kenni.

•she/they• •29•

[bebs-art-gallery]

View of the Interior of a Cathedral

— by Genaro Pérez Villaamil

[dailyclassicart]

Jean Jacob Verreyt - "Town by Night with Procession"

[linolinoing]

[lillys-bakery]

—𝘔𝘺 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𓏵‧₊˚ 𝘑. 𝘠𝘜𝘕𝘏𝘖

“Yuyu, I have a question for you,” you called out to your boyfriend, who was lazing around on the couch beside you, phone in hand. 

Yunho immediately perks up, scooting closer to you as he hugs you from the side. “Yes, my beautiful, gorgeous, precious girl?” He grinned, peppering your face with endless kisses.

Giggling, you push his face away playfully. “What’s up with the nicknames?” You raised a brow. “Did you eat the last piece of the chocolate cake I was saving?” You squinted your eyes at him with suspicion.

“What!?” He gasps dramatically. “My girlfriend doesn’t even trust me. What a world we live in,” he shook his head in hurt.

Laughing, you pull at his cheeks. “Drama queen.”

Yunho smiled, lifting you up and into his lap this time. “Okay, okay. What were you going to ask, my love?” He reminded you as he tucked your head under his chin, playing with your hair.

“Oh! Right. If you were Spiderman and could only save me or one hundred people, whom would you choose?”

Yunho’s fingers stopped their movement instantly. You could just see his brows knitting. “Baby,” he started, “Where are you thinking this from?”

Smiling, you press yourself further into his hold. “Just answer the question, Yuyu.”

“But it’s hard!” He groaned.

“It’s not! Now answer, time is running!”

He thought for a few seconds before he started again. “But I’m Spiderman…can’t save everyone?” 

“Nope!” You giggled. You very much enjoyed watching your boyfriend struggle. “Greed is a sin, my love.”

“You, then,” he answered after much deliberation. “I’d save you, of course.”

You felt your heart flutter. “That’s a hundred people possibly dead. You sure?” You giggled.

Yunho groaned in defeat as he shook his head, snuggling his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. “Why would I save faces I’ve never seen and let my world die, hmm?” 

Butterflies erupted in your chest at his words. “Bastard,” you muttered under your breath, wiping the corner of your eyes. 

“You’re crying? Why are you crying, baby?” Yunho asked in a hurry, turning you around so he could see your face, eyes glassy. “Oh, I forgot,” he sighed a breath of relief, throwing his head back. 

“You’re on your period.”

You nodded sadly, cheek smushed against his chest. 

“B-but you’d let a hundred people die instead of sacrificing me?” You pouted, hormones going haywire. 

Yunho smiled, cupping your face. “Of course, I would, darling. Without a second thought,” he answered with certainty, rubbing his nose with his.

“You are my world, afterall."

｡𖦹°‧𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓⊹⭒ @kisssan @4erzschyyy @silenttrxxs @zayn-210 @mae-murdock @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @belongjoong

© lillys-bakery, 2026 𖹭

[lcvejjoong]

a laundromat meet-cute

pairing : stranger! san x fem! reader 

synopsis : When your washing machine breaks at midnight, you end up at a 24-hour laundromat with a shy, overly polite stranger. 

genre : slice of life, fluff, rom-com, strangers to maybe lovers, meet-cute, slow burn

warnings : none

author’s note : lately there’s been some blogs that like and reblog my post multiple times in a row 👀 i just wanna say thank yew so much this means a lot to me 🥹🫶 i hope yall will enjoy this short san fic 😋

word count : 1.5k

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You don’t believe in fate.

But if fate exists, it has a really weird sense of humor.

Because your washing machine could have broken at literally any time.

Morning. Afternoon. A respectable 7 p.m.

But no.

It started screaming at 11:38 p.m.

Not making noise. Literal screaming.

Like it had developed consciousness and chosen violence.

You stood there in your pajamas, holding a dripping T-shirt, staring at it in betrayal.

“I have treated you well,” you said quietly.

It rattled in response.

So now you’re here.

At a 24-hour laundromat two blocks from your apartment.

It’s nearly midnight. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The vending machine in the corner hums ominously. There’s a single plastic chair that looks like it has witnessed things.

You drag your laundry basket inside with the energy of someone who has lost an argument with life.

The bell above the door jingles.

The place is mostly empty.

Except—

There’s someone else here.

A guy.

He’s standing in front of one of the washers, reading the instruction sticker like it’s a contract he legally needs to understand.

He looks… serious about it.

Like, really serious.

He leans closer. Squints slightly. Nods to himself.

You pause.

He’s tall. Soft black hair falling into his eyes. Dressed simply — hoodie, loose sweats. He looks like he belongs in a quiet coffee shop at 4 p.m., not a laundromat at midnight.

You quickly look away before he catches you staring.

You are not here to fall in love.

You are here to wash socks.

Focus.

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You choose a machine two spaces away from him.

You aggressively shove your clothes in.

The machine door refuses to close.

You shove harder. Still no.

You glare at it.

“Don’t test me,” you mutter.

You press your hip against it for leverage.

Nothing.

You try rearranging.

Nothing.

You sigh dramatically.

Suddenly, you hear a soft voice beside you.

“Um… excuse me.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

He’s closer now.

Oh no.

Up close, he looks ridiculously handsome.

Soft small eyes. Gentle features. The kind of face that looks like it apologizes when someone else bumps into him.

“I— I’m really sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t mean to interrupt. It’s just… that model sometimes needs the door lifted slightly when you close it.”

You blink.

“…It does?”

He nods shyly.

“I used it earlier. It gets stuck if the hinge isn’t aligned.”

He gestures carefully, like he’s afraid the washer might bite him.

“May I?” he asks politely.

You stare at him.

He’s asking permission. To close your washing machine.

At midnight.

Why is that kind of adorable?

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

He steps closer.

Very carefully.

He avoids brushing against you even though there’s limited space.

He lifts the door slightly and clicks it shut smoothly.

It locks immediately.

You stare at it. Then at him.

“…Oh.”

He gives a small, bashful smile. “It’s… temperamental.”

You cross your arms.

“Unlike me,” you say.

He panics immediately.

“I— I didn’t mean— I’m sure you’re not temperamental. I mean— not that it would be bad if you were— I just meant the machine—”

You burst out laughing.

He freezes.

Like he thinks he’s done something wrong.

“You’re okay,” you say, trying to breathe. “I was joking.”

He exhales quietly.

“Oh.”

He smiles again.

And it’s soft. Small.

Like he doesn’t smile full force unless he’s sure it’s safe.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For… the door thing.”

He nods quickly. “You’re welcome.”

There’s an awkward pause.

He shifts his weight slightly.

“I’m San,” he says after a moment, like he rehearsed it internally three times before speaking.

You tell him your name.

He repeats it.

Softly. Carefully.

And something about that makes your chest feel weird.

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You both end up sitting on opposite plastic chairs while your machines run.

The laundromat hums around you.

Silence stretches.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s looking at his phone.

But his posture is very straight. Very proper.

Like he’s afraid of accidentally taking up too much space.

There’s something painfully polite about him.

You notice he placed his laundry basket perfectly aligned with the machine. Neat. Organized.

Your basket is… chaos.

A sock is hanging off the edge.

You kick it back in.

He notices.

Immediately looks away.

Like he doesn’t want to embarrass you.

You narrow your eyes.

“You can judge me,” you say.

His head snaps up. “What?”

“My chaotic laundry situation.”

“I— I wasn’t judging.”

“You looked.”

“I was just making sure nothing fell.”

You stare at him.

He looks genuinely distressed.

You feel bad instantly.

“…I’m teasing you again,” you admit.

He pauses.

Then—

A tiny, relieved smile.

“Oh.”

He nods.

“I’m not very good at telling when people are joking,” he confesses quietly.

“That’s okay,” you say. “I’ll include disclaimers.”

“Thank you.”

