.
you: …how did you know that
yawnzzn: everyone plays that when they’re bored. it’s universal.
you: fair.
There was a pause. Then:
yawnzzn: bet someone dared u to kiss a guy huh
you: ?? why would you guess that
yawnzzn: idk. sounds like something ur friends would do.
you: well no. it was dumber than that.
yawnzzn: oh. so u did touch someone.
I blinked. That… sounded almost pointed.
you: …jealous much?
yawnzzn: LMAO shut up. i just don’t want u getting distracted when we’re mid match.
Smooth cover. Too smooth.
But the way my chest tightened at the thought — no, that was dangerous too.
Beomgyu was insufferable when he was bored.
That was something you’d learned within about three minutes of knowing him, but the truth was, his brand of chaos was… contagious. The problem, of course, was that you were usually the victim.
“Do you ever,” Beomgyu drawled dramatically from his place sprawled upside-down across the couch, legs dangling over the back, hair brushing the floor, “do anything other than game?”
You were sitting on the rug across from him, nursing a can of soda you’d opened mostly as a distraction.
“I don’t game that much,” you muttered, already on the defensive.
Beomgyu perked up instantly, like you’d thrown him bait on purpose. “Don’t game that much?” he echoed in a scandalized gasp, sitting up just to emphasize his point. “You were literally on last night until two in the morning.”
You stiffened. “How do you even know that?”
“Because Yeonjun told me,” he said smugly, pointing at the man in question without even turning to look.
Yeonjun, across the room, was fiddling with something on his phone. He didn’t even glance up, though his jaw shifted ever so slightly like he might’ve been suppressing a reaction.
“He’s lying,” you said quickly, narrowing your eyes at Beomgyu.
But Beomgyu only grinned wider, flopping back onto the couch. “Sure, sure. Totally lying. It’s not like you and your mysterious internet boyfriend keep everyone awake with your screaming matches.”
You choked. “Internet—he’s not—”
“Sure, sure.” Beomgyu’s tone was sing-song, cruelly delighted. “So what’s his name again? Yanzy? Yawn-yawn? Whatever. Romantic.”
Your face burned so hot you were convinced the soda in your hand might start to steam.
“First of all, he’s just a friend,” you snapped, “and second of all, you can’t even get his username right, so—”
“Mmhm,” Beomgyu hummed, satisfied with your fluster. He looked smug, lounging like he’d just accomplished some great act of service for mankind. “Just saying, you ditch us a lot for him. Don’t think we don’t notice.”
It was supposed to be lighthearted, you knew that. But Beomgyu had a way of needling right where it stung.
You tried to laugh it off, waving a hand dismissively, but you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Yeonjun — still by the wall, still pretending to scroll his phone — had gone unusually quiet. Normally, he’d be all over this conversation, quick with the teasing, ready to make fun of you until you threatened his life. But now? Nothing.
It made something in your chest shift uncomfortably.
That night, headset snug over your ears, you logged on.
The second the familiar lobby music filled your headphones, your mood lifted. “You’re late,” yawnzzn’s voice cut through, as sharp and casual as always.
“You’re always late,” you shot back, smiling despite yourself.
“Yeah, but when I’m late, it’s personality. When you’re late, it’s negligence.”
You groaned loudly. “I should block you.”
“Bold of you to assume you could survive one night without me.” His tone was flippant, teasing — the same as always — and yet, you couldn’t help but notice the way it lingered in your head, softer around the edges.
The match loaded. You settled into the rhythm easily, your laughter filling the room as his snark ricocheted off yours. Everything was normal until —
“So,” yawnzzn said idly, after a lull in the chaos of battle, “do your friends tease you a lot?”
The question threw you. It wasn’t the words themselves — he often asked things in the middle of matches, always random, always out of nowhere — but the way he said it. Like he already knew the answer. Like it mattered.
You blinked, adjusting your headset. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” A pause. Gunfire on his end. A low laugh when he scored a hit. “Like, in real life. Your friends. Do they always mess with you about… stuff?”
You hesitated. The memory of Beomgyu’s taunts from earlier flashed in your mind.
“…Sometimes,” you admitted carefully. “Why?”
“No reason.” His tone was too breezy, too practiced, like he was deliberately covering something up. “Just curious.”
You frowned at your screen, even though he couldn’t see you. “…That’s a weird thing to ask.”
“Everything I say is weird.” He tried to laugh it off. But you caught it — the faintest shift in his voice, lower, tighter. Something not said.
And for the rest of the match, the banter never quite fell back into its usual rhythm.
The night had started like any other. Your screen glowed in the dim room, headset snug, voice low as you called plays back and forth with yawnzzn. The rhythm was easy, familiar. Like muscle memory by now.
He moved when you moved, covered when you pushed, slipped into your gaps like he was built to be there. And that voice—steady, measured, never rushed—pulled you in deeper every round.
“Left side’s weak,” you murmured, leaning closer to the monitor.
“On it,” he said smoothly. Always so calm, like he was never really worried.
The buzz of your phone against your desk cut in suddenly, shoving you out of the flow. Beomgyu’s name lit the screen. You groaned, tugging one earcup off.
“Hold,” you told yawnzzn, thumb already swiping to answer.
“Don’t take too long,” he teased, that slight lilt in his tone curling around you like it always did.
You tried not to react, bringing the phone to your ear. “What, Beomgyu?”
“No greeting? No ‘hello, bestie, how are you?’” he fired back immediately, loud as ever. “I was literally just calling to ask if you ate the last of the—”
His words cut off. A door creaked open in the background of his call.
And then—
“Cover mid,” another voice said.
At the exact same time, the exact same words came through your headset.
Your stomach dropped.
Yeonjun’s voice.
Through your phone, muffled behind Beomgyu.
Through your headset, clear and close as yawnzzn.
Identical. Perfectly overlapped.
Your pulse thudded so loud you barely noticed the slip until it was too late. You muttered, almost to yourself, “No way.”
And again, you heard it twice.
Out of your own mouth into the mic.
And echoing faintly through Beomgyu’s phone.
Both Yeonjun and Beomgyu had to have heard it.
The silence that followed was crushing. Your mouse went slack in your hand. Your own voice looped back in your head, overlapping just like his had. Your secret—that fragile wall between gaming nights and real life—had just cracked wide open.
On the other end of the call, Beomgyu’s confusion broke through. “...hello? Why’d you both just get quiet?”
Neither you nor yawnzzn said a word.
Beomgyu laughed nervously, the sound thin. “Okay, what is this? Why are both of you suddenly silent? That’s—” He paused, and you could practically hear the wheels turning. Then his tone shifted, realization dawning sharp in his voice. “...wait.”
The single word was heavier than anything else.
You sat frozen in your chair, headset still pressed against your ear, phone still clutched tight, your heart caught somewhere between denial and the truth you couldn’t unhear.
The next few days were… weird.
You couldn’t tell if it was the weather or just the lingering heaviness of the last call, but everything seemed sharper, smaller somehow. Even your apartment felt crowded with the echo of a voice that had once been just a voice.
You hadn’t logged on that evening. Not after the phone incident, not after hearing his voice exactly overlap with yawnzzn’s. You didn’t want to see him, not really, not knowing if he felt the same weird shock, the same fluttering panic that had made your chest feel like it was on fire.
It wasn’t just avoidance. It was survival. You couldn’t deal with him hovering in your thoughts and in your headset.
Text messages went unanswered. Calls went ignored. Even Beomgyu — the instigator himself — had backed off slightly, probably realizing that some walls shouldn’t be crossed lightly.
Or so you thought.
When you finally saw Yeonjun, it was in passing. The group had gone to grab coffee at the usual place, TXT and a few mutual friends scattered in laughter and banter, and there he was, standing by the counter with a cup in his hands, pretending to scroll on his phone.
You almost turned on your heel. Almost.
But something stopped you — the way he froze for a microsecond when he spotted you, the sharp inhale you could almost feel across the table. You looked away immediately, pretending to check something in your bag, heart pounding.
He didn’t approach. You didn’t approach. Not yet.
The tension was ridiculous. But TXT had already noticed.
“Wow,” Beomgyu said loudly, nudging Taehyun, his grin impossible to ignore. “You two are practically ignoring each other. It’s like watching a rom-com unfold, and I didn’t even pay for the ticket.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Taehyun added, smirking as he leaned back. “Do you need me to grab a notebook and diagram your avoidance patterns?”
You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Even Soobin’s eyebrows were raised in amusement, and Hueningkai was snickering into his drink.
Yeonjun, on the other side of the table, looked like he’d been caught mid-breath. He was careful, deliberate, not looking directly at you, but you could feel the weight of his eyes anyway. Every so often, your peripheral vision caught him glancing in your direction, then quickly darting away.
It was maddening.
For the first day, you told yourself it was fine. Just a few awkward glances, a little embarrassment, nothing more. But every time TXT made some offhand joke — and they always made offhand jokes — your stomach dropped.
“Do you two need a mediator?” Beomgyu asked one morning over breakfast. You choked on your cereal. He laughed. “Come on, it’s fine. We’re just checking if you’re gonna murder each other before breakfast. You know, for stats.”
You wanted to disappear under the table. Yeonjun’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, his lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t laugh, didn’t defend himself. But the tension radiating from him was almost louder than Beomgyu’s teasing.
That night, your apartment felt smaller than usual. You logged on eventually — slowly, hesitantly, fingers hovering over the keys. You didn’t want to game, not really, but your routine was hard to shake.
“Yawnzzn?” you typed almost automatically, then froze.
The cursor blinked back at you. Empty. Silent.
You closed the chat without hitting enter.
And that was the rhythm of the next few days:
Avoiding his eyes when in the same room.
Ignoring chat notifications from him, even though part of you wanted to answer.
Watching TXT smirk knowingly whenever you were all together.
It wasn’t just him. You weren’t sure what was worse — the idea that he was probably thinking the same thing, or the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about him at all.
The mental gymnastics alone exhausted you. You caught yourself imagining his voice overlapping with yawnzzn’s every time your phone buzzed or a message pinged. You would close your eyes and see his expression, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smile that had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with how tangled your thoughts had become.
Meanwhile, TXT — of course — refused to let it go. Every message, every comment, every joke was a subtle jab at the elephant in the room.
“Careful when you two are in the same room,” Beomgyu teased one evening. “Wouldn’t want anyone to faint from the tension.”
You flushed violently, your chair scraping against the floor as you muttered something incoherent.
Yeonjun, seated across from you, didn’t meet your gaze. But the faint flicker in his eyes betrayed the same conflicted mess you were feeling — embarrassment, curiosity, regret, and maybe something else that neither of you were ready to name yet.
By the end of the week, it was clear. You and Yeonjun were navigating a delicate dance. Avoiding, skirting, tiptoeing around the obvious, while the group watched like an audience that already knew the script.
And in that charged silence, in the small moments of shared spaces and fleeting glances, you realized just how deeply tangled your lives had become — online and offline — even without saying a word.
The cursor blinked at you on the login screen, mocking you with its steady, rhythmic pulse. You hesitated, hand hovering over the mouse. It had been days since the call, and yet here you were, back at your desk, logging in. You weren’t sure if it was curiosity, stubbornness, or just the comforting routine of the game, but the truth was simple: you wanted to play.
“Yawnzzn?” you typed cautiously, fingers trembling slightly.
Seconds stretched into minutes. The little green dot didn’t appear next to his name. Not yet.
Then: Connected.
Your chest tightened as his icon blinked online. He didn’t say anything at first — just the familiar presence through your headset, the hum of the system and the soft static of his microphone.
You took a deep breath and joined the match.
