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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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@wonyowonyo
Wonyo's Starter Pack
Hello there dweller! I'm you writer Wonyo_wonyo or wonyo for short, and welcome to my humble tumblr abode, consisting of my written fanfictions for Kpop girlgroups. I am open for requests, although expect a REALLY long time of wait as I'm terrible at managing my time and mostly busy doing other stuffs. I mostly operate here and on wattpad, so if you want to follow me there feel free to do so: Wonyo_Wonyo Anyways, that was enough yapping; unto the masterlist!
SERIES
Straightforward (K. Minju)
ONESHOTS
NEWJEANS
Minji
Courtship
Wrong for the Right Reason
Hanni
Bubble
Burnout
Whispers Through Time
After Midnight
Haerin
Melody in the Rain
TWICE
Sana
Flavors of Love
Le Sserafim
Sakura
Crossfire
Chaewon
Revenge
Yunjin
Sanctuary
IVE
Wonyoung
Realize
Yujin
Box
Between Us
Gaeul
Pixel Hearts
AESPA
Karina
Tales of Arcana
Summer Fever
Winter
Racing Hearts
Giselle
Static Echoes
IZ*ONE
Minju
Matchpoint
Queen Bee
BABYMONSTER
Ahyeon
How to Disappear From Your Own Movie
BLACKPINK
Rose
Rulebreaker's Rush
Cupid's Calling - 1.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden hue over the school courtyard, setting the perfect stage for what was unfolding. The air was thick with the sweet, almost sickeningly saccharine tension typical of high school crushes. A young girl, her eyes sparkling with naive wonder, beamed at the boy walking beside her.
"We're really amazing, aren't we?" she cooed, a soft, lovestruck smile gracing her lips. "We have a lot of things in common."
The boy, equally smitten and rubbing the back of his neck nervously, offered a gentle, confirming smile. "That's true..." he agreed softly. "And I don't think it's a coincidence... Yep..."
As they walked, their hands tentatively brushed against each other before finally, shyly, intertwining. It must be fate! The unspoken, euphoric thought practically radiated from their tightly linked fingers.
High above this touching scene, completely unseen by the mortal world, a winged figure perched lazily on a cloud, watching the spectacle below with an unamused sigh. "Humans..." she muttered, her chin resting heavily in her palm.
The winged girl, possessing long, flowing hair and a quiver full of arrows, let her feathery wings twitch with mild annoyance. "Really are pretty dumb," she stated flatly, observing the swooning teenagers.
With a soft flap of her wings, she hovered closer to the ground, remaining entirely invisible to the couple. "They have such happy faces..." she noted, her tone dripping with sarcastic exasperation. She pointed a small finger down at them. "It's 'cause I struck my arrow at you, okay?"
Letâs get proper introductions out of the way. She puffed out her chest slightly, her large, ethereal eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and irritation.
My name is Yujin, she thought to herself. I'm a cupid. And frankly, humanity owed her a massive thank you for all her hard work behind the scenes. "BE MORE GRATEFUL!" she yelled into the void, though, of course, no one heard her.
Drifting back to a comfortable, lounging position on her little cloud, Yujin let out a long, weary sigh.
To be frank... she mused, lazily resting her head on her hands as she floated in the sky, I don't really care at all about human love. It was all so repetitive, so utterly predictable.
 She stared off into the distance, her expression turning slightly contemplative as she watched the humans go about their mundane lives.
Then, why am I here in the human world? she asked herself, a question she had pondered countless times. I've been thinking... for a long time...
It always came back to the job description, a duty passed down to her. My mission is to make humans fall in love, she recalled. It was a mechanical process to her now. She would scour the schoolyards and city streets, waiting to find a target. She would watch patiently for that spark when people exchange glances...
Without hesitation, she would release the bowstring. And I strike an arrow into their heart! The invisible, heart-tipped projectile would fly through the air with a satisfying THUNK, embedding itself seamlessly into the target's chest, leaving a trail of little floating hearts in its wake. The results were always instantaneous. Below her, a boy would suddenly find the courage he never knew he had, bowing his head and shouting, "PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME!" deeply under the arrow's magical influence.
Snapping back to the present moment, Yujin watched the fruits of her latest labor unfold exactly as planned. The girl from earlier gasped, her face flushing a deep, happy crimson.
"I'd be honoured!" the girl replied enthusiastically, squeezing his hand. The boy's face lit up with pure shock and joy. "REALLY!?" he gasped, overjoyed.
Hovering directly over the newly minted couple, Yujin gave herself a highly satisfied nod. "GOOD JOB ME!" she cheered, admiring her handiwork as little imaginary hearts seemed to float around the couple's heads.
However, her triumphant mood was short-lived as cold reality set back in. By the way, she noted internally, her expression flattening into a deadpan stare, I was forced into this by my mom.
Leaving the lovebirds to their sickeningly sweet moment, Yujin took to the sky once more, gliding effortlessly over the suburban walls and rooftops.
I've said it before, but there's been a decline in romance recently... she grumbled to herself, her tiny wings carrying her further down the street. It made her job infinitely harder than it used to be. I need one more to fill in my quota.
Landing softly on a nearby stone wall, Yujin peered over a wire fence, her eyes scanning the quiet street for potential targets.
Hmm, wonder if there's any suitable couples around here... she pondered, adjusting the heavy quiver of arrows on her back. Just as she was surveying the area, a sudden, bright voice shattered the quiet afternoon air, calling out from the human world below.
"Y/N~!"
buzzed with a sweet, nervous energy as the girl approached him, her face alight with a bright, hopeful smile. "Morning!" she chimed, her voice holding a delicate desire to be noticed.
The boy, handsome and incredibly gentle, turned to her with a soft, melodic chuckle. "Haha... That's right..." he replied, his tone warm and inviting.
"Glad to meet you again!!" she beamed back, her heart doing a frantic dance against her ribs. In her mind, a thrilling and tender realization took root. Recently, we've been seeing each other every day, she thought, her eyes tracing the delicate lines of his face and the dark hair falling perfectly across his brow. Her inner voice practically soared, completely overwhelmed by his sheer presence. He's so pretty!!!