He says it sincerely.

Like you just did him a huge favor.

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─────────

Ten minutes later, disaster strikes again.

The washer beside yours starts shaking violently.

Aggressively.

You both look at it.

It gets louder. Thumping. Unstable.

It sounds like it’s about to enter orbit.

“Is it supposed to do that?” you ask.

San stands immediately.

“I don’t think so.”

The machine lurches.

You take a step back.

San, very bravely, steps closer.

He presses the stop button.

Nothing happens. The shaking continues.

You stare at him. He stares at the machine.

“…Maybe it’s excited,” you offer.

He makes a very quiet sound that might be a laugh.

Then the machine jerks hard.

He instinctively reaches for you.

Not dramatically. Not cinematic.

Just reflex.

His hand wraps gently around your wrist and pulls you a step back from the machine.

It’s protective. Instinctive.

Polite even in panic.

The washer finally slows. Then stops.

Silence.

You both look down.

He’s still holding your wrist.

Very gently.

Like he’s afraid to apply pressure.

He realizes. His eyes widen.

He lets go immediately.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have— I just didn’t want it to—”

“It’s fine.”

You’re both slightly breathless.

From fear.

Definitely not from proximity.

Definitely not.

He rubs the back of his neck shyly.

“I think it was unbalanced,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Like my life,” you reply.

He pauses.

Then—

A soft, surprised laugh.

And it’s warmer this time.

Less hesitant.

You think you might want to hear it again.

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─────────

Five minutes later, your dryer finishes.

You stand. So does he.

You walk toward the dryers at the same time.

And that’s when everything goes wrong.

You open your dryer.

Reach in.

Pull out—

A hoodie. Black.

Definitely not yours.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look to your right.

San is staring into his dryer.

Confused.

He pulls out something grey.

Your sweater.

The oversized one with the tiny stitched star near the cuff.

Silence.

You both look at each other.

Then at the clothes.

Then back at each other.

“…Oh,” he says softly.

“I think we…” you start.

“…switched dryers,” he finishes.

You stare at him holding your sweater.

It looks unfairly good in his hands.

He panics.

“I didn’t mean to touch it without asking— I mean I had to take it out of the dryer— but I didn’t mean to assume it was mine—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt gently.

He nods.

Still flustered.

He carefully folds your sweater.

Very neatly.

Then holds it out to you with both hands.

Like he’s returning something sacred.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

You hand him his hoodie.

Your fingers brush.

And this time neither of you pull away immediately.

It’s warm. Unintentionally intimate.

You clear your throat.

“So.”

“So,” he echoes.

There’s a beat.

Then you notice something else in your basket.

You lift it slowly.

A pair of black pajama shorts.

Definitely not yours.

You look up.

San goes completely red.

“Oh.”

You blink.

“…San.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says instantly. “I didn’t realize those were still in there.”

He looks like he might evaporate on the spot.

“I can take them back.”

“You probably should.”

“Yes.”

He steps forward.

Very carefully, takes them back like they’re explosive.

You both avoid eye contact.

There’s a long pause.

Then he says, very softly—

“I’m really glad your washing machine broke.”

You look at him.

He freezes.

“I mean— not because that’s inconvenient— I just— if it hadn’t— then we wouldn’t have—”

He gestures vaguely between you.

You feel something warm bloom in your chest.

“I’m… kind of glad too,” you admit.

His ears turn red.

And he smiles shyly. Hopeful.

And somewhere between the shaking washers, the mixed-up laundry, and the late-night fluorescent lights.

You think fate might not be so bad after all.

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© lcvejjoong, 2026

taglist: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎ @fluffypuddingatz ❤︎@luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes @life-is-a-game-of-thrones

[lcvejjoong]

accidentally yours

pairing : stranger! wooyoung x fem! reader

synopsis : A small act of kindness turns into shared space, quiet routines, and a love that settles in without asking. What begins as a borrowed charger becomes a home—and a choice to stay.

genre : slice of life, fluff, contemporary romance, domestic au, little angst, comfort

warnings : none

author’s note : when i said that i hv requests for 2 other members in mafia au i didn’t mean send me more… 🫠 i have jongho, yunho, wooyoung and san left so if yall have any other ideas for them do send me an ask 🤓 will be posting a requested yeosang one tmr 🤍

word count : 3.1k

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You lend him your charger at a café.

It’s a small thing. Practically nothing. A white cable pulled from the depths of your bag, offered across a table sticky with old sugar and condensation rings. 

You expect a thank-you, maybe a smile, and then the quiet return to your own world.

Instead, he looks at it like you’ve handed him oxygen.

“Oh—wow. You’re a lifesaver,” he says, breathy, eyes wide, phone at a tragic 3%. He laughs, embarrassed, like he’s aware of how dramatic that sounded but too tired to pretend otherwise. “I swear I’ll give it back. I’m not a charger thief.”

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t worry, I believe you.”

He plugs his phone in immediately, shoulders sagging in relief as the battery symbol turns green. Only then does he really look at you, like the panic haze has lifted.

“I’m Wooyoung, by the way.”

You tell him your name.

He repeats it once, softly, like he’s committing it to memory.

That should be the end of it.

But then his coffee arrives late, and yours is already half gone, and when he thanks the barista, you notice the way his voice goes gentle around strangers. 

When he sits back down, he doesn’t scroll his phone like he probably planned to. He glances at you instead.

“So,” he says, casual but curious, “are you working, or pretending to work?”

You snort. “Pretending. You?”

“Very convincingly pretending.”

That’s how it starts.

Not with sparks or fireworks or anything you’d recognize as important. Just conversation that flows a little too easily. 

Jokes that land. Silences that don’t feel awkward. 

Wooyoung talks with his hands, expressive and loose, like he’s not afraid of taking up space. He listens like it matters, leaning forward slightly when you speak, eyes warm and focused.

At some point, your charger becomes irrelevant. His phone reaches 80%, then 90%, and neither of you notices.

Three hours pass.

You only realize when the café starts stacking chairs on tables and the barista shoots you a look that says please leave.

“Oh—shit,” Wooyoung says, glancing around. “I didn’t mean to hijack your entire afternoon.”

“It’s fine,” you say, and realize you mean it.

Outside, the air is colder than expected. Wooyoung shivers dramatically, rubbing his arms.

“You’re cold?” you ask.

“Just a little,” he admits. “I thought it’d be warmer today.”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, you tug your hoodie off and hold it out. “You can wear this.”

His eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah. I live close by anyway.”

He pulls it on carefully, like it’s something precious. It’s oversized on him in the shoulders but short in the sleeves, the hem brushing his hips. 

It smells like you—laundry soap and something softer underneath.

“Wow,” he says quietly. “This is… really warm.”

You pretend not to notice the way something settles in your chest at the sight of him wearing it. 

Like he fits there. Like this makes sense.

“Thank you,” he adds, softer now.

You nod, suddenly shy. “No problem.”

This is the exact moment the universe decides you belong to each other, apparently.

You just don’t know it yet.

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Your dog likes him immediately.

That should have been your first warning.

You’d only invited him to walk with you because you were headed home anyway and the street split in the same direction. 

A coincidence. A normal thing. 

But when you stop in front of your apartment building and say, “I need to take my dog out real quick,” Wooyoung brightens.

“You have a dog?”

Before you can answer, your dog barrels out the door, tail wagging so hard it’s entire body wobbles.

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung breathes, dropping to his knees instantly. “Hi. Hi! Hello. You are so perfect.”

Your dog loses its mind.

It licks his face like it had been deprived for years. It sits on his shoes. It leans into his chest when he scratches behind its ears.

You stare.

“She doesn't do that with strangers,” you say.

Wooyoung looks up at you, startled and delighted. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well,” he says solemnly, as your dog crawls halfway into his lap, “I am honored.”

Somehow, the leash ends up in his hand.

You don’t remember giving it to him.