The game began, just like before. Quick trades, rotations, covering each other’s blind spots. But it was different now. The rhythm that had once been easy and effortless felt layered with something heavier, more deliberate. Every command he gave carried a subtle edge, every callout felt sharper than usual. You realized with a start that even your own responses were tighter, more careful.
“Left flank’s clear,” you said, voice steadier than you felt.
“Moving up,” he replied. There was a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but it lingered — just long enough for your pulse to spike.
You caught yourself glancing at the screen, half-expecting to see his avatar frozen in some exaggerated motion. You knew he couldn’t see you. He had to be focused on the game. And yet… you kept catching yourself imagining the curve of his lips, the tilt of his head.
He didn’t look at you, and you didn’t look at him, but the tension stretched taut between you like an invisible string.
Beomgyu’s occasional pings in the chat broke the rhythm. “Teamwork’s looking good, but somebody’s holding back, huh?” he typed, clearly aware of the underlying vibe.
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden heat rising to your face. It wasn’t just Beomgyu’s teasing — it was the way yawnzzn responded. He didn’t answer the joke. Not outright. But the slight shift in tone, the faint pause before he moved in-game, felt… pointed. As if he was aware, and careful, and maybe testing the waters.
The match went on, but you noticed everything. Every small delay in his calls. Every subtle inflection in his voice. Every time you missed a shot, you felt the weight of his attention, the unspoken judgment or perhaps something softer — something almost protective.
When you finally landed in a quiet moment in-game, you muttered something under your breath.
“Guess I’m lucky you’ve got my back,” you said, almost joking, but your own voice sounded foreign to you.
A pause. Then, through your headset: “Of course. Wouldn’t let you get stuck.”
Your heart skipped a beat, just a small one, but enough. Because it wasn’t just the words — it was the familiarity, the care, the rhythm that hadn’t existed before. And though you knew he couldn’t see it, you pictured him tilting his head, brow furrowed, voice soft but steady.
Minutes stretched, the game pressing on, but each move between you was heavier now. Your teamwork hadn’t faltered, but the subtle awareness — the almost-weight of each glance, each tone, each pause — hung in the air like static electricity.
By the end of the match, victory came as usual. But the thrill of the win was muted, replaced by something else: the awareness that everything had changed. You could feel it in your chest, the lingering tension that neither of you would name yet.
After logging off, you leaned back in your chair, eyes on the ceiling. The game had ended, but the unspoken words, the stolen glances, the weight of what had shifted in the days since the reveal — it all pressed down, thick and almost suffocating.
The group's teasing had been relentless, but now it felt like the smallest part of the tension. The real pressure was in knowing he was there, in your life, both in-game and in the silence between you, and that everything you’d carefully managed had been thrown off balance by one impossible, undeniable truth.
And somehow, even in the quiet aftermath, you knew it was only the beginning.
It should have been a simple weekend plan: a team challenge at a local escape room, just a bit of fun, a little friendly competition. At least, that was how Beomgyu had pitched it. But the moment you walked inside, the air felt different—thicker, heavier, charged.
You weren’t imagining it. Yeonjun was here, in the same space, and everything from the past week—the call, the teasing, the heavy silence—had condensed into this single, awkward moment.
“Team A, come on,” Beomgyu said with a grin, motioning you and Yeonjun forward.
The words hit like a punch. Your eyes flicked toward him, just for a brief second. His gaze met yours and then shifted away quickly, a flicker of that familiar smirk barely noticeable before disappearing. He didn’t say anything, not aloud. But there was a tension radiating off him that made your stomach twist.
The other players scattered to their own corners, leaving you two to tackle the challenge together. The room was small, with clues tucked into corners, locks that required two hands, and puzzles that couldn’t be solved alone.
You ended up standing uncomfortably close. Not by choice—there simply wasn’t room to avoid it.
“Right,” Beomgyu called from the doorway. “One hour. Don’t screw it up.”
The world shrank immediately to the space between you and Yeonjun.
The first puzzle was straightforward enough, a simple code sequence. But solving it meant leaning over the same notepad, your shoulders brushing. It was subtle, but enough to make your pulse spike. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he leaned just slightly closer, enough that the accidental contact lingered too long.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath.
“Agreed,” he said softly, casual, like he hadn’t just felt the spark of contact either.
Next came a puzzle with a series of locks requiring synchronized actions. Hands grazed repeatedly, fingers lingering over the same button, and every time it happened, your heart stuttered. You caught yourself glancing at him, and somehow, he was already watching you. Not in a predatory way — something else: curious, deliberate, aware.
“You missed the last symbol,” he said quietly, just a statement, not a criticism, but your stomach sank at the tone.
“I… thought I had it,” you muttered, shifting to avoid another brush.
He leaned in slightly, close enough that the space between you felt charged. “You’re fine. We’ve got this,” he said. Just three simple words, but they carried weight. Care, attention, unspoken acknowledgment of everything between you: the overlap, the teasing, the online games.
As the puzzles grew harder, more intricate, you slipped into your familiar in-game rhythm—reacting instinctively to each other’s moves, anticipating each other, covering each other without thinking. And yet, every motion, every glance, every brush of fingers carried weight, made your chest tight with awareness.
The final puzzle required standing on either side of a large box, pressing buttons simultaneously. Your hands hovered over the controls, brushing once again. You froze. For a split second, nothing existed except the two of you, the warmth of proximity, the faint electricity in the air.
Instinctively, you pulled your hand back. “We… we need to focus,” you muttered, embarrassed.
“Right,” he said, calm, steady, but there was a subtle undertone, something unspoken that neither of you would name yet. The tension remained, palpable and unbroken.
By the time the timer ran out and Beomgyu returned, triumphant, the puzzles were solved. You and Yeonjun had worked seamlessly, perfectly in sync, yet the charged energy between you hadn’t dissipated.
As you left the escape room, walking side by side only because the keys had ended up in your hands, you felt it: the quiet awareness of each other’s presence, heavier than before, electric, and impossibly complicated.
This was just the beginning.
It was late, later than you usually stayed up, but something about tonight pulled you toward the glow of your monitor. You’d logged on almost automatically, the familiar hum of the headset and the click of keys grounding you in routine.
And there he was: yawnzzn, online, waiting.
You hesitated, fingers hovering over the chat. A week had passed since the Gyu Call Incident, and though you’d seen him in person since, every interaction had been carefully neutral, deliberately casual. But now, alone in your room, the unspoken tension came rushing back.
He moved with that same effortless synchronicity you’d come to rely on. Even across the screen, there was a rhythm between you two that felt alive, instinctive. Covering, backing up, calling out positions—small gestures that had once been just functional now carried a weight you couldn’t ignore.
“Careful with that angle,” he murmured, voice low and calm, but something under it vibrated differently tonight.
You swallowed, fingers tightening around the mouse. “Yeah… thanks.”
There was a pause. A beat long enough that your heart thumped loudly. You glanced at the side of your screen, half-expecting him to break into one of his usual teasing comments—but he didn’t. He was waiting. Watching, maybe, in his own way.
“You know,” he began slowly, almost hesitant, “I’ve always… liked how you figure things out. Even when it’s messy.”
Your stomach twisted. Liked how I figure things out? That could have been about the game, could have been innocent. But the tone, the pause, the softness behind the words… it made the simple compliment feel charged, impossible to ignore.
“Uh… thanks,” you replied, voice small, awkward. “I… I like playing with you too.”
Another beat of silence. Longer this time. He didn’t say anything, but the faint sound of his breathing, calm yet deliberate, filled the headset. You imagined him leaning back slightly, shoulders relaxed but tense, the way he always did when he was focused but letting a small piece of himself show.
The next round of the game started, but it wasn’t the same. Every call, every reaction, every coordination between you was laced with awareness. You were hyper-conscious of his presence—not just the voice through the headset, but the person behind it.
At one point, you misstepped, taking a route that left you exposed. He immediately adjusted, blocking, guiding, covering. “Hey, stay with me,” he said quietly. Not as a command, not as a joke, but as something softer, something tethered to the small confessions neither of you had spoken aloud.
Your chest tightened. “I… I am,” you whispered, almost to yourself, but enough for him to hear.
And somehow, even though he didn’t respond with words, you could feel him leaning in closer in the rhythm of his play. Every movement, every pause, every subtle direction carried unspoken acknowledgment.
For a moment, you considered saying it—the thing you hadn’t dared to name—but the words caught in your throat. There was a warmth in the silence, in the shared space, that made you both ache and hesitate.
The match ended. You sat back, fingers slack on the keyboard, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the monitor. The room felt too quiet, too small, filled with the weight of all the words that hadn’t been said.
And then, faintly, almost in unison, both of you muttered:
“Good game.”
Simple. Casual. But the way it hung between you was electric, heavy, and full of things neither of you were ready to face.
You logged off a few minutes later, but the lingering tension didn’t fade. You could still feel him, still hear the soft undertone of everything unspoken, and you knew with a certainty that made your chest tighten: this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
It started small. A trivial thing, something neither of you would have noticed in the past: a misplaced note, a delayed reply, a tone that seemed sharper than necessary. But after the tension of the past weeks—the Gyu Call Incident, the escape room, the late-night gaming—the tiniest spark ignited a wildfire. You were meeting up with the group again, everyone gathered for another casual hangout. The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the easy rhythm of friends who knew each other well. And there he was, leaning against the counter, casually sipping his drink, completely unaware—or pretending to be—that the quiet storm brewing between the two of you had been building. Beomgyu, as usual, didn’t help. “Wow, you guys are still giving each other the silent treatment? I thought this was old news.” He grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. You felt your jaw clench. “Not everything’s funny,” you muttered, voice low but sharp enough to carry across the table. Yeonjun’s gaze flicked toward you, and in that fraction of a second, the world narrowed. His expression was unreadable, controlled, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight twitch of his hand, the way he swallowed. “I wasn’t laughing,” he said quietly, tone clipped, edge sharp. “I don’t know why you’re making it worse.” “Well maybe if you didn’t make everything about games or your stupid jokes, it wouldn’t be so bad!” You shot back, louder than intended, heat rising to your cheeks. And there it was. The fuse had been lit. The conversation spiraled, small irritations piling up into a tower of frustration neither of you could contain. Every word, every gesture was loaded, a subtle jab wrapped in anger, a sharp glance tucked into your body language. You realized, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t playful banter anymore. “You’re impossible!” you finally shouted, throwing your hands up. “Do you even notice anything that’s going on besides yourself?” For a heartbeat, the room went still. Even Beomgyu paused mid-grin, sensing the shift. Yeonjun’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I notice more than you think,” he shot back, voice low and firm, but there was a tremor beneath it that betrayed his restraint. You both stopped, chests heaving, glaring, and for a moment it felt like time had slowed. This wasn’t about a game, or a joke, or even the silly teasing—it was the culmination of every touch, every glance, every half-word, every online rhythm that had woven itself between you both without being named. Taehyun, who had been quietly observing, finally stepped in. He came around the table, placing a hand firmly on your shoulder. “Stop it. Both of you,” he said, voice surprisingly authoritative. “You’re being idiots. And I don’t mean in the fun way.” His words hung heavy. You felt your anger ebb slightly, replaced by embarrassment and exhaustion. Yeonjun, too, ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes briefly, letting out a sharp exhale. “Seriously,” Taehyun continued, addressing both of you, “you’re acting like this over… what? Nothing. You’re friends. Stop pretending otherwise. You both need a break from each other, or you’re going to make this impossible.” For the first time that night, you both went silent. The heat of the argument lingered, but the intensity shifted into something heavier, unspoken. As the group carried on with lighter conversation around you, the tension remained, tucked into the corners of the room. Every glance toward Yeonjun made your stomach twist; you could feel him doing the same, neither of you ready to cross the line again, but unable to ignore the pull between you. Walking home later, your steps were uneven, thoughts chaotic. You replayed every word, every inflection, every subtle moment since the reveal. And somewhere deep down, beneath the frustration and embarrassment, you realized something undeniable: this fight hadn’t been about anger alone. It had been about everything neither of you were ready to say out loud.