Floating invisibly nearby, the tiny cupid, Yujin, observed the boy with a rare glint of genuine appreciation. Her large, ethereal eyes widened as she took in his flawless, refined features. Wow, boys this pretty exist in this world, huh? she mused silently, tilting her head. She leaned closer, analyzing his gentle demeanor. He ain't a sight for sore eyes! she admitted to herself, truly impressed by the human boy's striking looks.
A cherished memory drifted through the girl's mind, a beautiful snapshot of a conversation that had cemented her blooming crush. The scene painted itself vividly in her thoughts, recalling a quiet moment by the school lockers where she had nervously approached him. "I saw the movie you recommended, Y/n!" she had told him, clutching her books tight to her chest with pure anticipation.
His face had lit up with immediate recognition and joy. "Fin? Yeah, it was super interesting!" he had agreed enthusiastically. For a fleeting second, she felt a profound connection, a beautifully shared world blooming gently between them.
However, the bright memory cast a sudden, cold shadow of reality over her present hopes. Watching him laugh so effortlessly in that recollection, a harsh truth had settled deeply into her chest. Well, but he isn't in my league! She had realized the gap between his radiant perfection and her ordinary self felt impossibly vast.
Yujin snapped her attention back to the present, a mischievous smirk pulling at her lips. Such a fitting way to end the day, the celestial cupid decided, seeing the perfect, undeniable opportunity to strike.
Below her, the girl mustered every ounce of courage she possessed, her voice trembling slightly. "Well then... There's an event..." she stammered, looking down at her shoes as a rosy flush dusted her cheeks. "But it's only for couples..."
Yujin wasted no time. "Just leave the rest up to me!" she declared with supreme confidence, drawing back her glowing bowstring with a sharp, magical pull.
The girl finally raised her eyes, meeting his gaze with absolute vulnerability. "If you'd like," she began, the words hanging delicately in the quiet air. "Please can you go with me?!" she blurted out, her true feelings pouring forth in a beautiful rush of pure sincerity.
At that exact moment, the cupid's arrow sliced cleanly through the air and struck the boy directly in the chest, erupting in a magnificent shower of magical hearts.
"Perfect!" Yujin cheered, watching the romantic aura bloom wildly around the boy. And that's my quota for the day! she thought, a triumphant smile gracing her lips. She twirled gracefully in the air, deeply satisfied with her divine handiwork. I'm a prodigy after all! With her task complete, she mentally prepared for her departure. Well! I need to go home quickly to report to mother...
Then, a voice completely devoid of warmth shattered the magical atmosphere.
"Sorry," the boy said softly.
Yujin froze, her confident smile vanishing instantly. "Huh!?" she gasped aloud, entirely bewildered by the impossible rejection unfolding before her eyes.
"You deserve someone better..." Y/n added, his voice carrying a quiet, heavy sorrow. "Actually, a lot of stuff happened back at home, and..." he continued, his tone apologetic but heartbreakingly firm. "I don't really have the luxury of treasuring someone..."
Yujin flew down in an instant, practically hovering right beside his face, her mind racing with sheer panic. W- What? Wake up, idiot! she screamed internally. The sheer impossibility of the situation gnawed at her very being.
"I want you to be happier, Hayoon-ah" he finished softly, staring past the devastated girl.
Did the arrow not pierce him!? Yujin wondered frantically, inspecting his chest where the magical projectile had flawlessly hit its mark.
Tears welled up in the girl's eyes, her grand confession crumbling to dust in the afternoon light. "Y/n..." she whispered, her voice cracking under the unbearable weight of her sudden heartbreak.
Yujin floated silently beside the boy, her eyes fixed on his broad back as he prepared to leave. The magic had hit its target perfectly. The arrow pierced him, I'm sure of it... she reasoned, a deep, unsettling confusion taking root in her celestial heart.
Turning away to hide her flowing tears, the girl forced out a final, shaky farewell. "Well then... I'll be going." She walked down the solitary path, leaving a heavy, mournful "Why..." echoing softly in her wake.
The tiny cupid watched Y/n's shadowed profile, searching desperately for any sign of a lie or a broken spell. But... Yujin pondered, gazing at the boy who had defied the divine, Did it not reach his heart...?
The boy suddenly stopped in his tracks. He turned his head just slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder that sent an unexpected chill through the warm afternoon air. The soft, endlessly gentle aura he had carried only moments before vanished entirely, replaced by a dark, intense gaze that seemed to pierce through the very fabric of the world. Floating above the pavement, Yujin froze in midair. A tiny, nervous bead of sweat formed on her porcelain cheek.
"Hey..." she whispered, her voice barely a breath, completely caught off guard by the drastic shift.
He turned his body fully to face her, his expression devoid of any mortal warmth or typical teenage awkwardness.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice slicing cleanly through the quiet street.
The question hung heavily between them. Yujin stared at his cold, unyielding features in pure silence. Her celestial mind struggled to process the impossible. She shifted slightly in the air, her wide eyes carefully tracing his line of vision. He must be looking at a stray cat or a falling leaf behind me, she reasoned desperately to herself, entirely convinced a mortal could not truly see her.
Catching her doubtful, searching gaze, his expression flattened. He locked his dark eyes directly onto hers with absolute, terrifying certainty.
"No, you," he clarified sharply, instantly shattering her fragile denial.
A whirlwind of panic bubbled up fiercely in her chest. Huh? Huh? she thought wildly, her mind racing a million miles a minute. In a desperate attempt to test the boundaries of reality, the tiny cupid swooped down, darting directly into his face. The sudden rush of wind from her wings caused him to flinch back, his dark eyes widening in a brief moment of surprise.
Did I do something wrong? she wondered frantically. The terrifying truth began to sink deep into her bones. The arrow, it did not work...
He recovered quickly, looking at her with a mixture of mild annoyance and stark curiosity. His gaze swept over her floating form with unsettling calm.
"Are you like her friend of hers or something?" he asked, his tone completely flat.
Her divine heart skipped a violent beat. And this guy... she realized, the truth washing over her in a freezing wave.
"She's been following me for some time, so," he continued seamlessly, utterly unfazed by the ethereal wings on her back or the fact that she was levitating inches above the concrete.
The realization hit Yujin with the force of a falling star. Can see me... she concluded, the impossible truth echoing loudly in the quiet chambers of her mind.
He took a deliberate step closer, invading her personal, sacred space. His gaze locked onto hers, seeing right through her celestial disguise.