You do remember watching, faintly amused and faintly unsettled, as he walks your dog like he’s done it a hundred times. 

Talks to them under his breath. Apologizes when they stop to sniff the same spot for too long.

“You’re enabling her,” you tell him.

“She’s processing the world,” he argues.

“She’s licking trash.”

“Still processing.”

When you get back upstairs, Wooyoung slips his shoes off at the door automatically.

You notice. You don’t comment.

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Your apartment is small but lived-in. 

Soft lighting. A couch with a blanket draped over the arm. Plants you keep forgetting to water but somehow survive anyway.

Wooyoung steps inside like he belongs there.

Not intrusively. Just… comfortably. Like he’s found a place where his shoulders can finally drop.

“That dog,” he says, crouching to pet them again, “has very strong opinions.”

You laugh. “So do you, apparently.”

“Only about important things. Like dogs. And pasta.”

You blink. “Pasta?”

He freezes, realizing what he said. Slowly looks up at you.

“Oh. Um. I didn’t mean to—”

“I was going to make pasta,” you say.

His face lights up.

“Oh,” he says. “I can help.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Can you cook?”

“I can chop things,” he says earnestly. “And I make really good emotional support.”

You consider him for a moment.

The café. The hoodie. Your dog. The way he looks at your kitchen like he’s excited, not entitled.

“Fine,” you say. “You can stay for dinner.”

Wooyoung smiles like you’ve just given him something much bigger than a meal.

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Later, he’s perched on your kitchen counter, sleeves of your hoodie pushed up, dutifully chopping vegetables while you boil pasta.

“What time do you usually eat?” he asks.

You pause.

That’s a strangely domestic question. The kind people ask when they plan on being around again.

“Whenever I remember,” you say.

He hums. “We should fix that.”

We.

You don’t comment. You just hand him another carrot.

Dinner is easy. Comfortable. 

He washes dishes without being asked. Dries his hands on a towel that’s definitely yours. Laughs when your dog tries to steal food off his plate.

When he finally checks his phone, it’s nearly midnight.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I should probably—”

You wait.

He hesitates.

“…go?” he finishes, unsure.

You glance at the hoodie he’s still wearing. At your dog curled up against his leg. At the way he looks tired but peaceful, like he hasn’t felt this settled in a while.

“You can stay a bit longer,” you say. “If you want.”

His smile is small. Careful. Grateful.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

This is how it happens, you realize.

Not all at once. Just a charger. A hoodie. A dog. Dinner.

A man who somehow slipped into your life and sat down like he’d always been meant to be there.

You don’t know yet that this is the beginning.

But you feel it.

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He stays.

Not officially. Not with words like overnight or sleep over or anything that sounds like a decision. He just… doesn’t leave.

At some point, you both migrate to the couch. Wooyoung sits cross-legged at first, careful, like he’s still a guest. Your dog wedges themselves between you, decisive as ever, and Wooyoung laughs quietly when its head lands on his thigh.

“You’re really popular,” you tell him.

He looks down at your dog, fond. “I’ve always been better with animals than people.”

You glance at him. “You seem pretty good with people.”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I try. Doesn’t always work.”

There’s something in his tone—light, but with an edge you catch only because the room is quiet and late and soft. You don’t press. 

Instead, you hand him the blanket from the arm of the couch.

He accepts it without comment, tucking it around his legs like he’s been cold for a long time.

You put something mindless on TV. Neither of you pays attention. He laughs at the wrong moments. You lean back without realizing you’re inching closer. At some point, his shoulder brushes yours and neither of you moves away.

It feels… right. Like the way a puzzle piece settles with a soft, almost inaudible click.

When he finally yawns, it surprises both of you.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Long day.”

“Do you want to—” You stop yourself, recalibrate. “You can take the couch. If you want. I’ve got spare blankets.”

He blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

You disappear into your room to grab extra pillows. When you come back, he’s already rearranged himself—hoodie folded carefully on the coffee table, shoes lined up by the door like they belong there. Your dog is curled up beside him, traitorously content.

He looks up when you hand him the pillow. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Wooyoung.”

You expect sleep to come easily.

It doesn’t.

You lie in bed listening to the faint sounds of the apartment—your fridge humming, the city breathing outside, the subtle rustle of someone shifting on your couch. The knowledge that there is another person in your space should feel strange.

Instead, it feels grounding.

Like the apartment is fuller. Warmer.

You fall asleep with that thought still tucked behind your ribs.

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Morning arrives quietly.

You wake to sunlight slanting across your floor and the sound of… movement. Soft footsteps. Cabinets opening. A low hum, barely audible, drifting through the apartment.

You sit up, heart jumping for half a second before memory clicks into place.

Wooyoung.

You pull on a sweater and pad out into the kitchen.

He’s there. Barefoot. Hair messy. Wearing your hoodie again—you don’t remember giving it back to him, but apparently it has decided where it lives now. He’s holding a mug, frowning at it like it personally offended him.

“I think your coffee machine hates me,” he says without turning around.

You laugh. “It hates everyone.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes lighting up. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, suddenly shy.

Your dog is already sitting by his feet, waiting.

“Did you feed her?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says proudly. “And she judged me the entire time.”

“That’s normal.”

He relaxes at that, shoulders dropping like he’s passed some unspoken test.

You make coffee together—this time successfully. He leans against the counter, watching you like he’s memorizing the way you move through your own space. You catch him once, twice.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… this feels nice.”

You don’t disagree.

Breakfast turns into brunch. Brunch turns into sitting on the floor with your dog while sunlight moves across the room. At some point, Wooyoung checks his phone and goes very still.

You notice immediately.

“You okay?” you ask.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Just… my roommate.”

“Roommate?”

“Ex,” he corrects. Then, after a beat, “Sort of.”

You don’t interrupt.

“They’re moving out today,” he continues, eyes on the floor. “Which is fine. It’s been… fine. Just weird.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” you ask, gently.

He hesitates.

“I mean. Yeah. Eventually.”

That’s not an answer.

You sit with it for a moment, then say, carefully, “You can stay here for a bit. If you need.”

His head snaps up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I mean. If that’s okay with you.”

The relief that crosses his face is immediate and unguarded. He doesn’t try to hide it.

“That would be… really nice,” he says softly.

This is how it happens, you realize again.

Not with plans. Just space. 

Offered and accepted.

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Days blur.

Wooyoung becomes part of your routine so seamlessly it’s almost unsettling. 

He learns which mug you like best. You learn he always forgets to charge his phone overnight. He starts walking your dog every morning, claiming it “needs her enrichment,” and you catch yourself smiling when you hear him talking to her through the door.

Sometimes he cooks. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he sprawls across the couch with his legs thrown over your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Sometimes, late at night, he gets quiet.

Those are the moments you learn the most.

He talks in pieces. About how he moved a lot growing up. About how staying has always felt harder than leaving. About how people don’t usually notice when he slips away, so he learned to slip quietly.

“You’re… very easy to be around,” he says one night, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t feel like I have to perform here.”

Your chest aches at that.

“I’m glad,” you say. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Can I stay?” he asks, vulnerable in a way that feels like trust.

You nod. “Yeah. You can stay.”

He smiles, small and real.

Your dog chooses that moment to climb into his lap, sealing the deal.

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It’s a week before you realize you’ve stopped wondering when he’ll leave.

It’s two weeks before you realize you’d be upset if he did.

It’s three weeks before he asks, tentatively, “Should I get my own key?”

You hand him one without hesitation.

And that’s when it hits you.

You didn’t just lend him a charger.

You lent him a place.

A routine.A home.

And somewhere along the way, he gave you one too.

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The thing about accidentally adopting a man is that it doesn’t feel like a big moment.

There’s no dramatic line in the sand. No sudden realization where everything clicks into place with cinematic clarity. 

Love, you’re learning, is quieter than that. It settles in the background of your life, rearranges the furniture, and waits patiently for you to notice.