Epilogue
The night was impossibly quiet, the city around you muted as though holding its breath. You hadn’t expected anyone to come over — not tonight, not after everything. But when your doorbell rang, your heart skipped, and you realized almost immediately who it had to be.
Yeonjun. Standing there, silhouetted by the porch light, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a hesitation in his stance that made your chest tighten, a subtle shift in his usual confident posture.
“Can I… come in?” His voice was softer than usual, hesitant in a way that made the space between you feel heavier.
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in. The apartment smelled faintly of the tea you’d left simmering, of the blankets tossed over the couch, but somehow it all faded beneath the tension filling the space. You could feel him, even before seeing him fully, the energy between you humming like an electric current.
He leaned against the doorframe, posture loose but controlled, a silent storm coiled under the surface. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet only broken by the faint hum of the city seeping through the windows and the subtle creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight.
Finally, he moved, taking a careful step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “I… need to tell you something,” he said, voice low and unsteady, as if forcing himself to speak the words he’d carried for weeks.
Your pulse stuttered. “Yeah?”
“I’ve… liked you,” he said, words tumbling out in an odd mix of rush and pause, “both online and in person. Even before… everything.”
Your stomach lurched. “You… what?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated at how hard it was to get the words out. “I’ve liked you for a while. I didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know how to handle it. I—”
You laughed softly, the sound nervous and a little breathless, the tension between you cracking just enough to let a sliver of relief in. “You’re ridiculous. You’ve been dropping hints in every stupid way imaginable.”
He exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and exasperation. “I know. I’m… I’m terrible at this,” he admitted, and the words were raw enough to make your heart ache.
You stepped closer, drawn by the magnetic pull that had been building for weeks, months, longer than either of you had admitted. “I… I like you too,” you whispered. “And not just online.”
His eyes widened for a heartbeat, a flicker of disbelief and hope crossing his features, before he closed the space between you. His hand brushed yours, tentative at first, then firmer, fingers intertwining. You felt the weight of everything—the teasing, the tension, the stolen moments online, the accidental touches, the almost-confessions—press into the warmth of that one connection.
And then he leaned in, lips brushing yours softly, hesitantly, testing. You responded instinctively, the years of banter, rivalry, and quiet connection pouring into the kiss. It was messy, imperfect, desperate in the way that truth often is, but it was real.
A pause, breathless and electric, before he whispered against your lips, “Finally.”
You chuckled, breathless, pressing your forehead to his. “Yeah. Finally.”
For a few moments, the world fell away. The quiet city, the distant hum of traffic, the anticipation, all of it vanished into the soft weight of each other’s presence. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, grounding you, anchoring the storm of emotions swirling inside.
And then, as if the universe had been waiting for the right moment, the door burst open.
“SO YOU FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT!” Beomgyu’s voice rang through the apartment, followed by laughter and the unmistakable smell of pizza.
Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Yeonjun groaned, face in his hands, muttering something about “never ending.”
You laughed, breathless, leaning against him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close. “Guess we’re not alone,” he murmured.
“Nope,” you replied, letting the warmth of him settle in, the city outside, the chaos of friends behind you, and the messy, perfect reality of the moment wrap around both of you.
Even as the group continued their chaotic celebration around the apartment, the moment between the two of you lingered, quiet and grounding, a soft promise that this was finally real.
And as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, whispering, “We’re finally… us,” you realized, with a warmth that spread from your chest to your fingertips, that everything that had led to this—the teasing, the games, the long weeks of unspoken feelings—had been worth it.
It was messy. It was complicated. It was perfect.
And somehow, everything felt like it was only just beginning.
pairing: roommate!hueningkai x fem!reader, non idol au
genre: roommates to lovers, fake dating, slowburn, angst, fluff, romcom?
summary: in which a fake relationship for cheaper rent spirals into late-night forehead kisses, game night confessions, and two roommates falling for each other without meaning to.
w/c: 13.3k
warnings!!!: slowburn again, second hand embarrassment lwk, romantic whiplash from hueningkai being 0% subtle
a/n: yeesh i really put off the kiss in this one, also i had to go in and shorten half of it bc it wouldnt let me keep it all 😭, just me or is this lwk giving back to friends by sombr?
The listing was already giving red flags.
"Two-bedroom unit. Central location. Immediate move-in. Pets allowed. Discount for couples."
I squinted at the last line. Was it… a dating scam? A weird boomer landlord trying to manifest love through tenancy? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I needed a place. Fast.
One more roommate horror story and I was going to start living in a library storage closet. At least it would smell like books and trauma instead of unwashed protein shakers.
So when the agent said someone else had booked the same inspection slot, I said fine. I’d seen six places already. What was one more disaster?
I wasn’t expecting him.
He showed up in a hoodie two sizes too big, track pants, and that kind of stupidly soft face that made you feel like he’d never been sad. Tall, lanky, very boy-next-door — if your next-door neighbour happened to look like he narrated Studio Ghibli films in his spare time.
"Hey," he said, giving me a quick smile. "Roommate speed dating?"
I blinked. "Apparently."
He stuck his hand out. "Hueningkai."
"...Is that your first name or last?"
"Both," he said proudly. "Or neither. Depends who’s asking."
Okay. So he was one of those people — mildly unhinged, weirdly charming, and somehow pulling it off.
The apartment was surprisingly decent. No mystery stains. The kitchen didn’t look like it would actively fight me. There was actual sunlight in the living room.
"You're thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked, halfway through the tour.
"That this place is haunted and Dennis the landlord is secretly a ghost?"
"I meant splitting the lease. But yeah, that too."
Honestly, it made sense. He didn’t seem like a total creep. Plus, something about his energy — chaotic, sure, but harmless — made it easier to consider.
"Yeah," I said. "I’m down."
Dennis blinked between us like we were a little too loud for his 9am brain. "Great. Since you're applying together, you qualify for the couple's discount."
I opened my mouth. I could’ve said, we’re not a couple. I should’ve. But for some reason — probably sleep deprivation and panic — what came out was:
"Right. Of course."
I felt my soul leave my body.
Before I could backtrack, Kai jumped in like it was a planned bit. "Yeah, we’ve been together a while. Big fan of love. And rent."
Dennis looked mildly overwhelmed. "Well, then. Just initial here and here..."
I looked at Kai. He looked back at me with the calm, excited eyes of a man who had just gotten away with something.
I signed.
Outside, the sun was way too bright for the life crisis I was in. Kai walked next to me, completely unbothered. "So. Girlfriend."
"Don’t."
"I just think our connection in there was really special."
"Mutual panic is not a connection."
"It is when it saves you three hundred a month."
I groaned. "You’re really gonna commit to this fake relationship thing, aren’t you."
"I was born committed. I’ll start brainstorming matching keychains."
"Unmatch. Yourself."
"You don’t want pet names? Babe? Honey? Little spoon?"
I started walking faster. "I’m gonna live in a bin."
He caught up easily. "It’ll be our bin. Our cozy love nest."
"Hueningkai."
"Yes, my love?"
I stopped talking. Maybe if I just accepted death, he’d quiet down.
We moved in the next day. His room was the one with the broken heater, and I was halfway through unpacking when he knocked on my door wearing a blanket like a cloak.
"It’s freezing," he said mournfully. "I think I lost circulation in my soul."
I stared at him. "No."
"Just for tonight."
"No."
He tilted his head. "Please?"
I exhaled. Loudly. And let him in.
"Stay on your side," I warned, already regretting everything.
"I respect boundaries," he said, immediately taking up 70% of the bed. "But also, I'm very cuddly."
I stared at the ceiling. "If you touch me, I will suffocate you."
"Looking forward to our future together."
In the dark, it was quiet. Strangely quiet.
"You know we have to tell him eventually," I said.
"Who?"
"Dennis. The landlord. About us not actually dating."
"Eventually," he mumbled.
"...Eventually when?"
"When the rent discount stops working."
I turned my head. He was lying there like he’d done this a hundred times — just moved in with some girl and fake dated her for free heating. I was not going to survive this. What the hell had I just agreed to?
The next morning, I woke up tangled in a human radiator.
Kai was sprawled diagonally across the bed like he’d fought a war in his dreams and won. One arm was flung over my waist, his leg thrown casually over mine like we’d been married for ten years and he paid my taxes. His face, of course, was peaceful. Slightly pouty. Eyelashes doing the most.
I stared at the ceiling, rigid with the knowledge that if I moved, I’d probably disturb the most offensively cozy cuddle position I’d ever been subjected to. Fake boyfriend or not — that was a dangerous arm. I carefully extricated myself like I was disarming a bomb. His fingers twitched when I pulled away. I held my breath. He didn’t wake.
I padded to the kitchen, trying not to overthink the fact that I could still feel the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. It meant nothing. He was just a heavy sleeper. And a blanket hog. And weirdly good at cuddling for someone who claimed to be doing it by accident.
The kitchen was, blessedly, empty. I made coffee, stared blankly at the microwave clock, and tried to remember what normal roommates did. Did they cook together? Talk about chores? Casually touch each other in their sleep?
Kai shuffled in five minutes later, hoodie falling off one shoulder, hair sticking out in seventeen directions. He looked like a Studio Ghibli character had just rolled out of bed to ruin my life.
“Good morning, love of my life,” he said, like it was the most natural sentence in the world.
I turned slowly. “Don’t.”
He blinked at me, half-awake. “Don’t what?”
“That.”
“What, coffee?”
I narrowed my eyes. He smiled like a menace and reached for a mug. I hated how charming he was. I hated it more that he knew it. And I hated it most that I was starting to memorize the exact pitch of his morning voice — lazy, soft, a little raspy around the edges.
“I’m not your—whatever,” I said, turning away.
He sat on the counter. “Partner? Soulmate? Roommate with romantic benefits?”
I opened the fridge just to avoid looking at him. “We don’t have romantic benefits.”
“Not with that attitude.”
I closed the fridge louder than necessary.
We fell into a rhythm over the next week, if you could call it that.
Kai liked noise — music in the mornings, humming while brushing his teeth, narrating everything he did like we were in a cooking show no one asked for. He danced while frying eggs. He wore mismatched socks. He talked to the plants we didn’t own. And I… adjusted.
Mostly.
He made it weirdly easy to get used to. The fake relationship thing stayed quiet — no word from the landlord, no awkward check-ins. We didn’t tell anyone, didn’t play it up outside the building. It just was. Occasionally I’d catch myself wondering if we were still pretending.
Like when he handed me the last slice of toast without asking. Or when I caught him folding my laundry because “your clothes were blocking my socks.” Or the time he stopped me at the front door with a casual, “Wait—your shoelace,” and crouched to tie it without blinking.
“Stop being weird,” I said, more flustered than annoyed.
He looked up. “This is basic fake boyfriend maintenance.”
“You’re acting like we’re in a drama.”
Kai grinned. “Do I get a slow-mo scene?”
“Absolutely not.”
Our building had a hallway that acted like a communal stage. It was too narrow. The walls echoed. If one neighbour sneezed, you’d hear it three doors down. Which is how I met Linda from 203.