"Can you tell the girl from before..." he began, leaning in until his face was dangerously close to her own. "...to give up already?"
Yujin stared deeply into his dark eyes, noticing the absolute, chilling absence of the sweet boy from just moments ago. He's completely different from before, she observed, a delicate shiver running down her spine. The enchanting illusion had shattered.
The boy sighed heavily, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck in a gesture of pure, mortal exhaustion.
"It's tiring being followed everyday," he muttered, his voice dripping with an apathetic heaviness. "What is she, a stalker?"
The sheer, unapologetic audacity of his words snapped Yujin completely out of her shock.
"Who..." she stammered, the syllables catching in her throat before her divine temper finally flared into a brilliant, fiery indignation. "Who the hell are you!?" she shrieked, her angelic composure shattering into a thousand glittering pieces.
He looked down at her with deadpan, unwavering sincerity. "I'm just a normal high schooler," he stated, as if discussing the weather.
She floated there, her mind reeling, before she finally found her voice again. "And... you are?" she asked, her tone laced with deep suspicion.
He tilted his head slightly, returning her intense scrutiny with calm calculation. His eyes drifted carefully over her luminous, feathery wings and her intricate, heavenly dress. "Is this a cosplay? How'd you make the wings?" he inquired, his curiosity finally peaking through his icy exterior.
Deeply offended by his mortal insolence, Yujin quickly brandished one of her magical arrows, pointing the plush heart directly at his chest in a desperate show of defense.
"Don't touch a love god like me so freely!" she commanded, her cheeks puffed out in righteous, adorable anger.
He paused, his dark eyes dropping to the heart-tipped arrow. A slow, incredibly mysterious smirk curled the corners of his lips, transforming his face into something dangerously captivating.
"Oh," he breathed out softly into the space between them. "A love god, huh?"
Before she could even register his movement, his hand darted forward. His long, graceful fingers gently but firmly cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing against her soft cheek. A jolt of electric shock coursed through her celestial body as his warm skin made contact with hers.
"Yeah, you just don't look like a cosplayer," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, incredibly intimate register that made the surrounding air feel impossibly thick.
Yujin froze entirely, her large, ethereal eyes trembling with pure, unadulterated shock at his physical touch. The boundary between heaven and earth seemed to dissolve beneath his fingertips.
She glared back at him, her own realization solidifying into an undeniable, heavy truth. She pulled away slightly, her voice steadying as she laid bare the impossible reality of the boy standing before her.
"You are not human," she declared, her words hanging in the air with absolute certainty. She looked deep into his mesmerizing eyes, the romantic comedy of the afternoon transforming into a profound, enchanting mystery.
"Even though I hit you with a love arrow, you remain unaffected," she continued, her voice shaking with a potent mix of awe, frustration, and a budding, undeniable curiosity. "And you can even see me..."
She pointed a small, trembling finger at him, the invisible threads of destiny suddenly binding them tightly together on that quiet suburban street. "I refuse to believe you're a normal human!" she proclaimed fiercely.
The boy's dark eyes fell slowly to the glowing projectile held tightly in her small hands. "Wow..." he breathed out, his tone dripping with an unsettling mix of fascination and complete nonchalance.
Before Yujin could even register his sudden shift in movement, his hand shot forward. His long, graceful fingers closed firmly around the delicate shaft of her divine weapon with a definitive, startling grab. "So this is a love arrow?" he mused softly, pulling it toward him to study the sparkling craftsmanship.
"WHAT THE HELL!?" Yujin shrieked, her celestial composure completely unravelling as absolute panic flared in her chest. She grabbed the other end of the arrow, digging her heels into the invisible air and pulling back with all her heavenly strength.
"Lemme see, just once," he insisted calmly, his grip utterly unyielding against her frantic, desperate tugging.
"Hey, what the hell are you even doing!?" she cried out, her heart hammering against her ribs. She squeezed her eyes shut, a deep, furious crimson flush spreading rapidly across her pale cheeks as she pulled harder. "DON'T TOUCH THEM!" she commanded, her voice cracking beautifully under the sheer exertion of their tug of war.
Suddenly, the delicate balance broke. Her fingers slipped from the smooth shaft. "AH!" slipped past her parted lips as her momentum threw her completely off guard.
The boy's intense eyes widened a fraction. "HUH?" he gasped, completely caught off guard as gravity and magic took their sudden, terrifying toll.
Time slowed to a complete crawl. Yujin tumbled backward, the world spinning in a dizzying blur of golden afternoon light and suburban scenery. But she did not hit the hard concrete. Strong, mortal arms wrapped securely around her waist, catching her fall with surprising, breathtaking gentleness. She gasped softly, her large eyes flying open to meet his dark, deeply concerned gaze hovering just above hers. For a fleeting second, the entire universe seemed to hold its breath. Then, the impossible happened. The glowing tip of the love arrow, caught squarely between their tangled bodies in the confusion, pressed directly against her own chest. With a brilliant, blinding flash of ethereal light, the magical projectile sank deep into the cupid's heart.
A strange, alien sensation bloomed instantly within her delicate frame. Yujin clutched weakly at the fabric of her dress, her breathing growing ragged and incredibly shallow. What's this throbbing...? she wondered frantically, a trembling hand pressing tightly over her wildly beating heart.
"Ugh... Hey, are you okay?" the boy asked, his voice suddenly sounding miles away as a heavy, intoxicating fever washed entirely over her celestial senses.
It's painful, she thought, the steady, deafening rhythm of her heart echoing loudly in her ears. A deep, agonizing ache spread outward from her chest, a profound heaviness unlike anything a divine being was ever meant to feel. It's hurting me...
The magic took absolute, terrifying hold, sinking deeper into her soul with a heavy, resounding thunk. Hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she looked up at the beautiful boy holding her so tenderly. I'm scared...
Her vision began to blur at the edges, the bright, mundane reality of the afternoon fading into a soft, hazy white. As she lay there, cradled safely in the arms of a mortal, a singular, terrifying question floated through her fading consciousness. Am I... Dying?
___
The suburban street melted away entirely, replaced by the endless, pillowy expanse of the heavenly clouds from her distant childhood. The golden light of the celestial realm bathed everything in a warm, deeply nostalgic glow.
"Is that ok, Yujin?" a gentle, incredibly familiar voice echoed through the soft mist.