You notice it on a Tuesday.

It’s raining. Not hard, not softly—just enough to be annoying. The kind that soaks into your shoes and leaves the air smelling like wet pavement. You come home tired, shoulders tense, head full of things you didn’t get done and conversations you wish had gone differently.

The door opens.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says immediately, popping his head out of the kitchen like he’s been waiting. He’s wearing an apron you don’t remember buying, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back messily. “You’re home early.”

You drop your bag by the door. “Work was… work.”

He hums, sympathetic, and hands you a towel before you even ask. You dry your hair while he takes your jacket, hangs it up, presses a kiss to the top of your head without thinking about it.

You freeze.

So does he.

“Oh,” Wooyoung says quietly.

“Oh,” you echo.

The moment stretches—fragile, uncertain. Then your dog barks, loud and offended at being ignored, and the tension breaks just enough for Wooyoung to laugh nervously.

“Sorry,” he says. “Habit?”

You should say something. Clarify. Define. Pull away.

Instead, you say, “What’re you cooking?”

His shoulders loosen. “Soup. You looked cold this morning.”

Your chest tightens.

Later, you sit at the kitchen table, legs tucked up on the chair, watching him move around the space like he’s always belonged there. He talks about nothing—something funny your dog did, a podcast he listened to, how he thinks your plants are secretly plotting against him.

You listen, smiling, and realize the truth lands gently but firmly.

You love him.

Not in a way that’s loud or demanding. In the way you reach for him without thinking. In the way your apartment feels wrong when he’s not in it. In the way you’ve started planning grocery lists around what he likes.

You love him.

And you don’t know what to do with that yet.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first crack appears a few days later.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss.

Wooyoung starts pulling back.

Not all at once. Just small things. He comes home later. Keeps his phone face-down. Laughs just a bit too brightly when you ask how his day was.

You don’t accuse. You don’t demand. You’ve learned—maybe too well—that people don’t always pull away because of you. Sometimes they’re just scared of staying.

The truth comes out on a quiet night.

You’re on the couch, dog asleep between you, TV casting soft light across the room. Wooyoung hasn’t touched you all evening. Not once.

“You’re thinking really loud,” you say.

He exhales. “Am I?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

You wait.

“I got a message today,” he says. “From my old roommate.”

Your stomach twists. “Okay.”

“They asked if I wanted to move back. They found a bigger place. Said things could be… different.”

“And?” you ask, carefully.

Wooyoung stares at his hands. “I didn’t answer.”

The silence stretches.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says finally, voice rough. “But I don’t want to stay somewhere I’m not supposed to be.”

Your heart cracks open.

“You’re supposed to be here,” you say without hesitation.

He looks up at you, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But what if this—” He gestures vaguely between you. “—is just temporary? What if I’m just… convenient?”

You reach for his hand, grounding. “Wooyoung. You’re not a mistake I accidentally forgot to correct.”

That makes him laugh, watery and disbelieving.

“I’m serious,” you add. “You didn’t trick your way into my life. You’re here because I want you here.”

He swallows hard.

“I’ve never been chosen like that,” he admits.

You squeeze his hand. “Then let me be the first.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he unpacks.

Not just physically—though he does finally bring the last of his things over, books and clothes and a guitar he swears he’ll learn to play “properly someday.” 

He unpacks emotionally too. The parts of himself he’s always kept ready to run.

He starts saying we without hesitation. He starts planning things more than a week ahead.

He starts kissing you on the head like he means to stay.

The first time you say those three words, it slips out during something mundane. Folding laundry. His socks mixed with yours.

“I love you,” you say, distracted.

He freezes, sock halfway folded.

“What?” he asks, soft.

You look up, heart pounding. “I love you.”

He crosses the space between you in two steps and kisses you like he’s been waiting forever.

“I love you too,” he says into your mouth, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever spoken.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Sometimes, you tease him about it.

“You know,” you say one morning, watching him make coffee, “you were only supposed to borrow my charger.”

He grins, unapologetic. “You left me unsupervised.”

“You stole my hoodie.”

“You gave it to me.”

“You stole my dog.”

“They chose me.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I accidentally adopted a man.”

He kisses your cheek. “Best accident you’ve ever made.”

And this time, when he says it, he means forever.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

taglist: @darjeelinglemontea ❤︎@fluffypuddingatz ❤︎@luumiinaa @snow0-0fairy @snow0-0fairy-writes

[jeongyunho99]

Yunho ✧Adrenaline MBC260214

[samimarkart]

Quail family

[girltalk]

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

it’s okay to feel like a mess sometimes

[dailycatsblog]

[dejavu-mp3]

YUNHO ⌁ Music Bank 260206

[mingiatz]

A quiet university student. A Lotte World mascot. One girl living two identities. When Yunho unknowingly connects with both versions of Y/N, their worlds begin to overlap — not through dramatic reveals, but through presence, care, and slow recognition.

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (Y/N)

Genre: Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, University AU, Workplace AU

Tropes: Dual identity, Secret identity, Soft protector, Gentle male lead, Quiet FMC, Overlooked protagonist, Found safety, Protective friends, Soft masculinity

Featuring: ATEEZ as found family, University setting, Mascot alter-identity

Content Warnings: Harassment, Non-consensual physical proximity, Panic response, Emotional distress, Crying, Anxiety, Fear response, Trauma response, Verbal harassment

Main Masterlist | Yunhos Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

This is Part 3

Yunho’s mind could not catch up with reality.

For several seconds, all he could do was stare at her face, as if looking longer would make it make sense. The park noise felt distant and distorted, like he was underwater, the world moving around him without fully reaching him.

Y/N.

Not the mascot. Not the voice. Not the anonymous presence he had talked to for months.

Her.

The girl from his lectures.

The girl he had almost kissed that morning.

The girl he had fallen in love with without knowing how or when.

And she had been beside him this whole time.

Working with him.

Talking to him.

Laughing with him.

Hiding in plain sight.

“Y/N,” he said again, quieter this time, his voice shaking.

Confusion hit him almost as hard as fear.

Why didn’t she tell me?

The thought cut through the panic like a blade.

Why didn’t she tell me they worked together?

Why didn’t she tell me she was the mascot?

Why didn’t she trust me with that?

Hands were suddenly everywhere.

Other staff.

Medics.

Someone spoke to him, but he barely registered the words.

“She fainted.”

“Call an ambulance.”

“Get her out of the costume.”

The paramedics arrived quickly, moving with practiced efficiency. Yunho stayed kneeling beside her, one hand braced against her shoulder, the other hovering near her face like he was afraid to touch her too hard.

They began carefully peeling the costume off her, unfastening straps, removing padding, lifting the heavy fabric away from her body. Yunho helped where he could, hands shaking slightly as he supported her shoulders and back, making sure her head was steady as they moved her.

She felt impossibly light without the costume.

Fragile.

Real.

“Looks like heat exhaustion,” one of the medics said, checking her pulse. “She’s dehydrated and overheated.”

Another medic nodded. “Possibly anemia too. That would explain the fainting. Heat and exertion like this would make it worse.”

The words blurred together in Yunho’s head.

Anemia. Heat. Costume. Fainting.

Explanations that made sense.

Reasons that did not change the fact that she had collapsed in front of him.

He stayed at her side as they placed her on the stretcher. He brushed her hair back from her face whenever it fell across her eyes, the motion instinctive, protective, gentle.

She looked so small like this. So human. So vulnerable.

His chest hurt.

“Family?” one of the medics asked.

“I’m her… friend,” Yunho said automatically, the word feeling insufficient and too small for what he felt.

They wheeled her toward the ambulance.

He followed.

She stirred as they adjusted the stretcher.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened.

Her eyes found his immediately.

Recognition. Shock. Confusion. Fear. And then panic.

She pushed herself upright too fast, breath catching sharply.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out, voice weak and hoarse.