She caught us walking in one evening — Kai carrying groceries, me trailing behind him half-laughing because he insisted on balancing the milk on his head.
“Oh! You two must be the couple from 208,” she said, clasping her hands together.
Kai beamed. “That’s us.”
I opened my mouth to correct her. He elbowed me gently. “We’re new to the building,” he added, throwing in the most annoying little you’re so cute glance in my direction. “Still settling in.”
Linda smiled like she was watching a live romcom. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you both. You make such a charming pair.”
Kai squeezed my hand. We were holding hands. I didn’t even know when it had happened. Linda waved goodbye, and we walked inside in silence. My palm still tingled.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said once the door closed.
He tilted his head. “You didn’t let go.”
I stared at him. His eyes twinkled, all soft and bright like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I turned away. “You’re exhausting.”
“I’m delightful.”
The thing about sharing a bed with someone — even platonically, even in the name of discounted rent — is that you start learning them in ways you don’t mean to.
Kai was warm. Always. He slept curled toward the centre, made soft breathing noises, and sometimes said things in his sleep that I couldn’t decipher but still remembered. And I hated how much I liked the weight of someone next to me at night.
I’d been alone for a long time before this. Too long, maybe. And now there was someone whose shoulder accidentally brushed mine when we both reached for the toothpaste. Someone who bought me the chocolate I liked on grocery runs without being asked. Someone who sang off-key while loading the dishwasher and made it weirdly charming.
We were faking it. Obviously. But the line was starting to blur. Just a little. Enough to make me wonder — not all the time. Not out loud. Just sometimes. In the soft moments. When he handed me a cup of coffee with a sleepy smile and said, “Morning, babe,” like he didn’t even have to think about it.
Like he meant it.
I never thought I’d have a boyfriend who liked holding hands in hallways to keep up an elaborate lie about rent.
Then again, I also never thought I’d be faking a relationship with a man who owned seven hoodies, all from different obscure anime.
Life comes at you fast. Apparently, so does Kai.
“Quick,” he whispered, ducking behind me in the elevator lobby. “Kiss me.”
I dropped my keys.
“Excuse me?” I hissed, turning to him.
His eyes flicked toward the end of the hall where Linda from 203 stood watering her cactus — which, I’d learned over the last few days, she didn’t even like. She just used it as an excuse to eavesdrop.
“She’s watching,” Kai said. “We need to sell it.”
“We’re literally just leaving the building.”
“Exactly. And couples kiss goodbye.”
I stared at him. “We don’t kiss.”
He leaned in slightly. “Yet.”
“Kai.”
“I’m just saying, we’re already sharing a bed. We might as well kiss in public.”
“You can’t just scale intimacy like a checklist.”
He grinned. “Watch me.”
I turned my back, trying not to let the words we’re already sharing a bed scramble my brain. It meant nothing. We were sleeping. Separately. Technically. Mostly. Kai walked beside me as we passed Linda, then — without warning — slung an arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer.
“Have a great day, love,” he said sweetly.
I almost choked. Linda beamed. I didn’t even look back. I just grabbed his hand and dragged him to the elevator like I was performing CPR on my dignity.
“You’re going to get me killed,” I muttered as the doors closed behind us.
“I’m just trying to support your character arc.”
That night, I found a handwritten list taped to the fridge.
PDA Rules
Hand-holding must be convincing. No limp fingers.
Forehead kisses are permitted with warning.
No tongue. We’re not monsters.
Public fights to spice things up (optional).
Anniversary lies must be coordinated 48 hours in advance.
I stared at it for a long time before adding one more rule.
You’re insane.
Living with Kai was like living inside a very low-stakes sitcom.
He was absurdly good at the performance. He called me pet names like it was a reflex. He left voice notes in the shared grocery list app. He texted me things like do you like olives or are you morally correct? while standing in the same room.
It was too easy. Too comfortable. Which made it all the more infuriating when he dragged me into his antics without warning. Like the time we ran into our downstairs neighbour, Brandon, who immediately asked how long we’d been together.
“Two years,” I said instinctively.
Kai nodded along, casually slipping his hand into mine. “Three, if you count our situationship phase.”
I blinked. “What?”
He grinned. “You had commitment issues.”
“You ate dry cereal for two weeks straight.”
“I was grieving our label, babe.”
Brandon looked between us like he’d stepped into a reality show. “Wow. You two are—something.”
Kai winked. “We try.”
As soon as we were out of sight, I slapped his arm. “Two years?”
He laughed. “You started it!”
“You said ‘situationship’ in public!”
He turned to me with the smug, self-satisfied calm of a man who had clearly been dropped as a child. “You’re welcome.”
The bed-sharing situation had somehow become permanent.
He never said it. I never questioned it. But it kept happening. At first it was the heater, then a thunderstorm, then something about the power flickering. Then it was just… routine.
He’d knock twice, poke his head in, and say something like “Is this seat taken?” before flopping down beside me like gravity had pulled him there. We never talked about it. We just existed — tangled and comfortable, always on the edge of too much.
And I hated how I’d started waiting for the knock. Hated that I’d memorized the weight of him shifting behind me in the dark. The way he sometimes sighed when he thought I was asleep. The occasional brush of his hand against mine.
I wasn’t catching feelings. I was just... very well-adjusted to the bit. Perfectly normal. No spiralling here. The drama escalated on a Thursday.
Linda caught us returning from a grocery run. I was holding the bag with the milk. Kai was holding nothing but smugness.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asked lightly.
I blinked. “What?”
She nodded toward the space between us. “No hand-holding today.”
I laughed it off. “Tired arms.”
Kai raised an eyebrow. “Actually, we’re fighting.”
My head snapped around. “What?”
“We’re fighting,” he repeated, turning to Linda with a wounded expression. “She said I chew too loud.”
Linda gasped like we were a Netflix original. “I said it was unhinged, not loud,” I muttered.
Kai put a hand to his chest. “It’s my natural bite pattern.”
“You sound like a lawnmower.”
Linda was eating this up.
“Couples therapy works wonders,” she offered.
Kai gave her a solemn nod. “We’re working through it.”
I stared at him.
Later, after we’d shut the door, I flung a tea towel at his face.
“You’re so annoying.”
He caught it. “You love me.”
I froze. He froze. Silence.
Then he cleared his throat and tossed the towel back. “In the fake way, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
I busied myself with putting away the milk.
Behind me, he whispered dramatically, “She used to say it back.”
“Get out.”
He cackled all the way to the bedroom.
That night, I lay awake longer than usual. The apartment was quiet. Kai’s breathing was slow and even beside me. We weren’t touching — not really — but I could feel the warmth of him, familiar and close.
I didn’t move. I didn’t know what would happen if I did. This wasn’t supposed to matter. But somehow, it was starting to.
I never knew how loud an apartment could be until it got quiet at night. Our place wasn’t big. The walls were thin, the floors creaked, the fridge hummed like it had dreams. But after ten p.m., when the lights dimmed and the chaos faded, the silence pressed in.
Kai’s room stayed empty. His heater still wasn’t fixed. He didn’t bother asking anymore. He just came in. It had started with two knocks. Then one. Then none.
Now, he just walked in with the same energy someone might bring to a weekend trip they’d forgotten to pack for — hoodie askew, eyes half-lidded, and blanket already in his arms like he knew I wouldn’t say no.
I didn’t. Not once.
It was easy to let him stay. Easier than trying to fall asleep without the quiet rhythm of his breathing behind me. I’d gotten used to him. To everything he was — loud, strange, funny, warm.
So when he slid into bed that night and didn’t say anything — just laid there, still and close — I didn’t ask what was wrong. I just let it be.
The next morning, he made me toast.
Which would’ve been fine, except I hadn’t mentioned I liked toast. I hadn’t even eaten breakfast around him before. But there it was, golden-brown and a little uneven, with a very specific kind of butter-to-corner ratio that made me pause.
“How’d you know?” I asked.
He blinked up at me from the floor, where he was untangling headphone cords like it was a religion. “Know what?”
“That I like it this way.”
He smiled. “Lucky guess.”
My heart didn’t stutter. It didn’t. I just bit into the toast and pretended I didn’t feel his gaze linger.
We decided to do a proper grocery run that day — not just snacks and milk, but an actual list. Real adult things. Spices. Detergent. Frozen dumplings. A shared toothbrush because “it’s the roommate equivalent of matching tattoos,” according to Kai. (We did not buy it.)
We argued over cereal in the middle of aisle four.
“You can’t get the rainbow marshmallow one,” I said. “You’re twenty-one.”
“And full of whimsy,” he replied, placing it in the trolley with the confidence of a man who paid no taxes.
“You eat that and die of sugar poisoning, I’m not doing the funeral speech.”
“I’ll haunt you.”
“I’ll move.”
“Babe, we’re on a lease.”
He said babe again. So casually. So confidently. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t let myself.
But when he leaned over me five minutes later to grab something from the top shelf — hand brushing my waist like it was no big deal — I stopped breathing for a full second.
“Got it,” he said, holding up a jar of pasta sauce. “You’re welcome.”
“Great. Incredible. Thank you for doing the bare minimum of reaching.”
“Your love is so loud.”
I shoved the cart at him. He pushed it backwards, laughing. Linda from 203 was not there, but he still reached for my hand as we walked toward the checkout. And I still didn’t pull away.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Kai had passed out almost instantly — one arm slung over his eyes, hair messy, mouth slightly open like he was dreaming about arguing with me in another timeline. He looked soft. Uncomplicated. Too good at this.
It was a problem, how easy it had become. Fake dating shouldn’t feel this close. This warm. This natural. I lay there for too long, staring at the ceiling, wondering when exactly this stopped being a favour and started feeling like something else.
And then he spoke. Murmured, really. Barely above a breath.
“Don’t go.”
I froze. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Just shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher like he’d been cold. He was asleep. He was dreaming.
“Don’t go,” he said again, quieter now. Not desperate. Just soft. Like it was a truth he hadn’t meant to share.
I turned toward him. My heart did a stupid, fluttery thing I chose to ignore. I didn’t respond. I just laid there, wide awake, and listened to him breathe. The next morning, I didn’t bring it up.
He didn’t seem to remember — just greeted me with his usual grin and a mumbled, “Morning, angel,” like that was just normal now. I stared at him. He looked like he hadn’t slept a second. Hoodie half-on. One sock missing. Hair standing up at the back. He poured cereal into a mug.
“You okay?” I asked.
He blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I didn’t answer.
He left for the studio around noon — something about a friend’s project. I spent the day cleaning, trying not to spiral. I told myself we were just playing a part. That he said weird things in his sleep all the time.
But I kept hearing it. Don’t go. Like it mattered. Like I did. That night, he came home late.
He looked tired — not in the physical way, but in the kind of way people do when they’ve been thinking too much.
He didn’t knock before coming into my room. Just flopped onto the bed with a sigh and pulled the covers up over both of us like he hadn’t been gone for eight hours.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Studio stuff?”
He nodded into the pillow. “Loud. Too many people. Too much light.”
I paused. “And you came back here.”
He opened his eyes, barely.
“Always.”
And for some reason — some stupid, unfixable reason — I reached over and touched his hand. Not for the bit. Not for Linda. Just because I wanted to. He didn’t let go.
It started with the orange juice.
Not the most romantic of beverages, but it might as well have been a love letter. I hadn’t even noticed we were out. But when I stumbled into the kitchen that morning — sleep-heavy, hoodie half-zipped, brain still rebooting — it was already there on the counter, cold and full and perfectly pulpy. Exactly how I liked it.
I blinked at it. Then at Kai, who was standing by the stove, flipping something in a pan like he was auditioning for a cooking show that only aired in our apartment.