It was her mother. Yujin could see the elegant sweep of her mother's long hair, her back turned gracefully as she dispensed her maternal wisdom. "You should learn how to love others!" her mother urged, her tone laced with a tender, loving reprimand.
A tiny, much younger version of Yujin sat perched on a fluffy cloud, her arms crossed firmly in adorable, stubborn defiance. She puffed out her little cheeks, looking utterly unimpressed by the grand lecture. "But there is no man who's worthy of me!" the little cupid huffed proudly, her divine ego already vast and unshakeable.
A soft, knowing chuckle resonated beautifully through the clouds. "Hehe... That's right..." her mother conceded affectionately. The older goddess paused, letting a profound silence settle over the heavenly expanse. "But..." she continued, her voice growing incredibly soft, carrying the immense weight of a thousand eternities. "You can live without love..."
The memory zoomed in closely on little Yujin's wide, innocent eyes, perfectly reflecting the boundless, glittering sky above.
"Love is the only thing that'll leave a lasting impact on you..." her mother whispered, the profound words etching themselves permanently into the very fabric of Yujin's eternal being.
But the younger Yujin, completely oblivious to the heavy gravity of the lesson, simply shook her head and smiled. I don't really get it... she had thought back then, dismissing the divine wisdom entirely. "Anyways, let's go play!" she had cheered aloud, darting away quickly into the safety of the clouds.
"Hey, Yujin. Wait!" her mother had called out gently, her voice fading slowly into the glittering, distant light of the past.
___
The world slowly bled back into focus through a narrow slit of light, filtering in from the quiet infirmary windows. What... a dazed voice echoed in the stillness of her mind. Oh, she's awake.
Glimpses of clean, sterile ceiling tiles drifted into her clearing vision. Is this...
Suddenly, a face filled her line of sight, leaning in close with dark, gentle eyes filled with lingering worry. "You ok?" he asked softly. Her large, beautiful eyes blinked open in absolute astonishment, catching the reflection of his steady gaze.
Over on the other side of the room, the atmosphere shifted with the rustle of protective white curtains. "Sorry. Did I startle you?" a voice murmured, followed by the reassuring explanation, "I just called the teacher."
A student sat nearby, watching the unfolding scene with cautious, wide eyes. "You're..." someone began, the sentence trailing off into the quiet hum of the room.
The realization slammed into him like a physical blow, making his breath hitch. The unaffected guy from before...
He raised a hand, scratching the back of his dark hair in sheer disbelief, his expression locking into a tense, baffled grimace. "I don't remember a thing..." A sudden jolt of confusion pulsed through him.
With a soft slide of his chair, he shifted closer to the bedside, his posture softening as he looked down at her with genuine, unfeigned concern. "Are you ok?"
Confusion swirled in the thick air between them. "You lost consciousness so suddenly..." someone urged gently, trying to piece together the bizarre events. "Do you understand yourself? Wait! What are you saying..."
"No... Also..." she stammered, her voice trembling.
Nearby, two students glanced over with curious stares, whispering among themselves. Why are they looking at me... panic began to grip her soul with icy fingers. Humans can't see cupids... I shouldn't be visible... And yet...
She stumbled away, her feet carrying her toward a large mirror reflecting the school hallway. Her reflection stared back, but the sight completely shattered her fragile reality. A sharp, bloodcurdling shriek tore from the very depths of her throat. "NOOOOO!!!"
Panic radiated through her entire being in frantic, blinding waves. No! No! No!!!! She sobbed internally, her hands flying to her head as a frantic rattling filled the space around her. My wings! Where are my wings?!
"You ok?" a gentle voice broke through the deafening roar of her panic. She whipped around, pulling the cloth curtain back with trembling, desperate fingers. You can see me!
The boy stood right there, his expression a steady mix of calm resolve and quiet exasperation. "Don't worry... Just calm down already..." he sighed softly, his hands reaching out to steady her shaking shoulders, grounding her against the swirling storm.
A strange, heavy ache bloomed suddenly in the center of her chest. Uh... What the hell... she thought, clutching the fabric of her uniform as another sharp, unfamiliar throb echoed within her. I don't feel good...
She retreated into herself, pulling her knees tight against her chest as she sat curled up in the quiet shadows of the room. "You're really okay?" someone asked, the voice sounding miles away.
I can be seen, I don't have wings... And this pain I feel in my chest... It all feels so... Human...
The boy watched her carefully, his dark eyes softening with an unreadable, deep affection. "You've calmed down?" he asked, his tone dropping to a soothing whisper.
She turned her face slowly toward the sunlit window, the polished glass reflecting a completely transformed silhouette. "No..." she whispered, the denial tasting like ash on her tongue. "It can't be..."
I refuse to believe this is me... she thought, staring at her soft, entirely human hands in absolute horror. Who's that girl?
Outside in the hallway near the door marked with a strict warning, two ordinary female students walked past, chatting away without a care in the world. "Are they filming something?" one wondered aloud.
With a sudden, violent burst of motion, she threw open the door with a loud slam, the wood echoing sharply against the frame. Her voice cracked, echoing desperately down the empty, sunlit corridor. "Mother!!!" she screamed into the open sky, her heart fracturing completely. "It's me! Yujin!!!"
She rushed to the balcony, gripping the cold iron railing tightly as hot tears streamed down her pale cheeks. She looked out at the vast, uncaring horizon, pouring every ounce of her remaining soul into a final, heartbreaking plea. "Come save me... Please..."
She hoisted herself up, her bare feet finding precarious purchase on the narrow edge of the balcony railing. The wind whipped past her, but she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing a shaky, desperate smile onto her face. It'll be fine... she told herself, gripping the cold metal tightly. I'm sure...
She leaned slightly into the dizzying height, clinging to a single, frantic thread of hope. That's right! This is all a dream! she reasoned wildly. If I just wake up from this dream!
Before she could even shift her weight forward, a hand clamped firmly onto the back of her head. Grab.
Her large eyes flew open in absolute shock. The momentum reversed instantly as she was yanked backward, her feet stumbling onto the solid concrete floor of the balcony. She turned, her breath hitching as she met the deeply unamused gaze of the dark-haired boy.
"This ain't a dream..." she squeaked, her grand, dramatic escape utterly thwarted.