Her gaze dropped to the discarded mascot head on the ground.

Understanding hit her all at once.

Her face went pale.

She looked at him.

And then away.

Immediately.

She turned her head, refusing to meet his eyes.

Her body curled inward defensively, arms pulling close to her chest like she was trying to protect herself.

Yunho’s heart twisted painfully.

“Y/N,” he said gently. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

She shook her head.

Did not look at him. Did not respond.

“It's okay,” he continued, voice soft, careful. “I just found out. You don’t have to explain anything right now. I’m not angry. I swear.”

She pressed her lips together.

Her breathing was fast and shallow.

Her hands were shaking.

He moved a little closer. “Please, just look at me.”

She didn’t.

The medics began guiding the stretcher toward the ambulance.

“This is overwhelming,” one of them said gently. “We’re going to take her to the hospital to get her checked out properly.”

Y/N did not resist.

But she did not look at Yunho either.

She used the movement, the chaos, the transition as an escape.

As soon as they started moving her, she turned her face away completely.

Yunho walked beside the stretcher, trying to speak.

“Y/N, please,” he said. “I’m not upset. I’m not judging you. I’m just worried about you.”

She did not answer.

She did not look at him.

She stared at the inside wall of the ambulance like he was not there.

Like he did not exist.

The doors opened.

They began to lift the stretcher inside.

He stood there, helpless, watching them take her away from him.

There were words sitting in his chest that he could not get out.

He wanted to tell her that he was not angry.

That he was relieved.

That the girl he had trusted for months and the girl he had fallen in love with were the same person.

That he was glad.

That he was grateful.

That it made sense.

That it felt right.

That nothing about it scared him.

That everything about it mattered.

But he never got the chance.

The ambulance doors closed.

The sound echoed.

Final.

And Yunho stood there alone, heart pounding, chest aching, mind in chaos, holding a truth he had no way to give to her.

The walk home felt longer than it should have.

Not because of distance, but because his thoughts would not slow down. Every step felt heavy, like he was carrying something fragile and sharp in his chest at the same time. The city blurred around him, lights and sounds passing without meaning, his body moving on autopilot while his mind stayed somewhere else entirely.

Y/N’s face kept replaying in his head.

Pale. Unconscious.

Then awake. Then shocked. Then closed off.

The way she had looked at him when she realized he had seen her face.

The way she had turned away.

The way she had used the ambulance doors as an escape.

He understood it now.

All of it.

Why she had never told him.

Why she had kept the worlds separate.

Why she had hidden behind the costume.

Because with him, she had been someone else.

Not Y/N, the quiet girl in lectures. Not Y/N, the invisible presence in classrooms and hallways. Not Y/N, the one people overlooked.

But the mascot.

The one people approached. The one children ran toward. The one who was seen. The one who was welcomed. The one who was allowed to take up space.

And with him, she had not needed to explain herself.

She had not needed to perform, to be careful.

She had been free.

The realization settled in his chest with painful clarity.

She had not lied to manipulate him.

She had hidden because the mask gave her something real life never had.

Safety. Visibility. Permission to exist without shrinking.

And he had walked right past it.

He had compared them in his head.

Noticed similarities.

Felt familiarity.

Recognized patterns.

And still never seen it.

Anger turned inward, sharp and bitter.

How did I not notice?

He clenched his jaw as he walked.

He was angry at himself for being blind.

For being slow.

For being distracted by his own assumptions.

For not connecting what had been in front of him for months.

He was angry that he had almost kissed her that morning and said nothing.

That he had hesitated, had let the moment break instead of claiming it.

He had chosen silence instead of honesty.

Because if he had told her then, maybe she would not have felt so alone now.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He already knew what it was before he checked.

Nothing. No reply.

He had texted her as soon as the ambulance left.

Yunho: Are you okay?

Yunho: Please text me when you can.

Yunho: I’m not mad. I’m just worried about you.

No answer.

The silence hurt more than any rejection could have.

When he got home, the lights were on.

Voices filled the apartment.

The door closed behind him, and every head turned.

They all saw it immediately.

Hongjoong paused mid-sentence.

Seonghwa’s expression shifted.

Mingi frowned.

Wooyoung straightened.

San tilted his head.

Yeosang stopped scrolling on his phone.

Jongho looked up from the kitchen counter.

Something was wrong.

“Okay,” Wooyoung said slowly, “you look like someone just shattered your entire worldview.”

Yunho did not answer.

He dropped his bag. Sat down on the couch. Ran a hand through his hair.

Seonghwa moved closer. “What happened?”

Silence stretched.

Then Yunho spoke.

“The mascot,” he said quietly.

They all stilled.

“What about her?” Mingi asked.

Yunho swallowed.

“It’s Y/N.”

The room froze.

“…What?” Wooyoung said.

“The girl from uni,” Yunho continued. “The one I’ve been working with. The one I almost kissed this morning.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened.

Hongjoong’s mouth fell open.

San stared at him.

Yeosang blinked.

Jongho’s eyebrows shot up.

Mingi looked like his brain had short-circuited.

“Wait,” Wooyoung said slowly, “you’re telling me the mascot girl and Y/N are the same person?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“No way.”

“That’s insane.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s straight out of a movie.”

Mingi burst out laughing first. “That is the cutest thing I have ever heard in my life.”

Seonghwa stared at Yunho. “You fell in love with the same girl twice.”

San shook his head. “That’s actually insane.”

Hongjoong rubbed his face. “This is ridiculous.”

Jongho just said quietly, “Wow.”

Yunho did not laugh.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “She fainted at work. Heat, dehydration, anemia. The costume made it worse. I took the head off and saw her face. She woke up and panicked. Wouldn’t look at me. Left in the ambulance.”

The room quieted again.

Seonghwa’s expression softened.

Mingi stopped smiling.

Wooyoung sobered.

San leaned forward.

“Oh,” Mingi said quietly. “That’s not cute anymore.”

“She probably thinks I’m angry,” Yunho said. “Or confused. Or judging her. She wouldn’t even look at me.”

He swallowed.

“I texted her,” he added. “She didn’t reply.”

The fear sat heavy in his chest.

“I think she’s going to ignore me,” he said quietly. “I think she’s going to disappear. And I don’t even blame her.”

Seonghwa shook his head. “She just passed out in front of you, got exposed, and woke up to the one person she didn’t want seeing her face. She’s overwhelmed, not rejecting you.”

Mingi nodded. “Yeah. That’s panic, not avoidance.”

Wooyoung added, “She didn’t run because of you. She ran because it was too much.”

Yunho stared at the floor.

“I get why she hid it,” he said quietly. “I really do. With me, she got to be someone else. Someone visible. Someone not overlooked. And I ruined that by seeing her.”

Hongjoong spoke gently. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Silence settled again.

Yunho leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“I love her,” he said simply.

The words felt heavy and terrifying and true.

And the scariest part was not the feeling itself.

It was the possibility that he might lose her before he ever got the chance to tell her that loving her did not change a single thing about how safe she was with him.

That he did not love one version of her.

He loved all of her.

And now he had no idea how to make her believe that.

The weekend passed in a blur of waiting.

Not the calm kind of waiting. Not the patient kind. The kind that sits under your skin and makes everything feel restless and wrong. The kind that turns time into something heavy instead of neutral.

Yunho checked his phone too often.

Every few minutes at first.

Then every few seconds.

Then without even realizing he was doing it.

Nothing.

No messages.

No missed calls.

No typing bubble.

No read receipts.

Just silence.

The only thing he received from her was an email.

Her part of the project.

Attached neatly. Organized. Complete. Perfectly formatted.

No message.

No explanation.

Just the work.

It felt like a wall.

Not an argument.

Not a rejection.

Not even a goodbye.

Just distance.

He texted anyway.

Yunho: Please talk to me.

Yunho: I’m not angry. I never was.

Yunho: I just want to know if you’re okay.