“You like pulp, right?” he said casually, without turning around.
I nodded before I could stop myself. “Yeah. But… I never told you that.”
He shrugged. “You make a face when it’s the smooth kind.”
I stared at him.
“You memorized my juice preferences?”
He flipped the egg. “I memorize everything about you.”
My brain short-circuited.
He turned around, face calm and unreadable for once. “Fake boyfriend duties,” he added, like he hadn’t just said something that made my stomach flip like a gymnast.
I sat down at the table before my knees did something dramatic. Breakfast was too quiet.
He made us both eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Everything normal. Except it wasn’t. Because now I was thinking about what else he’d noticed. What else he’d memorized. What other tiny, throwaway things I’d said that he’d tucked away somewhere just because.
I couldn’t look at him. Not for long. Which was ridiculous. We’d lived together for over a month now. We’d shared a bed for the last twenty nights in a row. I’d seen him sleep with his mouth open. He’d seen me cry during a shampoo commercial.
This shouldn’t have felt like a shift. But it did. Something small. Something slow. Something dangerous.
Around midday, I fell asleep on the couch. I hadn’t meant to. The sun had been warm, Kai was somewhere down the hall humming something tuneless, and the world had just… tilted sideways.
I woke up to him draping a blanket over me. It was so gentle I almost didn’t feel it. But I opened my eyes just enough to catch the soft curve of his face. The way his mouth tilted at the corner like he was fighting a smile. His fingers lingered on the edge of the blanket.
And then — without a word — he leaned in. Kissed my forehead. I froze. He pulled back instantly. Too quickly. I squeezed my eyes shut, heart hammering. He thought I was asleep. He didn’t mean for me to know. And somehow, that made it worse.
We didn’t talk about it.
Not the orange juice. Not the forehead kiss. Not the fact that every time he looked at me now, I felt like I was standing at the edge of something I didn’t have a name for.
He still did everything the same. Still knocked once and then entered anyway. Still called me babe like it meant nothing. Or maybe everything. Still sat too close on the couch and didn’t notice how I stopped breathing when his knee brushed mine. Still reached for my hand in the hallway even when no one was looking.
I wanted to ask him if he remembered what he said in his sleep.
If he knew I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. But I didn’t. Because I was scared of what he’d say. And more scared of what he wouldn’t.
The thing about falling for someone you’re not supposed to — someone who’s technically just a roommate, legally just a fake boyfriend — is that it doesn’t happen all at once.
It’s slow. It’s a grocery list, remembered. A blanket, draped. A kiss, meant for a dream. A hundred moments that start to stitch themselves into something you can’t pull out of.
That night, we were in bed. The usual silence. Familiar warmth. The soft shuffle of his hoodie sleeve brushing mine. And then, just as I was slipping under, his voice cut through the dark.
“You awake?”
I paused. “Yeah.”
“…You ever think we’re making this more complicated than it has to be?”
I turned toward him, heart in my throat. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer for a second.
Then: “Nothing. Just—forget it.”
I waited. But he didn’t say anything else.
Eventually, I rolled over, staring at the ceiling while my chest ached in a way I didn’t know how to fix. The line between fake and real was gone. And I had no idea where we stood.
At some point, I stopped noticing when he called me “babe.”
Which was a problem. Because I used to notice. I used to flinch. Used to roll my eyes and shove his shoulder like we weren’t faking a relationship for free rent and nosy neighbours.
But now? Now it just slipped past me, as casual as coffee. Like—
“Want the last dumpling, babe?”
Like that.
“Go for it,” I said without thinking, too busy scrolling through the takeaway menu to register what I’d just responded to.
A full five seconds passed.
Then I blinked. “Wait. Did you just—”
“Call you babe?” Kai grinned over his chopsticks. “I’ve said it five times tonight.”
I stared at him.
“I counted,” he added helpfully.
I reached for a napkin and threw it directly at his smug, infuriating, unfairly symmetrical face. It was getting out of hand.
He’d always been dramatic. The pet names started as a joke — the bit, as he called it — but somewhere between “babe,” “love,” “sweetheart,” and the disturbingly sincere “darling” he dropped while handing me a mug of tea, I lost the thread.
He used them everywhere. In the hall. In front of the neighbours. At home. At breakfast. While brushing his teeth. Half-asleep in my bed, voice soft and sleep-warm. It was second nature now.
And I was starting to hate how natural it felt.
The rest of the building loved it.
Linda from 203 started smiling at us differently. Brandon from 2B made a joke about couple’s game night being “right up our alley.” The mailman asked if we were planning to adopt a pet together.
“We give off pet energy now?” I whispered to Kai as we walked back to the apartment.
“You give golden retriever girlfriend,” he replied instantly. “I’m just supporting the bit.”
“Stop calling it a bit.”
“What else would it be?”
That shut me up.
The routines were the worst part.
Because they weren’t fake. They weren’t for show. No one was watching us when he pulled my chair out at dinner. Or poured my juice without asking how I liked it. Or handed me the remote because he knew I hated scrolling. Or asked how work was and actually listened.
He learned the way I liked my toast. He bought snacks I’d mentioned once three weeks ago. He started wearing the hoodie I liked when I was having a bad day.
I didn’t ask him to. I never asked him to. And he never made it weird.
He just… did those things. Naturally. Quietly. Like he cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at this. But sometimes it felt real in a way I couldn’t explain.
That night, he was already in my room before I even got there.
Blanket on. Phone in hand. Hoodie half-zipped like the chaos goblin he was.
“Can you pass me my charger, babe?” he asked, barely glancing up.
I tossed it at him wordlessly.
“Thanks, love,” he added, grinning when I made a face.
I climbed in beside him, leaving the same amount of space I always did. But it felt smaller now. Like the room had shrunk around us. Or maybe the distance between fake and real had.
“You’re quiet,” he said after a while, voice muffled into the pillow.
“I’m tired.”
He shifted slightly, closer. “From what?”
“From pretending.”
He stilled. I hated how fast my heart was beating.
“I mean, like… the whole bit,” I added quickly. “All of it. It’s getting hard to keep straight.”
Kai didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.
Then, softer: “You’re really good at it.”
“What?”
“Pretending.” His voice was low. “You make it easy to believe.”
I stared at the ceiling, something sharp catching in my throat.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “You too.”
We didn’t say goodnight. Just turned off the lamp. And lay there in the dark, pretending we were both okay with how real it was starting to feel.
The invitation came in the form of a group chat I didn’t know I was in.
[2B Brandon]
🏆🏡 GAME NIGHT THIS FRIDAY – COMMON ROOM – BRING SNACKS, BRING SKILL, BRING YOUR PARTNER 😏
[203 Linda]
Finally, we get to see if the “cutest couple on the third floor” lives up to the hype 😌
[Kai 🐧]
sounds like a challenge 😈
[Me]
we’re not a real couple???
[Kai 🐧]
sure babe 😘
“I’m not emotionally prepared for this,” I muttered, standing in front of the hallway mirror and adjusting my hoodie like it mattered.
Kai appeared behind me, holding two bags of chips and a tray of brownies.
“You say that like we’re going to war and not playing Pictionary with Linda from 203.”
“She’s scary.”
“She’s seventy.”
“She’s strategic.”
“She also thinks I’m ‘the softest thing since marshmallows,’” Kai said proudly. “We’re bringing her the corner brownie. That’s social currency.”
We got to the common room five minutes late and still somehow managed to be the last ones there. Eight neighbours. One coffee table. Too many cushions. And us — dropped into the only space left on the two-seater couch like a puzzle piece no one could ignore.
Linda smiled at us from across the room. “Oh, good. You two can sit together.”
I felt Kai’s hand graze mine as we sat. Not holding it. Not on purpose. Just… there. Close. Warm.
He leaned in. “Ready to dominate?”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
His grin was lethal.
The games started simple. Charades. Then trivia. Then some homemade monstrosity Brandon called “Relationship Roulette,” which involved drawing cards and answering uncomfortable couple questions “for points.”
I could see where this was going. Halfway through round one, it happened.
Brandon: “Okay, your turn. Kai and—uh—sorry, I don’t actually know your name. I just call you Kai’s girlfriend in my head.”
“Cool,” I said, blinking.
Kai, casually eating chips: “She answers to babe.”
I kicked his shin under the table. Linda giggled.
Brandon: “Alright then. Relationship Roulette says: tell us your partner’s biggest pet peeve.”
I opened my mouth.
Kai beat me to it. “When people chew with their mouth open. Or when there’s hair in the drain. Or when I leave the sponge in the sink.”
Everyone stared.
He shrugged. “What? I pay attention.”
I blinked at him. Because… yeah. That was all correct. Down to the sponge thing, which I’d only complained about once, three weeks ago, while half-asleep.
It was such a stupid little detail. But it made something in my chest twist. The next round was worse.
Linda: “Tell us about your first kiss.”
Brandon: “Or do a forfeit. But it’s Linda’s homemade wasabi chocolate.”
Kai and I locked eyes.
He was trying not to smile. “You remember our first kiss, right?”
I cleared my throat. “Of course.”
There was no first kiss. There were almost kisses. Stupidly close moments. A forehead touch that lingered too long. A time he’d said my name like it hurt to. But no kiss.
Still, I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said: “It was raining. You forgot your umbrella. I shared mine.”
Kai nodded. “You were holding coffee. It was cold. You kissed me before I could start shivering.”
I blinked. He said it so easily. Like he’d imagined it before. Maybe he had.
Linda clapped. “That’s adorable.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
The game wrapped around ten. People filtered out. Some lingered.
Linda cornered us by the snack table, handing Kai her extra cookies “for being such a good boyfriend.”
“I’m not actually—” I started.
She raised a brow. “Sweetheart, he looks at you like he’d walk into traffic if you asked.”
I laughed awkwardly. But inside, something fluttered.
Back in the apartment, it was quiet.
I dropped my keys. Kicked off my shoes. Tried not to think about the game. The kiss-that-never-was. The way he’d said it like it meant something. Kai came up behind me in the kitchen.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
He leaned on the counter. “They all bought it.”
“Scary how good you are at lying.”
He raised a brow. “Was I lying?”
I looked at him. He looked serious. He didn’t push.
Just grabbed a glass of water, muttered “g’night, babe,” and disappeared down the hall.
We didn’t sleep in the same bed that night. Not because we weren’t supposed to. But because I wasn’t sure what I’d say if I woke up and he looked at me like that again.
Movie night started like it always did.
Blanket. Couch. Popcorn. Kai sitting way too close. Some chaotic action flick neither of us were really paying attention to. It was routine. Safe. Familiar.
He picked the movie. I picked the snacks. He picked the spot right next to me, like the whole couch didn’t exist. Like the world narrowed to the space between our knees.I didn’t flinch anymore when he got that close. That was the problem.
Halfway through the movie, he reached over and tugged the blanket higher around me without saying anything. I didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need me to.
It was normal now — this quiet, easy kind of care. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that made everything feel fine, even when it wasn’t. And then he leaned in.
Not a lot. Just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. Just enough for his laugh to catch against my cheek during a stupid scene. Just enough to make my brain forget what pretending meant.
He was warm. Too warm. He smelled like laundry and popcorn and the hoodie I secretly stole when he wasn’t looking.
I glanced at him. He didn’t move. He was watching the screen, but not really. His fingers were fidgeting with the blanket edge between us.
And then — without looking at me, without warning — he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. It wasn’t a joke. I could tell.
No dramatic sound effect. No finger guns. No obnoxious, “There. Nailed it. Boyfriend of the year.”