"What are you doing!?" he scolded, pulling her further away from the dangerous ledge. His expression was a mask of cold pragmatism as he delivered a harsh, utterly unsympathetic reprimand. "If you wanna die, do it in a way that doesn't trouble others..."
Yujin recoiled, visibly appalled by his icy demeanor. This guy's a demon! she thought, staring at him in utter disbelief.
She looked at his impassive face, desperately trying to rationalize the sheer absurdity of everything that had happened since she fell from the sky. This is a dream... she pleaded silently with the universe, her mind reeling. It has to be...
Suddenly, he reached out, his hand wrapping securely around her delicate wrist. He pulled her forward, closing the distance between them until she was forced to look directly up into his intense, unwavering eyes.
"This isn't a dream," he stated firmly. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his dark gaze locking completely onto hers, ensuring she grasped the gravity of reality. "Got it?"
As she stared up at him, caught in his steadfast grip, that strange, alien sensation erupted within her chest once more. Thump. Thump. Thump. Her breath caught painfully in her throat. It's that feeling again.
A deafening BA-DUMP echoed in her ears, shaking her to her very core. She looked away from him, her free hand instinctively coming up to clutch the fabric of her shirt over her wildly racing heart.
That's right... The terrifying memory flashed brilliantly in her mind's eyeâthe dizzying fall, his mortal arms wrapped securely around her waist, and the sudden, blinding impact caught between them. At that time... I got struck by my own arrow in the chest!!
YOU'LL FALL IN LOVE.
The mundane reality of the school balcony seemed to melt away, replaced by the sparkling, ethereal presence of heavenly magic sealing her fate. There, standing face-to-face with the mortal boy who caught her, the ultimate truth of her own weapon aligned entirely against her.
Suddenly, the door to the infirmary slammed open with a loud crash. A girl burst into the room, shouting, "HE'S HERE!" while a dark-haired girl rushed in beside her, urgently asking, "Y/n, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT!?". The girl glared at Yujin with immediate suspicion, demanding, "WHO'S SHE!" and mentally concluding, "SHE'S GETTING HIM CAUGHT UP IN SOME WEIRD STUFF...".
Ignoring the sudden, chaotic intrusion, Y/n simply sighed and stepped forward. With a single, fluid motion, he swept Yujin entirely off her feet, securing her against his chest in a flawless, secure princess carry. A collective gasp echoed down the hallway as a growing crowd of female students swarmed the doorway, their voices pitching into a frenzy of high-pitched squeals.
"Y/n!?" someone shrieked, utterly scandalized.
Without missing a beat, he stared blankly at the mob and decisively announced his exit strategy. "First of all, let's escape!" He tightened his gentle grip on Yujin and loudly provided a highly questionable alibi to the gathered crowd. "You're not feeling well, so let's get home quick!"
___
He carried her all the way to the outer school gates without breaking a single sweat, leaving behind a fading trail of frantic shouts, demands to wait, and desperate pleas for someone to grab him. After clearing a safe distance, he finally set her down on the pavement. Y/n calmly looked back at the distant, frustrated mob, dusting his hands off with a sense of complete satisfaction. "Yeah. They can't come this far."
Beside him, Yujin was a malfunctioning mess. Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant, burning shade of cherry red. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to gather her wildly chaotic thoughts. Okay, let's calm down for a single second, she rationalized internally, her newly beating heart fluttering frantically against her ribs. If I'm right about this magic, I'm actually...
Her profound, life-altering epiphany was violently derailed by a remarkably casual voice.
"I'm going home," Y/n announced, already turning his back on her and walking away with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"HUH!?" Yujin shrieked, her jaw dropping open in utter disbelief at his sheer audacity and absolute nonchalance.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder with a perfectly blank expression. "Something up!?"
That was the absolute breaking point. She exploded, marching right up to him and jabbing an accusing finger directly at his chest. "It's your fault I'm like this right now! Take responsibility!"
Y/n blinked slowly, completely and hopelessly lost in the conversation. "What do you mean by something!?"
They ended up walking together through the quiet neighborhood streets, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. Y/n glanced sideways at his bizarre companion, trying to logically assess her living situation.
"Your home!?" he prompted, speaking slowly as if addressing a highly confused child. "The place where you live."
Yujin tilted her head, blinking up at him in pure, unadulterated innocence. "What's a home?"
Y/n let out a long, suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know. Parents?"
Yujin only looked away, her silence ringing loud and completely unhelpful in the quiet street. Y/n studied her stubborn profile for a moment, the heavy realization finally dawning on him. "You can't go home, huh?" he deduced softly.
Just then, the soft, melodic jingle of a bell pierced the quiet air. A fluffy white cat trotted gracefully past their legs. To Y/n's cynical eyes, it was nothing more than a neighborhood stray. But to Yujin, the creature was practically glowing. A shimmering, ethereal aura of pure celestial magic trailed behind its tail, pulsing with a warm, undeniable power. Her eyes widened as she instantly sensed the familiar, mystical energy radiating from the small feline.
Drawn by the invisible, glittering thread of magic, Yujin eagerly trailed after the cat. The mystical creature led her straight to the front steps of a massive, undeniably luxurious apartment building. As she looked up, the lingering magic washed over the structure, and she realized the impossible, miraculous truth. Her own celestial dwelling had been magically plucked from the heavens and anchored right here, seamlessly disguised within the mortal world.
Throwing her arms out wide with triumphant, genuine joy, she confidently declared to the universe, "I live here!"
Y/n stared at her, his expression flatter than a piece of cardboard. "No," he replied, ruthlessly crushing what he assumed was a massive, spontaneous delusion.
He stepped past her, pulling out a key and opening the heavy glass door himself. "Well, whatever," he muttered, entirely resigned to his bizarre fate. He turned to look at her, immediately pointing out the sheer absurdity of her claim. "You literally just followed a stray cat! That's mathematically impossible." He gestured vaguely toward the lavish lobby. "Also, this is a pretty expensive apartment."
Refusing to accept his mortal ignorance, Yujin stubbornly marched up to the entrance. She dramatically pointed a finger at the polished brass signboard mounted beside the door. The celestial magic had literally bent reality to accommodate her presence, and the elegant engraving proudly displayed the name Ahn.
"Shut up!" she retorted, her chest puffing out with absolute, divine pride as she presented the undeniable proof. "My name's on here too!"