Yunho: You don’t have to explain anything. Just let me know you’re safe.

No answer.

He called.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Straight to voicemail.

By Saturday night, desperation had settled in.

He sat on his bed staring at his phone like it might change if he looked at it long enough.

He replayed everything in his head.

The apartment.

The almost-kiss.

The phone ringing.

Her face when she saw him at work.

The shock.

The fear.

The way she turned away.

The way she escaped with the ambulance.

He understood her.

Truly.

He understood the panic.

The shame.

The exposure.

The feeling of being seen when you are not ready to be.

The terror of losing the one space where you felt safe.

But understanding did not make the silence easier.

It made it worse.

Because it told him exactly why she was gone.

He did not know how to reach her without making it worse.

He did not know how to show her that nothing about her changed the way he felt.

That if anything, it made everything make sense.

That he did not love the mascot.

He did not love the quiet girl in class.

He loved her.

All of her.

Together.

Sunday evening, he finally stopped texting.

Not because he stopped caring.

Because he knew he was overwhelming her.

Because he knew pressure would only make her retreat further.

Because he knew she needed control back.

And that terrified him.

But one thought kept grounding him.

One simple truth.

She would come to university on Monday.

Because Y/N was responsible.

Because she never skipped commitments.

Because she never left responsibilities unfinished.

Because she would not abandon the project.

Because she would not disappear from obligations even if she disappeared from people.

He knew that.

With certainty.

And the thought became his anchor.

His plan. His only direction forward.

If she would not answer texts. If she would not take calls. If she would not open the door for him.

Then he would see her there.

In a neutral place.

Where she could not hide behind silence.

Where she could not vanish.

Where she could not disappear.

He did not want to corner her.

He did not want to scare her.

But he needed her to hear him.

Even if he had to stand in front of her and force her to listen.

Because there were things she believed that were not true.

Because she thought she had lost him.

Because she thought she had ruined something.

Because she thought the mask was what he cared about.

And that was wrong.

He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on his chest.

“Please come on Monday,” he whispered into the empty room.

Not as a demand.

As a plea.

Because if he saw her, he could fix this.

He could tell her the truth.

And the truth was simple.

He did not love a costume.

He did not love a version.

He loved her.

And he was not going to let silence take that away from him without a fight.

The silence felt heavier than any confrontation could have.

Y/N lay in her bed staring at the ceiling, phone resting in her hand, the screen dark and unforgiving. Yunho’s name sat at the top of her notifications, unread messages stacked beneath it like something she did not know how to touch without breaking.

She had seen every single one.

She just had not answered.

Not because she did not care, was angry or wanted to hurt him.

Because she did not know how to explain herself.

Because every version of the truth felt wrong.

How do you explain that someone’s kindness made you gravitate toward them in a way that scared you.

How do you explain that being treated gently felt unfamiliar and overwhelming at the same time.

How do you explain that you wanted to work with someone not because of a project, but because being near them felt safe.

How do you explain that you did not know how to talk to someone you cared about without feeling exposed and small and foolish.

She imagined telling him.

Imagined trying to explain that she had been drawn to him because he was kind. Because he noticed people. Because he made space. Because he never demanded anything. Because he felt safe in a way she did not have language for.

And in every version of the conversation, she felt ridiculous.

Too intense. Too emotional. Too much.

Weird.

The word sat heavy in her chest.

She had always been afraid of that word.

Afraid of being seen as too sensitive, too quiet, too attached, too intense for caring about small things.

So she did what she always did when things became overwhelming.

She disappeared.

She shut down.

She retreated.

She went silent.

It was the part of herself she hated the most.

The part that ignored people she cared about.

The part that avoided instead of confronted.

The part that chose silence over vulnerability.

Not because she did not want connection.

But because she did not know how to hold it when it became real.

Her phone buzzed again.

Another message from Yunho.

She did not open it.

Shame crawled through her chest, thick and suffocating.

He deserved an answer.

And she could not give him any of it.

Because she did not even understand it herself.

The weekend passed in that state.

Just existing in quiet discomfort.

By Monday morning, exhaustion had settled into her bones.

Her body felt heavy. Her mind felt foggy. Her chest felt tight.

She stared at her ceiling again and thought about not going to university.

About staying home.

About avoiding it all.

About avoiding him.

About hiding.

It would be easy.

No confrontation. No questions. No explaining.

But she knew herself too well.

Responsibility always won.

Obligation always won.

Routine always won.

She sat up.

Like her body was heavier than it should have been.

She showered, moved through her morning on autopilot, barely aware of what she was doing. When she opened her wardrobe, she reached for the biggest hoodie she owned.

Oversized.

Something to disappear inside.

Something to hide her shape. Her presence. Her visibility.

She pulled it over her head and let it fall around her like armor.

She did not do her makeup.

Did not style her hair.

Did not try to look like anything other than invisible.

On the way to university, her heart beat too fast.

Not from walking.

From anticipation, fear, the knowledge that he would be there.

That she would see him.

That she would have to face what she had been avoiding.

She made a decision before she even reached the building.

She would sit somewhere else.

Not her usual seat.

Not the place he expected her to be.

Not somewhere easy to find.

When she entered the lecture hall, she scanned the room quickly.

Yunho was not there yet.

Relief washed through her so strongly it made her dizzy.

She moved fast, choosing a seat far from her usual place, closer to the back, near the aisle. Somewhere she could blend in. Somewhere she could leave easily if she needed to.

She sat.

Pulled her hoodie tighter around herself.

Lowered her gaze.

Her heart still raced and her mind still spun.

She did not know how long she could keep this up.

But for now, she just needed distance.

Just a little space.

Just a moment to breathe.

Because facing Yunho felt like facing a truth she did not yet have the courage to say out loud.

And she was not ready.

Not yet.

She noticed him the second he walked in.

Yunho entered the lecture hall with his friends, his posture familiar, his presence impossible for her not to recognize. Normally, he carried himself with an easy openness, a natural warmth that made him feel like a constant source of light in whatever room he was in.

Today, it was different.

His smile was there, but muted. Quieter. Like something dimmed it from the inside. He laughed at something Mingi said, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

Her chest tightened.

She shrank instinctively in her seat, pulling her oversized hoodie closer around herself, lowering her head slightly as if she could physically make herself smaller.

Then he looked around the room.

Not casually. Searching.

His eyes moved toward their usual seats.

And when she was not there, his expression changed.

Just a fraction.

But she saw it.

Confusion.

He started scanning the room more deliberately.

Her heart began to pound.

She lowered her gaze immediately, staring at her notebook, at the empty page, at the meaningless lines she had scribbled without thinking.

Do not look up.

Do not move.

Do not exist.

The lecture started.

Or maybe it already had.

She did not know.

Time lost ist shape.

Words floated past her ears without meaning. Slides changed on the projector. People took notes. Pens scratched paper. Chairs shifted. Someone coughed.

None of it registered.

Her entire awareness was locked inward.

Every nerve felt exposed.

Every thought felt loud.

Her body stayed rigid, tense, coiled.

She barely breathed.

When she finally looked up, it was only because the sound of chairs moving and bags zipping signaled that the lecture was almost over.

Her eyes lifted without intention.

And immediately, they went to him.

Of course they did.

He was looking forward, posture straight, expression serious. Focused in a way that made him look older, heavier, more grounded.

Her mind betrayed her.

The memory surfaced uninvited.

His face close to hers in her apartment.

The warmth of his voice.

The way he had leaned in slowly.

The softness in his eyes.

The moment that had felt suspended in time.

For a split second, a thought crossed her mind.

What if he likes me too?

The idea felt dangerous.

Hopeful.

Terrifying.

Then reality crushed it.

Of course he does not.

After everything.

After the mascot.

After the fainting.

After the hiding.

After the silence.

She imagined herself through his eyes.

Complicated.

Weird.

Too quiet.

Too confusing.

Too much.

The thought made her stomach drop.