Just the brush of his lips against my skin. Quick. Gentle. Intentional. He froze. I did too. Neither of us moved.
He pulled back a second later — too slow to pretend it hadn’t happened. Too fast to pretend it meant nothing. I stared at him. He didn’t meet my eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. “It felt… right.”
Right. Right? My heart was doing that thing where it tried to claw its way up my throat. He still wouldn’t look at me.
He stood. “I’m gonna—” His hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just gonna go crash.”
“Okay,” I said.
He didn’t say goodnight. I sat there long after the movie ended.
The popcorn was cold. The blanket still smelled like him. And my forehead burned like he’d written something there I couldn’t read. I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
I told myself it was just an accident. A mistake. A weird moment in a long list of weird moments. But he kissed me like he wanted to. And left like he regretted it.
It happened at 3:14 a.m.
I only knew the exact time because I’d been staring at the ceiling for the last hour, sleep nowhere in sight, heart still reeling from the forehead kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.
Kai had climbed into bed next to me like nothing had changed.
He mumbled a goodnight. Rolled over. Fell asleep like his heart hadn’t exploded mine twenty-four hours earlier. I, on the other hand, was a mess.
My thoughts were tangled, looping, lapping over each other like waves. What did it mean? Why did he do it? And why—when he kissed me—did it feel so terrifyingly real?
I turned to face the wall. And that’s when I heard it. Barely above a whisper. The softest sound. A voice too thick with sleep to censor itself. But clear. Clear enough to split me open.
“I’d stay, if you asked.”
I froze. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. He was asleep. Fully, deeply asleep. One hand curled under the pillow, hair sticking to his forehead, breath slow and even.
“I’d stay…”
His voice faded off, too quiet to catch the rest. I stayed still for what felt like hours. Eyes wide open, chest aching, every nerve in my body screaming at the quiet.
Stay? Stay where? With me? In this? In us?
It was probably a dream. Just a sleep-mumbled nothing. Something stupid his brain said out of context. But it didn’t sound like nothing. It sounded like truth.
The next morning, I didn’t bring it up. How could I? How do you look someone in the eye after they confess something in their sleep?
He came into the kitchen humming something tuneless, hair still a mess, hoodie falling off one shoulder like it had somewhere better to be.
“Morning, love,” he said, sliding me a plate of toast.
My hands trembled slightly as I took it.
“Sleep okay?” I asked carefully.
“Like a rock,” he said with a grin. “You?”
“Sure.”
He didn’t remember. I don’t know if that made it better or worse. The rest of the day felt wrong. He was the same. All charm and chaos and unnecessary physical contact.
He offered me the last dumpling. Called me babe in front of the mailman. Sat so close on the couch that our knees touched for twenty full minutes before I finally moved. But I wasn’t the same. Not anymore. Not after hearing something I was never supposed to hear.
Later that night, he flopped onto my bed like he owned the place.
“You watching another comfort show tonight?”
“Trying to,” I muttered, clutching my laptop like it could protect me from him.
He stretched, one arm behind his head. “Want company?”
“You’re already here.”
“Good. Then I don’t have to ask.”
We lay there in silence. The screen flickered. The room felt heavy. Eventually, he spoke.
“You okay?”
I hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“So have you.”
He nodded, eyes still on me. “I’m just… thinking.”
“About what?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
“…Nothing important.”
Liar.
That night, I lay awake again. But not because I couldn’t sleep. Because I didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to hear it again. Whatever it was. Whatever part of him slipped out when he wasn’t pretending. But he didn’t say anything. Just breathed softly beside me.
Asleep. Gone. Safe.
The envelope came on a Tuesday. It was cream-coloured. Hand-delivered. Tucked beneath our front door like it had snuck in all polite and innocent.
To Our Favourite Tenants
You are warmly invited to Mr. and Mrs. Park’s 40th Anniversary Dinner
Formal attire required.
Plus ones strongly encouraged.
Love,
Management 🥂
I stared at it. Then I stared at Kai. He was on the floor, half under the coffee table, eating grapes off a plate like he’d never seen a chair in his life.
“This is it,” I said, voice hollow.
He looked up. “Did we get evicted?”
“Worse. We got invited to their wedding vow renewal dinner.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“We’re not couple-y enough for that.”
“I KNOW.”
The stress hit instantly. Because this wasn’t just any dinner. This was the Park dinner. As in, the Parks who owned the building. The Parks who gave us that “generous rent adjustment” in exchange for “building harmony” and “domestic presentation.”
They were the reason we pretended in the first place. Now we had to go sit at a table, drink sparkling water out of real glassware, and tell them stories about our fake little life like it was the truth. It felt like a test.
And Kai? Kai treated it like the Olympics.
“We need a backstory,” he said, already scribbling on a notepad.
“You want to rehearse?”
“We’ve been winging it this whole time. This is high stakes. We can’t risk plot holes.”
“You’re serious?”
He looked at me.
“I’m gonna have to tell a table full of retirees how we fell in love. Yes, I’m serious.”
I sighed and sat beside him. “Fine. Hit me.”
We spent two hours building a fake relationship from the ground up.
How we met: “Bookstore. We reached for the same book. Your hand was warm.”
Our first date: “You made me try mint choc chip even though I swore I hated it.”
Inside jokes: “You always say ‘hey, don’t die’ instead of goodbye. Like it’s a rule.”
Nicknames: “I call you babe. You call me chaos.”
I paused. “That part’s not fake.”
He smiled. “Nope.”
Somewhere around hour three, he brought out the photo album.
“Don’t ask,” he said, flipping it open.
“You MADE a scrapbook?!”
“No,” he said casually. “I edited one.”
Inside: pictures of us. Us at the food court. Us on the couch. Us mid-laugh, mid-snack, mid-nap. Somehow every photo made it look like we were a couple already. Like I leaned on him for comfort and he looked at me like I was made of gold.
Because I did. And he did. I touched one of the photos softly. We weren’t even looking at the camera. But it looked like love.
“…They’re going to believe this,” I whispered.
Kai looked at me.
Then: “Would that be so bad?”
We got quiet after that. Too quiet. He leaned back against the wall. I mirrored him. Our knees almost touched. Our hands didn’t. But they could have.
“Kai,” I said softly.
“Yeah?”
“What are we doing?”
His brow creased. “Right now?”
“No. I mean… all of this.”
He stared at the photo album.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But sometimes I forget it’s fake. And I think that counts for something.”
The dinner was in three days. We practiced everything. Rehearsed lines. Inside jokes. Practiced saying “I love you” without flinching.
I wasn’t sure what scared me more — saying it like I meant it…
or the fact that I already did.
I didn’t expect him to look like that. Not in a suit. Not standing in my doorway with a tie loose around his neck and his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets like he didn’t know he’d just ended my life.
“Ready?” he asked casually, like I hadn’t just mentally blacked out.
“Uh—yeah. Sure. You… clean up nice.”
He grinned, a little crooked. “You sound surprised.”
I was. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. The Park’s anniversary dinner was held at some upscale restaurant downtown — all soft lighting and white tablecloths and sparkling drinks I couldn’t pronounce.
We arrived exactly on time. Kai held the door open for me. Hand at the small of my back. Leaned in to whisper something stupid that made me laugh before we even stepped inside.
He was dangerous like this. Charming. Present. Attentive. Like a real boyfriend.
“Look at you two!” Mrs. Park beamed the moment we approached the table. “Even cuter in person. Sit, sit!”
We slid into our seats, hands brushing. Kai rested his elbow on the back of my chair like it was second nature.
“Oh,” she added, turning to the others at the table, “these are the third-floor lovebirds I’ve been telling you about.”
I smiled, swallowing nerves. Kai? Kai turned to me, eyes soft, and said: “Can’t believe we made the cut, babe.”
I wanted to melt. Dinner was a minefield. Every conversation twisted toward us.
“How did you two meet?”
“Any plans to move in somewhere bigger?”
“Is there a wedding in the future?”
Kai answered everything smoothly.
“Bookstore,” he said, smiling at me. “She thought I was stealing the last copy of a poetry book she liked. We argued in front of the register.”
Mrs. Park laughed. “You don’t seem like a poetry type.”
“I’m not,” he said. “But I bought it anyway. Just to have an excuse to see her again.”
My stomach twisted. Because that wasn’t in the script. That wasn’t in the backstory we made. I looked at him. He didn’t break character. Just reached for my hand under the table, like the most natural thing in the world.
The room spun quietly around us. People talked. Toasts clinked. Someone teared up over a slide show of the Parks’ wedding day. But all I could feel was the warmth of Kai’s thumb brushing slow circles against my knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar.
I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. After dinner, we wandered onto the rooftop terrace. String lights glowed. The city blinked below. It was quiet. Too quiet.
“You okay?” he asked, standing close.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded, like he got it.
“You were… good in there,” I said.
“You too.”
There was a beat. Then—
“You didn’t tell me you were going to say that.”
“What?”
“The poetry thing.”
He looked at me. And for once, he didn’t smile.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you said it anyway.”
“Yeah.”
My heart was in my throat. He stepped closer.
“I keep forgetting what’s fake,” he said quietly. “Even when I’m trying not to.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Kai—”
He reached up. Brushed my hair behind my ear. Soft. Gentle. Like it mattered.
“I’d kiss you right now,” he said, voice low, “if it wouldn’t ruin everything.”
He didn’t kiss me. He just looked at me for one more second — like he wanted to remember something — and walked back inside. I stood there alone, hands cold, heart louder than it should’ve been.
And I thought: It’s already ruined.
It started with a fight. A soft one. Not a yelling match. Just the quiet kind of argument that happens when you both care too much and don’t know what to do with it.
Kai had been weird since the dinner. More distant. Or maybe just quieter. Still calling me babe. Still stealing my fries. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. Not when I looked too long.
We were folding laundry when I said, “We should cool it.”
He raised a brow. “Cool what?”
“This whole… thing.”
He didn’t answer.
I folded a towel. “I just think we’re starting to get too comfortable.”
“Isn’t that the point of a relationship?”
I looked up. “It’s not a real relationship.”
He nodded. Said nothing.
Then, suddenly: “Fine. Let’s both go on dates.”
I blinked. “What?”
“We’re fake. Let’s prove it.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a fake boyfriend,” he said flatly.
We made rules. No jealousy. No weird questions. No drama. Just one date each. Casual. Light. To prove this wasn’t getting out of hand. To prove we were still fine. We were not fine.
My date was named Jason. Jason was… nice. He was polite. He complimented my shoes. He talked about hiking and photography and “how rare it is to meet someone who reads.”
I smiled. Nodded. Made polite noises. But every time he laughed, I missed Kai’s laugh more. And when Jason leaned in and touched my hand, I didn’t feel anything except the ache of wrong.
Because Kai’s hand was always warm. Always steady. Always just… right there. Jason wasn’t Kai. And I hated how obvious that was.
I came home before ten. The lights were off. But Kai was awake, sitting on the couch, hoodie pulled over his knees like he hadn’t moved in hours.
“Hey,” I said, shutting the door softly behind me.
He looked up. His eyes were unreadable. “Hey.”
We stared at each other in the dim light.
“How was it?” he asked after a pause.
“Fine.”
“Did you like him?”
I hesitated. “Did you?”
He didn’t flinch. “I left after twenty minutes.”
“What?”
“She asked if I believed in soulmates. I panicked and pretended I had a dentist appointment.”
I bit back a laugh.
“Kai.”
He shrugged, voice low. “It didn’t feel right.”
We stood in silence again.
Then he looked at me — really looked at me — and said:
“You looked good when you left.”
I blinked. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“Didn’t want to make it harder.”