Y/n just stared at the miraculously altered signboard, then back at her, deeply contemplating all the chaotic choices that had led him to this exact moment in time.
Once they were finally inside the spacious room, Y/n bypassed all pleasantries. He walked straight to his bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress, utterly and completely exhausted by the sheer, reality-bending force of her existence.
Yujin marched right over, planting her hands firmly on her hips. As far as the magic was concerned, this space belonged to her now. "HEY, THIS IS MY ROOM!" she shouted, absolutely committed to her newly established domain.
Without moving a single inch, Y/n buried his face deeper into his pillow. "Just stay quiet..." he groaned into the soft fabric, praying to the heavens for just a single ounce of peace.
As they walked through the neighborhood streets, Y/n tried to assess her living situation. "Your home!? ...the place where you live," he prompted. Yujin blinked at him in utter confusion and asked, "What's a home?" Sighing, Y/n tried to clarify, "I don't know. Parents?" but Yujin only looked away in complete, unhelpful silence. "You can't go home, huh..." Y/n finally deduced.
Just then, a fluffy white cat wearing a collar with a ringing bell trotted past them with a soft "meoww". Yujin initially thought, "it's not like-" before a convenient idea seemed to strike her. She quickly followed the cat to a large apartment building, threw her arms out happily, and confidently declared, "I live here!"
Y/n stared at her with a deadpan expression. "No..." he replied flatly. As he opened the door, he muttered a resigned, "Well, whatever..." He immediately pointed out the sheer absurdity of her claim, stating, "You just followed a cat! That's impossible". He further noted, "Also, this is a pretty expensive apartment. But Yujin stubbornly retorted, pointing at a signboard with âAhnâ written on it. "Shut up! My name's on here too!"Â
Once inside the room, Y/n immediately collapsed onto his bed, utterly exhausted. Yujin marched right over, shouting, "HEY, THIS IS MY ROOM!" Y/n just closed his eyes and groaned, "Just stay quiet..."
Yujin stared down at him, deeply frustrated by his total lack of urgency. "I can't keep up with this guy's pace..." she thought. She pondered her divine predicament, realizing the flaw in her celestial training: "I know how to use the love arrow... But I was never taught how to remove its effects". Seeking some sort of direction, she hesitantly asked, "By the way... don't tell me..."
Looking up from his pillow, Y/n interrupted her with a blunt question: "Are you really a cupid?" Taken aback, Yujin stammered defensively, "T-THAT'S RIGHT...".
âReallyâŠâ Y/n mused lazily, "That's nice... all you have to do is shoot arrows, right? I would be satisfied with just a bow...". Yujin huffed indignantly, "It's not that easy!! Well, I can't really talk...".
Then, Y/n asked a crucial, thought-provoking question: "So, if your love comes true, then will you be able to escape?" This sparked a sudden epiphany for Yujin, who realized with a jolt that otherwise, it would be a massive problem for whoever gets hit by the magic.
"That's right!" she concluded mentally, visualizing her divine weapon. "If I got pierced by an arrow and turned into a human... Then fulfilling my love will make me turn back!" She glanced over at Y/n, who had already fallen fast asleep on the bed, and noted opportunistically, "And also, the current situation is just perfectâŠâ A mischievous, determined grin crept onto her face as she flexed her hand. Because, humans, in the end, are monsters! she plotted.
With her target fast asleep and entirely vulnerable, the perfect opportunity presented itself. A mischievous, determined glint sparked in her large, starry eyes as she crept toward the edge of the bed. Taking a shaky breath, Yujin leaned dangerously close over the resting boy. The quiet intimacy of the sunlit room amplified the wild, frantic beating of her newly human heart.
"Y/n..." she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she prepared to weave her irresistible trap of affection. She hovered just inches from his face, studying the soft curve of his jaw and the dark lashes resting peacefully against his pale skin. "I'm... really interested in you. I've always wanted to do this..."
"What... do you think about this, Y/n?" she murmured out loud, her voice dripping with practiced, celestial sweetness.
She held her breath, waiting for the undeniable spark of magical destiny to ignite between them, fully expecting him to awaken in a flustered, lovestruck daze.
Instead, a single, dark eye snapped open. His sharp, completely unreadable gaze pinned her instantly in place.
"You're scary," he stated flatly. His voice was utterly devoid of the romantic tension she had so carefully manufactured.
"Huh?" Yujin blinked, her grand, poetic illusion shattering into a million jagged pieces.
Y/n calmly propped himself up on his elbows, observing her flustered retreat with a sense of clinical, detached fascination. "So cupids do really have such emotions," he mused softly to himself, looking at her as if she were a bizarre science experiment. "Wow. So interesting."
Yujin felt a visible vein throb furiously at her temple. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her celestial pride sustaining a massive, unforgivable blow. "This guy!" she seethed aloud. "Even with such a top-notch beauty in front of your eyes, you're just sitting there doing nothing! It's heartbreaking! And also, don't talk to me like that!!"
But beneath her fiery outburst, a flawless, simple plan took permanent root in her mind. It's settled! She cheered internally, her divine confidence surging back to brilliant life. After all, who wouldn't fall for my beauty? Come on. Fall in love with me!
Y/n sighed a long, exhausted breath. He slipped his hands nonchalantly into his pockets and turned his back to her dramatic display. "Welp, I'm going home," he announced, entirely washing his hands of the chaotic magical mess she had dragged into his afternoon.
Yujin fumed, pointing a trembling finger directly at his retreating back. "You insulted me? A cupid? Don't you dare ever look down on me!" she yelled, puffing her cheeks into a deeply indignant pout. "I feel sorry for you too!"
Y/n paused right at the doorway. "Top-notch...?" he repeated, a hint of dry, infuriating amusement coloring his tone.
"Shut up!" she shrieked, her face burning hotter than a dying star.
He turned his head slowly. The afternoon shadows played beautifully across his striking features as his gaze locked onto hers. "Oh. Right. You..."
Before she could even draw another breath to yell, he closed the distance between them in a single, fluid stride. He leaned down, bringing his face perilously close to hers. The sudden, intense proximity stole the air right out of her lungs.
"Shouldn't say things like that," he whispered softly. His deep voice brushed intimately against her ear, sending a shiver directly down her spine, "so easily."
BA-DUMP.