She looked away.

But it was too late.

Yunho lifted his gaze at the same moment.

And their eyes met.

The contact was brief.

But it felt like a shockwave.

Her chest seized.

Panic flooded her body instantly, sharp and overwhelming.

No no no.

She did not wait for the lecture to officially end.

As soon as the room began to stir, she shoved her notebook into her bag and stood up too fast.

She moved toward the aisle, pushing through the rows, barely registering the people around her.

“Sorry,” she muttered automatically as she bumped into someone.

She almost knocked a girl sideways in her rush to escape.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, not even looking back.

She reached the aisle. The exit. Freedom.

Then she heard her name.

“Y/N!”

Yunho’s voice.

Loud. Clear.

Carrying across the lecture hall.

Every head turned.

Every conversation paused.

Attention snapped toward them.

Her stomach dropped into free fall.

She did not stop.

She walked faster.

Her heart pounded violently in her chest.

“Y/N, wait!” he called again.

She ignored it.

Pretended she did not hear him.

Pretended he was not calling her.

Pretended this was not happening.

She reached the door.

Pushed it open.

Stepped into the hallway.

Relief surged for half a second.

Then a hand closed around her arm.

“Y/N,” Yunho said, breathless from running. “Please. We have to talk.”

She tried to pull away.

“Let go,” she said quietly.

He did not.

People were still coming out of the lecture hall behind them.

Eyes were on them.

Voices were murmuring.

She felt exposed.

Trapped.

Overwhelmed.

“I don’t want to talk,” she said, trying to twist her arm free.

He exhaled, frustration and relief tangled together in the sound.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then don’t talk.”

Before she could react, he gently but firmly pulled her with him, guiding her down the hallway, away from the lecture hall doors, away from the eyes and the noise and the attention.

She resisted weakly at first.

Then stopped.

He opened the door to a small empty seminar room and led her inside.

The door closed behind them.

The hallway noise faded.

The world shrank to just the two of them.

Silence filled the space.

Heavy.

Charged.

Unavoidable.

And she knew this time she couldn’t walk away.

Yunho stopped in front of her.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Close enough that she could feel his presence, his warmth, the space he took up in the room.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him properly.

Her gaze stayed lowered, fixed somewhere near his chest, anywhere but his eyes.

Her shoulders curled inward.

Her hands twisted together in front of her hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

The words came out small and fragile.

“I’m really sorry for everything. For not answering. For lying. For not telling you. For making things weird.” Her voice wavered. “You don’t have to talk to me again if you feel uncomfortable. Or weirded out. I’ll understand. I promise.”

Silence filled the room.

Then she felt his hand.

Gentle. Warm.

Fingers under her chin, lifting her face slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of startling her.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes lifted without her meaning them to.

He reached up with his other hand and slowly pulled the hood back from her head, letting it fall behind her shoulders.

She froze.

He smiled at her.

Not his playful smile.

Not his casual one.

A soft one.

Real.

Grounded.

“Look at me,” he said quietly. “I feel better when you look at me properly.”

Her chest tightened.

“I’m not mad,” he continued. “I’m not weirded out. I’m not angry. I’m not confused in a bad way.”

She stared at him, lost.

“Then why aren’t you?” she whispered. “I lied to you. I didn’t tell you we worked together. I didn’t tell you I was the mascot. I didn’t tell you anything.”

His expression didn’t change.

No disappointment.

No frustration.

No judgment.

Only understanding.

“Because I’m happy,” he said calmly.

The word didn’t make sense.

“Happy?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “Because it finally makes sense.”

She shook her head slightly. “What does?”

“My feelings,” he answered. “All of them.”

She looked at him in confusion.

“I kept wondering why I was so drawn to the mascot,” he continued. “Why I felt safe with her. Why I liked talking to her. Why I cared about her. Why I thought about her when I wasn’t there.” He swallowed. “And then I met you properly through the project, and I felt the same things. The same calm. The same pull. The same comfort. The same ...curiosity.”

Her heart started racing.

“I couldn’t understand how I could feel like I was falling for two different women at the same time,” he said quietly. “I thought something was wrong with me.”

He gave a small, breathless smile.

“And then I saw your face in the mascot costume.”

His hand came up to her cheek, cupping it gently.

His thumb brushed softly against her skin.

“And everything made sense,” he said. “It was never two women. It was always you.”

Her breath stuttered.

Her mind felt like it couldn’t hold the words.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she whispered. “You should be mad. You should be upset. You should feel betrayed. You’re probably just confused.”

His gaze stayed steady.

“I’m not confused,” he said. “I’m very clear.”

She shook her head. “You don't know what you are talking about. You don't like me."

“I am not confused y/n,” he said gently. “I like you because of who you are.”

She tried to look away.

He didn’t let her.

His hand stayed on her cheek.

His voice stayed calm.

“Did you not feel it too?” he asked quietly. “In your apartment. When I leaned in. Did that feel like nothing to you?”

Her lips parted.

No words came out.

“Because if you didn’t want it,” he continued softly, “you would have moved away.”

He leaned in slightly.

Slowly.

Not rushing.

Not forcing.

“You’re not moving away now either,” he said.

Her breath shook.

Her heart hammered.

Her body stayed still.

Her mind screamed.

Her chest burned.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t pull away.

And then his lips touched hers.

Soft.

Careful.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

A question more than a claim.

The world narrowed.

The room disappeared.

The fear fell quiet.

Her body responded before her thoughts did.

She leaned into it.

And for the first time, she didn’t hide.

She didn’t shrink.

She didn’t disappear.

She kissed him back.

Yunho felt the moment before it happened.

That suspended second where everything went quiet inside him, where the world narrowed down to just her face, her breath, her eyes, the space between them. His hand was still on her cheek, warm and steady, his thumb resting just under her eye, feeling the faint tremble in her skin.

He could hear his own heartbeat.

Fast.

Loud.

Uncontrolled.

Every instinct in him was screaming to slow down, to be careful, to not overwhelm her, to not turn something fragile into something rushed. He could feel her fear, her uncertainty, her vulnerability in the way she held herself, in the way she didn’t pull away but didn’t move forward either.

He didn’t want to scare her.

Didn’t want to claim something she wasn’t ready to give.

So he leaned in slowly.

Not to take.

To ask.

His thoughts were soft and chaotic at the same time.

Please want this.

Please don’t pull away.

Please don’t regret this.

Please let me stay here.

His lips brushed hers.

Barely.

A question more than a kiss.

For a split second, she froze.

His chest tightened.

Then she kissed him back.

A little unsure.

A little clumsy.

Her lips pressed against his in a way that felt hesitant, searching, learning. There was no practiced rhythm, no certainty, no control.

And it was perfect.

The world fell away.

Everything inside him softened at once.

He adjusted instinctively, angling his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, careful not to rush, careful not to overwhelm. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers threading gently into her hair.

She responded immediately.

Not with experience.

With feeling.

Her body moved closer to his, her hands gripping his shirt, her breath hitching softly against his mouth. The hesitation melted into urgency, the softness turning into something warmer, heavier, more real.

The kiss deepened.

Not wild.

Not rough.

But charged.

Emotional.

Full of everything they hadn’t said.

He could feel how inexperienced she was in the way she moved, in the way she followed instead of led, in the way she reacted more than initiated. It didn’t make him impatient.

It made him protective.

He kissed her like he was afraid of breaking her and losing her at the same time.

When they finally separated, neither of them moved away.

Their foreheads stayed pressed together.

Their breathing was uneven.

Their noses brushed.

Their bodies still leaned into each other.

He wrapped his arms around her fully then, pulling her into his chest, holding her close, grounding her, anchoring her.

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he whispered into her hair.

Just honest.

True.

She froze for half a second.

Then her arms tightened around him.

Her voice was small when she spoke.

“I had a crush on you,” she admitted quietly. “For a long time.”

His chest tightened.