My chest ached. I crossed the room and sat beside him. Our knees touched. Neither of us moved away.
“Did it work?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“The dates. Did they fix it?”
He didn’t answer. Because we both knew the answer. That night, we didn’t sleep in the same bed. But it wasn’t about boundaries anymore.
It was about space. About aching. About the fear of what would happen if we let ourselves touch. Because if I touched him now, I wasn’t sure I could let go. And he knew that, too.
It happened on a Thursday. I wasn’t looking for him. I was walking home, headphones in, brain somewhere else — and then I saw it.
Kai. On the sidewalk. Across the street. With someone I didn’t know. She was laughing. Touching his arm. And then she leaned in. And he didn’t move. And she kissed him.
Quick. Casual. Just a kiss. He didn’t kiss her back. But he didn’t stop it either.
I froze on the corner, heart in my throat, the world around me blurring into static. And I thought: So that’s what it looks like when it’s real. I didn’t say anything when I got home.
He wasn’t back yet. His sneakers were gone. His room dark. I sat on the couch in my hoodie, knees pulled to my chest, trying to remember how to breathe. It didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t mine. We were just pretending.
I kept saying it like a prayer. A mantra. A warning. But I couldn’t stop picturing it. The way his body didn’t flinch. The way he let her lean in. The way he just stood there like it didn’t break him. It broke me. And he didn’t even know.
When he came home an hour later, I was still curled on the couch.
“Hey,” he said, dropping his bag by the door. “Did you eat?”
I nodded.
“Liar,” he murmured, disappearing into the kitchen.
I heard cabinets. Plates. The microwave. Normal things. Safe things. He came back with a bowl of rice and handed it to me wordlessly. I didn’t look at him.
“Thanks,” I said.
He sat down beside me. We watched an episode of something forgettable. I couldn’t focus. The air between us was different. He noticed.
“Are we okay?” he asked softly.
I forced a smile. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Just tired.”
He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. That night, I went to bed early. I couldn’t sleep. My pillow still smelled like him. My hoodie was still warm from his body heat. Every inch of the apartment felt like him.
But not like mine. Just like a version of him I was borrowing. Temporarily. Until the act ended. And I couldn’t shake the image of her lips on his. How he didn’t move. How maybe — just maybe — that’s what he actually wanted.
In the morning, he made pancakes. I sat at the table in silence. He looked tired. Not hungover. Just… dimmed. Like something inside him was pulling shut.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
I flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he pushed the plate toward me. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
I looked at him. Really looked. And said the one thing I shouldn’t have said.
“I saw you yesterday.”
His face didn’t change. But his fingers twitched.
“With that girl,” I added. “On the sidewalk.”
He closed his eyes.
“She kissed me,” he said. Quiet. Measured.
“And you didn’t stop her.”
He opened his eyes. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
We stared at each other. He looked wrecked. But so was I.
“I’m not mad,” I whispered. “I just… I thought maybe…”
“What?”
“I thought maybe this wasn’t fake anymore.”
His face broke.
“Kai,” I started, but the words died.
Because what was there left to say? He stood up. Took a breath.
“I didn’t kiss her back,” he said. “I wanted to tell you. But I didn’t know how.”
“Why?”
“Because if I said it, I’d have to admit that none of this is pretend for me anymore.”
My heart stopped. But he was already walking away. He slept in his room that night. No goodnight. No soft jokes. No movie reruns or shared blankets. Just silence. And a growing distance that neither of us knew how to cross.
It didn’t fall apart all at once. It wasn’t a blowout or a storm or some dramatic screaming match in the middle of the kitchen. It was slower than that. Quieter. Worse.
The silence settled in like fog. Soft at first. Then dense. Then permanent. We stopped talking. Not completely — just enough for it to hurt. It started with the skipped goodnights.
Then the missed breakfast plates. Then the closed doors. Then the mornings where we passed each other like strangers in our own home. The apartment used to feel warm. Lived in. Shared. Now it just felt like space. Like space I didn’t deserve to take up.
He left earlier in the mornings. I stayed in bed longer. He ate lunch out. I made mine silently, headphones in, back turned to the hall. Dinner became a negotiation of silence — one of us would cook, the other would vanish.
Sometimes I caught him looking at me. Not angry. Not cold. Just sad. But he didn’t speak. Neither did I. I didn’t tell anyone what was happening. Because what would I even say? That my fake boyfriend stopped kissing my forehead? That I missed his stupid nicknames and the way he used to steal my hoodies and collapse onto my lap like he was entitled to it?
That I missed him?
It would’ve sounded ridiculous. Because none of it was real. Right?
The rain came a week later. One of those slow, endless rains that starts in the morning and never really stops. Everything smelled like wet concrete and regret. I stayed home. Curled on the couch in the dark, watching the city blur behind the glass.
The TV was off. The apartment too quiet. Kai’s door was closed. The longer the rain poured, the louder everything else got — my heartbeat, my thoughts, the echo of everything I should’ve said.
I missed him. I missed us. I missed being able to say that I missed him. By late afternoon, I broke.
I stood outside his door for ten minutes, hand raised, too scared to knock. When I finally did, it was soft. Just once. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I almost left. But then—
The door cracked open.
He stood there, hoodie loose, eyes tired, like he hadn’t slept in days. We stared at each other. No words. Just silence. And then I said it. “I miss you.”
His face didn’t change. Not at first. Then his eyes dropped, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a week.
“You’re not the only one,” he said, voice barely there.
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.
“I don’t either.”
“I saw you kiss her—”
“She kissed me.”
“I know. I still saw it.”
“I know.”
We stood in it. In the ache. In the guilt and the confusion and the weight of everything we hadn’t said. And then, because I couldn’t take the quiet anymore:
“I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.”
He looked up at me. “You don’t have to.”
I thought that would be it. I thought that was the moment we’d figure it out — step into each other like gravity and finally let ourselves have what we’d been dancing around since the day we moved in.
But instead, he stepped back.
“I need to think,” he said softly.
“I don’t want space,” I said.
“I do,” he replied. “Not from you. From all the pretending.”
My chest cracked.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he added. “And I need to.”
He didn’t shut the door. But he didn’t come back either. I spent the rest of the evening curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled like him.
The rain kept falling. And for the first time since he moved in, I felt truly alone.
Days passed. Not fast. Not slow. Just one after another, like water dripping through a cracked ceiling. He stayed quiet. Not distant, exactly. Just careful.
He cooked sometimes. I did the dishes. We moved through the apartment like ghosts with soft footprints, careful not to rattle the air between us. No pet names. No forehead kisses. No movie nights.
But every once in a while, he looked at me like he used to. And that was almost worse.
One night, I found his hoodie folded on the end of the couch. Mine. The one he always wore. The one I’d yelled at him for stretching out. He’d washed it. Folded it neatly. Left it there without a note. A peace offering, maybe.
I stared at it for a long time. Didn’t touch it. But I didn’t move it either.
It rained again two days later. Softly this time. Gentle taps on the windows. No storm, just stillness. I was curled on the armchair, knees tucked to my chest, blanket up to my chin, watching a documentary I wasn’t actually absorbing.
Kai walked in halfway through. Paused. Then sat on the far end of the couch. Not next to me. But closer than he’d been in days. Neither of us spoke. Ten minutes in, he shifted.
“Is it weird,” he said suddenly, “that I keep hearing your voice in my head?”
My heart stuttered.
I glanced at him. “What?”
He kept his eyes on the screen. “I mean… I walk past your room and think I hear you laughing. Or I open the fridge and expect you to yell at me for finishing the oat milk again.”
I blinked. “You did finish the oat milk.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I replaced it.”
We fell quiet again. Half an hour passed. I could feel him watching me. Like he was trying not to. Like it hurt to look.
“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. Voice thick. “For hurting you. For being stupid. For not stopping that kiss. For—”
“Don’t,” I said.
He fell silent. I looked at him. Really looked. His hair was messy. Eyes tired. Shoulders curled like he was bracing for impact.
“I’m not mad at you,” I said gently. “I was just… scared.”
“Of what?”
“That I care more than I’m supposed to.”
He swallowed. “Same.”
The silence stretched again. Then, carefully, I moved to the couch. Slowly. Cautiously. I didn’t sit beside him — not quite. Just close enough for my knee to brush his.
He didn’t move away. Our shoulders touched. Briefly. Lightly. And then— His pinky brushed mine. The tiniest contact. And still, it made my chest twist.
I didn’t pull back. He didn’t push forward. We just sat there. Half in. Half out. Almost something.
Later that night, we stood in the kitchen at the same time. He was making tea. I was reaching for a glass. He handed me the mug without asking. I took it.
Our fingers touched. And neither of us moved. I looked up. He looked back. The moment hung there. Fragile. Whole. Real. I thought maybe he would kiss me. But instead, he said:
“Goodnight.”
And walked away.
We weren’t supposed to go together. Originally, we were both invited separately. Mutual friend. Separate RSVP cards. No expectation, no pressure.
But then Sooah texted: “I’m putting you two together on the guest list, obviously. Let me know your food prefs. Can’t wait to see you. Also—HOTEL ROOM BOOKED. You’re welcome.”
I read the message three times before turning to Kai, who was halfway through a cereal bowl on the kitchen floor.
“We’re sharing a room,” I said flatly.
He blinked. “At the wedding?”
I held up the message. He stared.
“...Cool,” he said. “No pressure.”
So casual. So composed. So clearly panicking.
The hotel was nice. Too nice. Crisp white sheets, golden lighting, one very large bed that looked like a promise. We walked in and neither of us said anything for five straight minutes.
“I can take the floor,” Kai offered eventually.
“You’ll break your spine.”
“I have youth.”
“You have fragile man-hips.”
He cracked a smile. It was the first real one in weeks. I looked away too fast.
The wedding was a blur of soft music and candles and happy people spinning in silk. Kai looked like a problem in his suit. Tie loosened just enough. Sleeves rolled to the elbow like he knew.
“Stop fidgeting,” he muttered, reaching out to adjust the strap on my dress. “You look perfect.”
My chest ached.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t push.
We sat together at the reception table, too close, too far. When the photographer passed, Kai leaned in and slipped his hand around my waist automatically. The shutter clicked. We didn’t move.
Later, someone raised a toast to soulmates.
Someone else pointed at us and said, “You two are next.”
Kai laughed politely. I blinked. The ache in my chest didn’t go away. We went back to the room in silence. I changed first. He turned around, pretending not to look. I did the same for him.
When we both finally climbed into the bed, we lay back-to-back. Two feet of empty space between us, one shared blanket, and a galaxy of unsaid things.
The room was dark. The air was loud. He exhaled, slow and quiet.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said truthfully.
He turned over. “Me neither.”
We didn’t face each other. But we didn’t fall asleep, either. Minutes passed. Hours maybe.
Then he whispered, “I miss you.”
It broke me. I turned, slowly, and found him already facing me. Eyes open. Barely lit by the moon.
“I miss you too,” I said, barely above a breath.
He reached out. His hand found mine under the blanket. No hesitation this time.
“I don’t know what we are anymore,” he said. “But I want this.”
“Even if it’s messy?”
“Especially if it’s messy.”
Silence again. Then— He leaned in. Close. Closer. And I let him.
His forehead touched mine. His breath warm against my lips. But he didn’t kiss me. Not yet. Just whispered:
“I want to kiss you.”
“Then do it,” I whispered back.
He didn’t. Not then. He closed his eyes. Pulled me into his chest. Held me like he was trying to keep something from falling apart. And I let him.
We slept like that. Tangled. Close. Almost something.