Her newly human heart slammed violently against her ribs. Her eyes widened to impossible proportions as a furious, unstoppable blush overtook her entire face. She looked up and found him smiling. It was not his usual mask of bored indifference, but a soft, breathtakingly handsome curve of his lips that sent a fresh shockwave through her trembling frame.
"Because you don't know what's going to happen next," he murmured, his dark gaze entirely captivating and dangerously alluring.
"Wha..." she stammered weakly, her bravado melting away in a single, breathless instant.
He pulled back, his quiet amusement lingering in the air as he turned to leave. Yujin stood frozen, clutching her hands into tight fists as a whirlwind of completely alien emotions threatened to consume her. The heavy realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. There is no one who has ever been attractive to me, she thought, staring at his broad back. But. Just once, I'll allow it for you.
The path to her salvation was finally illuminated. If I can make this guy fall for me, there is the chance I can return to normal!
"I'll definitely make you fall in love with me!"
Y/n stopped in his tracks. He glanced over his shoulder, a playful, challenging spark igniting in his eyes. "Will you teach me how a cupid loves?" he asked softly, his curiosity finally piqued.
Yujin held her ground, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm. It looks so interesting, she noted silently, realizing she had finally broken through his impenetrable wall of apathy.
He turned fully toward her, looking utterly devastating as the sunlight caught the gentle sway of his dark hair. "But I definitely won't fall," he promised with an infuriatingly confident smirk.
And so, it began.
The golden afternoon light bathed the world in a warm, romantic glow as they stepped out of the apartment building together.
"Ah, I'm hungry," Y/n complained casually, already walking down the street with his hands buried in his pockets, leaving her behind in the dust.
"Wait for me!" Yujin yelled, rushing forward to catch up to his long strides.
Two entirely different worlds had irreversibly collided. A celestial cupid who doesn't know a thing about real love, and a cynical mortal boy who refuses to show any affection. The stage was perfectly set, the chaotic rules were established, and the curtain finally rose on their grand, inevitable love battle!
title page
Cupid's Calling
Cupids.
/ËkjuË.pÉȘds/
The legendary purveyors of true love, flying on majestic wings, plucking golden harps, and spreading eternal happiness.
Right?
Wrong.
Itâs actually a quota-based, heavily micromanaged celestial gig. You find two blushing teenagers, shoot an invisible arrow, watch the imaginary hearts float into the sky, and clock out. Itâs easy, predictable, and honestly, a little bit boring. After all, humans are just so simple.
Or so she thought.
Or so Yujin thought, a highly arrogant celestial prodigy with a 100% success rate.
Unbeknownst to her, a cynical, completely unfazed mortal is about to shatter her perfect simple world. Two entirely different worlds have collided. The curtain is rising on the most chaotic love battle in history,
And only one of them can win.
a j.wonyoung x m!reader fic series,
genre: fluff!
status: ongoing
ËÊâĄÉË CHAPTERS ËÊâĄÉË
1.
Attacked (L. Jiwoo)
in a rough high school, an introverted student named Y/n accidentally gets entangled with the school's most feared delinquent, Lee Jiwoo, over... a Boys' Love manga?
wc: 8.8k
genre: fluff
___
The reputation of the institution was dirt on everyone's lips , a place polite society would raise a disapproving eyebrow at in hushed tones before hastily dashing past its iron gates. This high school was the lowest of the low in the educational pecking order - the place where test scores went to get lost forever & hope - that tender, naive little thing - seemed to be a distant memory.
In the bleak courtyard, students stood swinging metal pipes in the air like cruel clubs, triumphantly milling about amidst the wreckage of bodies strewn across the cracked concrete - some getting up to swipe at the air, others just lying there & trying to catch their breath. A blonde girl with a recent scrap blooming purple across her pale cheek just strolled through it all like it was nothing but roadkill, casually stepping over still forms that had given up the fight. The place was a hotbed of delinquents, kids who spent every waking moment going toe-to-toe with each other, their knuckles always scabbed and their uniforms always looking like they'd been put through a wringer.
But, of course, delinquents weren't the only kind of person you'd find in this bottom-of-the-barrel school.
Beneath the brutal reality of it all, though, there were occasional glimpses of a world a thousand miles away. A portable game console with a cute charm dangling from its side looked like it belonged in a toy box - all pink and sparkly in the harsh fluorescent lighting. A beautifully crafted figurine sat delicately on a desk, lovingly repainted with intricate details. A glossy magazine with riotous anime characters plastered all over its cover, the colours jarringly bright in a world of drab, grey surroundings. Who were these people...?
They were the Otakus.
Y/n huddled with his like-minded friends in the corner of the classroom, beaming from ear to ear as they pored over anime magazines and handheld games in a tiny little sanctuary of peace they'd managed to carve out for themselves. The violence raging outside their little bubble might have been taking place on a different planet. Since they more or less ignored their homework and devoted their entire lives to their hobbies, they just about had to go to this dump. Their grades had sealed their fate, landing them right in the middle of this hard-bitten, rough-as-nails crew of bottom-of-the-school gangsters and small-time thugs.
Y/n adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with one finger, a gentle and utterly harmless smile spreading across his face as he flipped through the pages of his book. The paper made soft rustling sounds that he found comforting. I myself am one of those otakus, he thought contentedly, savoring the familiar weight of the manga in his hands.
He had a theory of how his survival in this concrete jungle would go to plan. We otakus spend our days stuck in a corner of the class room, Y/n told himself with that quiet confidence that comes from having a strong feeling about things, believing that keeping a low profile was the key to not getting noticed. He'd just stick his head down, keep his mouth shut and let the delinquents walk right over him, hopefully ignore him completely like they normally did. At least that's what I thought I would be doing, to be honest...
But things had got a bit out of hand.
He wasn't invisible, far from it. He was actually trapped.
Y/n found himself squashed onto the floor in the corner of the room, his body all bunched up like a piece of poorly folded origami, knees curled up tight to his chest and him shaking like a leaf. He was clinging to his manga like it was a lifesaver, the thin pages somehow meant to protect him from the chaos that was erupting all around him. The scary blonde delinquent was right there with him, sitting on the floor as if they'd been friends for years. Her body was leaning into his side, sending warm waves through him that made his skin tingle with awareness. The close proximity of her hand to his leg made him feel a shiver run down his spine, even though she wasn't actually touching him.