“I noticed you before the project,” she continued. “I just… never thought you’d notice me. You felt so out of my league. So confident. So warm. So… unreal.” Her voice trembled slightly. “I was just happy to be near you. To work with you. To talk to you. That was enough for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

His hands framed her face gently.

“Out of your league?” he repeated softly, disbelief and tenderness tangled together.

She nodded.

He let out a quiet breath and pressed his forehead against hers again.

“You have no idea how wrong that is,” he said gently.

Just two people who had been quietly drawn to each other for a long time, finally standing in the same space, no masks, no distance, no hiding.

And for the first time, the truth felt simple.

Just them.

Yunho did not let go of her.

Not immediately.

Not after her words.

Not after the truth finally sat between them in the open.

He kept his arms around her, his forehead still pressed to hers, his breathing slow and deep as if he was trying to memorize the feeling of her being there, real and warm and close.

“I love you,” he said again quietly.

Not as a confession.

As a statement.

“I didn’t just fall for you,” he continued softly. “I fell in love with you. With who you are. With the way you listen. With the way you notice people. With how gentle you are. With how kind you are without trying to be. With how you make space instead of taking it. With how you care. With how you exist in the world.”

Certain. Grounded. Unshakeable.

His hands slid up her arms, warm and steady, grounding her.

“I love everything about you,” he said. “Even the parts you think are too quiet. Even the parts you hide. Even the parts you think make you invisible. I love all of it.”

He leaned in again.

Her eyes were glossy when she looked at him.

This kiss was different.

Less hesitant.

Less unsure.

Still gentle.

Still careful.

But full of intention.

She kissed him back immediately, her hands rising to his shoulders, her body leaning into his without fear this time.

The feeling of it sent something warm and dizzy through his chest.

He pulled back just enough to breathe.

To look at her.

“I can’t believe you’re actually kissing me,” he murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless.

She smiled.

He kissed her again.

Her back met the wall behind her as he stepped closer, one hand braced beside her head, the other at her waist, holding her there without pressure, without force, just presence.

Slower. Deeper.

Her lips parted against his.

Her breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to speak.

“Be my girlfriend,” he said quietly. “Date me. Please.”

He pulled back again, his forehead resting against hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then he kissed her again before she could answer.

“I want to be with you,” he said. “I want all of it. The normal days. The quiet days. The hard days. All of it. With you.”

Her hands tightened in his shirt.

Her voice was breathless when she spoke.

“I would love to date you.”

The words hit him like warmth through his entire body.

Relief.

Joy.

Disbelief.

Happiness so intense it almost felt unreal.

He laughed softly, a quiet, breathless sound of pure disbelief.

Then he kissed her again.

And again.

And again.

Each kiss full of certainty.

Full of affection.

Full of everything they had been holding back for months.

And in the back of his mind, one thought kept repeating, clear and overwhelming in ist simplicity.

She chose me.

And Yunho felt completely, unmistakably at home.

Yunho walked beside her toward campus with his hand in hers, their fingers intertwined naturally, like it had always been that way. The world moved around them in its usual rhythm, students passing, voices overlapping, bikes rushing past, doors opening and closing.

The next morning felt unreal in the quietest way.

But everything felt different.

Y/N walked close to him, her shoulder brushing his arm occasionally, her grip warm and steady. She looked a little shy, a little overwhelmed, but there was something new in her posture. Something grounded. Something certain.

Lighter.

When they entered the university building together, heads turned.

People noticed. Whispers started. Glances lingered. Curiosity followed them through the hallway.

Yunho did not care.

If anything, he felt proud.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles gently, deliberately, openly. Her cheeks flushed immediately, and she looked up at him with that soft, disbelieving smile that still made his chest tighten.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Good.”

He kissed her cheek lightly as they walked, slow and affectionate, not rushed, not hidden.

Her grip on his hand tightened.

When they entered the lecture hall together, the attention doubled.

Mingi saw them first.

His eyes widened.

Then he grinned so hard it looked like his face might split.

“Oh my god,” he mouthed.

Seonghwa followed his gaze.

Then Wooyoung. Then San. Then Jongho.

Recognition spread instantly.

Hongjoong leaned forward in his seat and stared openly.

Yeosang blinked. The entire group looked stunned.

Yunho just led her to their seats like nothing in the world was strange about it.

He pulled out her chair for her.

Their hands stayed linked on the desk between them.

The lecture started.

No one listened.

Later that afternoon, he walked her to the dorms under the excuse of working on the project.

The guys were already home.

The moment they stepped inside, the reactions were immediate.

Mingi actually clapped.

Wooyoung let out a dramatic gasp.

San smiled openly.

Seonghwa looked genuinely happy.

Hongjoong shook his head with a grin.

Jongho stared for a second and then smiled softly.

Yeosang simply nodded like this made perfect sense.

“So,” Mingi said, crossing his arms. “You finally figured it out.”

Y/N hid her face in Yunho’s shoulder.

Yunho laughed. “Be nice.”

“We are being nice,” Wooyoung said. “This is adorable.”

Seonghwa smiled at her. “Welcome to the chaos.”

She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

They went to Yunho’s room under the pretense of studying.

They never opened their laptops.

The door closed behind them, and the world quieted again.

He did not even pretend.

He stepped toward her, cupped her face, and kissed her gently, deeply, with the kind of kiss that was not about urgency, but closeness.

She kissed him back immediately, arms wrapping around his waist, body fitting into his like she belonged there.

He walked her backward until the edge of the bed hit her knees.

She sat. He followed.

They tumbled onto the mattress together, laughing softly, kissing between smiles and breathless moments, limbs tangled, bodies close.

He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, her head resting over his heart.

They stayed like that. Just the simple truth of being together.

Yunho pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes.

And for the first time in his life, love did not feel complicated.

It felt easy.

Years later, Yunho would struggle to remember the exact moment everything changed.

Epilogue

Not because it wasn’t important. Not because it didn’t matter.

But because love didn’t arrive like a thunderstorm.

It arrived like a routine.

Like mornings that started the same way. Like coffee cups placed in the same spot on the counter. Like shared silence that felt comfortable instead of empty. Like hands finding each other without thinking. Like breathing in sync without trying.

Their life did not become loud.

It became steady.

They built a future out of ordinary days.

Out of grocery lists and shared meals. Out of missed alarms and late trains. Out of tired evenings and quiet laughter. Out of work stress and soft conversations at midnight.

Love did not look like a movie.

It looked like routine. It looked like safety.

And Yunho learned something he had never been taught before.

That real love is not chaos. Real love is boring.

And boring is beautiful.

Because boring means stable. Because boring means safe. Because boring means consistent. Because boring means predictable in the best way. Because boring means coming home to the same person every day and still choosing them.

With the right person, even silence is full. With the right person, even repetition feels new. With the right person, even nothing becomes everything.

Just two people waking up next to each other.

Again. And Again. And Again. Choosing each other in the smallest ways.

And Yunho knew, with absolute certainty, that if love had a shape…

It would look like her. Standing beside him.

In an ordinary life.

On an ordinary day.

That felt extraordinary.

Main Masterlist | Yunhos Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Taglist: @ninjakitty15 @dalsuwaha @likeejennie @starmee-lodurrson @luviebears @darjeelinglemontea @ffenjoyerdazme @moonlitcelestial @livonianmaia @m00njinnie @tinycloudz @whoreforjongho @shrimpwoo @soso59love-blog @armycarat2612 @yunhospinkyring

[stingrayextraordinaire]

Character Moodboards // John-Boy Walton

When I was young, the thought of distant and mysterious cities would send me daydreaming for hours.

[seolyoona-archive]

LEE KNOW 'DO IT' @ Show! Music Core 251122

[davinaclaires]

SCOOBY-DOO 2: MONSTERS UNLEASHED 2004, dir. Raja Gosnell

[titsay]

patiently waiting for my season

[erumelde]