We didn’t kiss. We just fell asleep tangled in each other like it was inevitable. I woke up first.
His arm was around my waist. My face pressed into the space between his neck and shoulder. His hoodie wrapped around both of us like a safety net.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. But I did. Because that was easier than pretending I wasn’t thinking about it. He woke up not long after.
We got ready in silence. No jokes. No teasing. No mention of the fact that I’d practically fallen asleep in his arms. He offered me the toothpaste wordlessly. I handed him the hairdryer. It felt like choreography. Like something we’d done a thousand times. But everything was different.
The air between us buzzed with what we hadn’t done. What we almost did. What we’d admitted in the dark but couldn’t seem to say with the lights on. We checked out just after noon.
The car ride was quiet. I watched the highway blur past the window and tried to remember when it all started to hurt this much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to be fake. Casual. Temporary.
Instead, he’d held me all night like I was something he couldn’t bear to let go of. And now he wouldn’t even look at me.
“Did I do something?” I asked eventually, the words tearing out before I could stop them.
Kai blinked. Glanced over. “What?”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
He exhaled, long and tired.
“I just…” He trailed off. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “It is.”
“I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
“You didn’t.”
Silence.
“But you’re hurting,” he said, so quietly I almost missed it.
I looked at him. “So are you.”
We didn’t talk again until we got home. The apartment looked the same. The couch was still messy. My blanket was still half-draped over the armrest like it was waiting for me.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood in the hallway, staring at nothing. Kai hovered behind me. And then:
“Maybe we should stop.”
I turned, stunned. “What?”
“This whole fake relationship thing.”
I stared.
“It’s not working anymore,” he said.
“You mean it’s too real.”
He didn’t answer.
“Are you saying you don’t want to do this anymore?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Then say something,” I snapped.
His eyes flashed. “Fine. I can’t keep pretending I’m just your roommate. I don’t know how to do this without wanting more.”
The breath punched out of me.
“I want to kiss you,” he said. “I want to wake up with you. I want to mean it. But I’m terrified it’s only me.”
I stepped closer. “It’s not.”
“Then why do you keep pulling away?”
“Because you kissed someone else.”
He flinched.
“Because you said it didn’t matter, but you didn’t tell me until I forced it out of you.”
His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know how.”
“Well, I don’t know how to be the one who cares more.”
We stood there. Broken. And I knew — if I reached for him now, he’d still come closer. But I didn’t. And neither did he. He walked to his room. Closed the door. The lock didn’t click. But the silence after felt like it did.
We agreed to fake the breakup over text. Which says everything, really. It started with a new lease form in the mailbox — a reminder from Mrs. Park that our lease was due to renew soon, and that “couples get first priority, of course 💞.”
I stared at the envelope for too long. I didn’t want to open it. Kai did. He read it once. Then again.
Then said, “We should probably… tell them.”
I didn’t ask what he meant. I knew. That we were breaking up. Publicly. Officially. To end the act. To make it easier. To protect whatever broken pieces we had left.
We rehearsed it once over coffee. No eye contact. Just quiet lines traded like a script neither of us wanted to say.
“They’ll probably ask what happened,” I said.
He nodded. “We can say we grew apart.”
“That’s depressing.”
“We’re fake. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”
I laughed. Bitter. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to make it too believable.”
He flinched. I looked away. We told the Parks on a Saturday morning. I stood beside Kai in the hallway, hands clenched in my sleeves like a kid in trouble.
“We just… realised it wasn’t working,” I said. “No hard feelings.”
Mrs. Park gasped like we’d just divorced after 20 years of marriage.
“Oh no! But you two were so sweet!”
Kai smiled, thin. “We’re still friends.”
That was a lie. We weren’t anything anymore. Word got around the building in 48 hours. The neighbours started giving us the look — the soft, pitying kind you give someone who’s just lost something.
Someone left a tub of cookie dough at our door with a note: “Breakups suck. Sugar helps.”
I laughed so hard I cried. Inside the apartment, everything changed. He stopped lingering in the kitchen. I stopped sitting on the couch. He avoided my gaze. I stopped trying to catch it.
It was like living with a ghost. One that used to laugh at my jokes and steal my laundry and curl up beside me just to be close. Now he barely looked at me. And when he did — it hurt.
One night, I caught him in the kitchen past midnight. He didn’t hear me come in. He was standing at the sink, drinking from a glass, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess — and he looked tired. So tired. I leaned on the doorframe. He turned. Paused. Then offered a soft, almost-smile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You?”
I shrugged. We stood there in the half-dark.
And then I whispered, “Do you miss it?”
He looked up. Eyes guarded. “Miss what?”
“This,” I said. “Us.”
His jaw tensed. Then he said, so quietly it almost didn’t reach me:
“I never stopped.”
I didn’t answer. I walked back to my room. Closed the door. Cried like it was the end of something. Because maybe it was. Or maybe I just didn’t know how to start again.
I called my best friend the next day. Told her the whole thing. Every lie, every kiss, every time I pretended not to notice how fast my heart beat when he walked into the room. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
Then: “Do you love him?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“You told him?”
I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “He doesn’t want to know.”
“You don’t know that.”
I wiped my eyes. “He left. Isn’t that enough?”
She sighed. “You’re scared. But if you don’t tell him, he’ll never come back.”
I didn’t reply. But her words stayed.
That night, I found the lease renewal form still sitting on the table. Unsigned. Untouched. Waiting. I stared at it for a long time.
And then I picked up a pen. Not to sign it. To write something else. Just two words in the corner of the envelope.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what else to say.
The envelope sat on the kitchen table like a loaded gun. It had been there for a week. Unopened. Unmoved.
Every day I walked past it. Made tea beside it. Ate cereal in front of it. Pretended I couldn’t see my own name printed in careful block letters across the front.
Lease Renewal – Unit 8B. Due by Friday.
Friday came. I still hadn’t touched it. Kai had stopped mentioning it. Stopped mentioning a lot of things. We existed like echoes in the same space — brushing past each other with small nods, small sounds, never real words.
He was still kind. Still washed his dishes. Still left the light on for me when he got home late. But he didn’t look at me the way he used to. And I was starting to think he never would again.
On Thursday night, it rained. The same kind of rain that had brought us together the first time — soft, steady, constant. I sat by the window, staring out into the glowing wet blur of the city, knees tucked up to my chest. Hoodie three sizes too big. Kai’s. I hadn’t returned it.
I could hear him moving around in the kitchen. Not speaking. Not coming closer. I think we both thought: If I speak first, I’ll break.
Around midnight, I got up. Walked into the kitchen. He was leaning on the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked exhausted. I opened the fridge. Reached for water. Closed it again. And then I turned around.
“Kai.”
He looked up. Eyes dull. “Yeah?”
I held up the envelope.
He stiffened. “Right.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t want to sign it without you,” I said.
Still no reply. So I added, carefully: “I don’t want to live here if you’re not here too.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then pushed away from the counter and walked across the room — slow, deliberate — and stood in front of me like he was bracing himself.
“Why?” he asked.
The question hurt.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why would you still want this?”
“Because it wasn’t fake for me,” I said.
His breath caught.
“It never was,” I added. “Even when it was supposed to be. Even when we were pretending. I meant every word. Every ‘babe.’ Every goodnight. Every stupid movie night where we fell asleep on opposite ends of the couch and woke up tangled.”
He looked like he was trying not to fall apart.
“And I didn’t run after you,” I said quietly, “because I didn’t think you wanted to be caught.”
Silence. Rain against the windows. And then—
He said, “You left a note.”
I blinked. “What?”
“On the envelope.”
Oh. I’m sorry.
“You read it?”
He nodded.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
My throat tightened. “Do you know now?”
He stepped closer.
“I want to stay,” he said. “I want to renew the lease. I want to keep watching terrible movies with you and cooking instant ramen and waking up with your face in my neck and not knowing where I end and you begin.”
I stopped breathing.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you. Quietly. For months. Maybe longer.”
I broke. Right there in the kitchen. Soft sob. Shaking hands. Tears I couldn’t explain. He moved without hesitation. Wrapped his arms around me. Held me like it was the first time and the last time and the only thing keeping him upright.
“I thought I lost you,” I whispered.
“You never did.”
“I almost let you go.”
“But you didn’t,” he said. “You stayed.”
We didn’t kiss then. Not yet. We just stood there — in the quiet apartment, in the middle of the storm, holding each other like the lease didn’t matter. Like nothing did except this.
The next morning, we signed the form. Together. His name beside mine. Messy. Real. When I handed it back to the landlord, Mrs. Park looked over the paper and beamed.
“I knew you two would work it out,” she said. “Love like that doesn’t fake easy.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, laughing. “I’ve lived in this building thirty years. I know the difference between pretend and I’d die for you.”
Kai turned pink. I laughed. And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — it felt like we were really okay.
Epilogue
We spent the morning after the lease was signed acting like two people who hadn’t just confessed their feelings in the middle of the kitchen.
We were both weirdly quiet. Not cold — just… new. New to the softness. New to the way Kai brushed my hand and didn’t pull away. New to the way I caught him staring and didn’t look down.
Everything felt tentative. Careful. Like we were afraid the wrong word might shatter whatever fragile truth we’d finally stepped into.
At some point that day, he started calling me “roommate” again. But softer this time. Teasing.
I was pouring cereal and he leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Hey, roommate. Pass the milk?”
I turned. Narrowed my eyes. “You’re really going with that?”
He shrugged. “I could go back to babe.”
My ears got hot. He smirked. We didn't kiss that day. Or the next. We didn’t even talk about what we were now — probably because neither of us knew how to label it without breaking the spell.
But I knew something had changed when he came home late from a shift and dropped his bag and flopped onto the couch beside me, half-asleep, mumbling:
“Missed you.”
Then knocked his head against my shoulder and stayed there until he started snoring.
Three days later, he kissed me. But it didn’t go how either of us probably imagined it.
We were walking home from the store. It had been a weirdly perfect day — sunny, warm, blue sky. He made me laugh so hard I dropped my reusable bag on the sidewalk.
Then, like the universe was determined to turn our lives into a romcom, the clouds rolled in. And it started raining. Hard.
Kai gasped. “YOU SAID NO RAIN TODAY.”
“You checked the weather?”
He blinked. “No.”
“Why would you lie to me like this.”
“Let’s run!” he shouted, already sprinting down the sidewalk like an idiot with the grocery bag smacking his leg.
I followed him, soaked to the bone, hair stuck to my face, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. He stopped halfway up the block. Turned around.
And just looked at me.
Rain in his lashes. Shirt sticking to his chest. Hands shaking with leftover adrenaline.
“Do you want me to kiss you now?” he asked.
I froze.
“You can say no,” he added. “I just—I want to. And I thought maybe—”
“Shut up,” I said.
And kissed him.
Right there on the sidewalk. In the rain. With grocery bags on the ground and water in our shoes and the sky coming down around us.
It was messy. And perfect. And real.
When we finally pulled apart, he whispered, “So… we’re not faking anymore?”
“Babe,” I said. “We haven’t been faking since, like, week two.”
He groaned. “I knew it.”
Six months later:
We’re still in the apartment. The lease is renewed. So is the love. Mrs. Park still thinks we’re disgustingly in love. She’s not wrong.
We have a whiteboard on the fridge that says “Days Since Last Fake Breakup: 184.”
Sometimes we reset it on purpose just to be annoying.
We still argue over who finishes the oat milk. He still steals my hoodies. I still trip over his sneakers.
But now he kisses me after. Now he calls me babe and means it. Now he sleeps in my bed and stays there. Now, when it rains, we don’t run.