Y/n's face was burning red, the heat spreading from his cheeks right down to the tips of his ears. His heart was pounding away against his ribs like it was desperate to get out , each beat loud enough to be deafening. He was too scared to look away from the delinquent, but also way too flustered to try and meet her eye.
What. Is. This. situation...? Y/n screamed the question in his head, cold sweat pouring down his face like a tap had been turned on and his glasses were misting up with the sheer panic that was taking over.
To make any sense of this mess, you had to go back in time. Y/n's mind swam with a sense of bewilderment as he tried to recall the events that had led up to this nightmare.
All of this had started a few days prior, now that I think about it...
That day, I was holding this BL book, Y/n recalled, the memory flashing into his brain like a branding iron. The very thought made him want to burrow into the floor. It was an accident, pure bad luck, caused by my sister's mix up at home. It had been stuck between the pages of my perfectly innocent anime mag... - one of her things had somehow got lumped in with my stuff.
The BL manga had been hiding amongst the pages of a book meant to be completely safe, a trap that he'd stepped right into without even realising. He'd pulled it out in class without giving it a second thought, his eyes going wide with shock the instant he worked out what he was holding. The cover picture of two gorgeous guys in a pretty suggestive pose was seared into his brain.
Just as he'd finally registered the mistake and was in the process of shoving the book back into his bag with sweaty palms, a voice from behind him froze my blood in my veins.
"That's Mems x Augy, right?"
Y/n slowly turned, his entire body seizing up with a dread that felt like it was going to suffocate him . his heart just about burst out of his chest, the hammering in his ribcage was so intense it was practically agony. The girl who'd just met his gaze with that low, knowing tone was , one of the delinquents that topped the school's unofficial, and very real hierarchy, Lee Jiwoo.
She towered over Y/n like a monolith, an imposing, intimidating presence that both commanded respect and made your skin crawl. A shaft of grimy sunlight streaming in through the sticky window caught her hair, and for a moment, she almost looked like some kind of otherworldly being, like one of those angelic characters from a fantasy anime. The fresh scrapes on her knuckles told a very different story, however, a grim reminder that Lee Jiwoo had probably been in a fight recently and probably came out on top.
Is she one of those Fujoshi?! Y/n thought in a panic, his brain going a million miles an hour as he frantically tried to read her in. There was this particular type of girl: a Fujoshi who was always going on and on about their favourite BL pairings, decorating them with all sorts of notation and symbols for the sake of it. Like "ÎÎĂâĄâĄ" - and obsessing over whether the big guy was the attacker or the defender in the relationship. I think I'm starting to get it.
But the realisation brought no comfort at all; it just sent his imagination into overdrive, conjuring up terrible images of her true nature: a violent force of nature who'd probably give him a good thumping if he said the wrong thing. That monster they say she is.
Still, the universe had a wicked sense of humour, his imagination ran wild but she just didn't hit him. No fist flying towards his face, no hard slap across the cheek. Instead, she just spoke up again, her tone almost... almost casual, like she was talking to an old friend?
"I've gotten really interested lately," Jiwoo said, her eyes flickering up to the book he'd still got clutched in his trembling hands.
Y/n was left staring at her, his mouth hanging open in shock. His brain had basically short-circuited on the spot.
After the incident, I was labeled as a 'Mems x Augy companionâ
-
The next day, she stumbles across him in the hallway. He was trying to sneak past, his back leaning against the wall, but she stopped him dead in his tracks with her voice.
"Did you wait for me again today?" she asks, suddenly materialising beside him - a bit like a ghost.
Y/n jumped, nearly dropping his bag in the process. "Ah, yes", he stammers. The lie just comes tumbling out because he was too scared to tell the truth; actually, he'd been trying his best to avoid her all day.
"Yeah, right!" she chuckles, a playful smile threatening to emerge - though Y/n is far too spooked to notice she's not even a little bit angry.
And that's when things really start to get weird.
Y/n was scratching his head, sitting on the floor of the classroom, with the school's notorious troublemaker leaning on his shoulder. The delinquent's weight is nowhere near as heavy as you'd think, and her hair smelt vaguely like citrus, a fact that starts to get stuck in his brain whenever he notices it.
"U-um Jiwoo-ssi, you should check out this manga?" Y/n tries to get a word in edgewise, fumbling with the volume in his hands. His voice comes out a lot higher than normal, the pages shaking slightly as he holds the book.
"I've already finished it," she replies, barely glancing at the cover. She moves closer instead, peering over his shoulder at the manga he's reading, her eyes moving swiftly over the panels. "So the attacker vs defender thing is set in stone from the start?"
Her breath tickles his ear, and Y/n feels like he's on the verge of spontaneously catching on fire.
"Yeah, I - I don't know either..." Y/n offers, sweat starting to trickle down his temples. His glasses keep slipping down his nose.Â
"Really? Okay".
And then , out of nowhere Jiwoo reaches out with a delicate finger and gently takes hold of his chin, lifting his face up to meet hers. The manga slips from his unresisting fingers and falls to the floor, forgotten.
"Eh?" Y/n squeaks, his voice breaking on him in a ridiculously embarrassing way.
She's looking at him with a really intense gaze, her eyes fixed on his with an unnerving level of focus. They're a warm brown close up, flecked with gold. "You've been on my mind ever since I first saw you," she confesses, her voice dropping down to a really low, intimate-sounding tone.
Y/n's breath catches in his throat - and then he just can't breathe. Time seems to slow right down.
"You're going to be responsible then?" she asks, a possessive glint flickering in her eye like a flame.Â
"My Little Bunny".
"My Little Bunny!?" Y/n cries out, his face blazing with heat and his eyes wide as dinner plates behind his glasses.
â
"U-u-ummm," Y/n stuttered, a cold sweat pouring down his face like a floodgate had opened, leaving him drenched in an icy clamminess as he stared down at the page clutched in his shaking hands. The paper crinkled ominously as he squeezed it for dear life. He'd been railroaded into taking on the role of the 'Attacker' in this utterly bizarre roleplay scenario, & now he had to go through the motions of reciting lines to the terrifying delinquent girl sitting all but defenseless on the floor in front of him.
She looked up at him with an expectant gaze, her usual fierce expression replaced by something almost... tender. It was oddly unnerving.
He forced the words out, his voice trembling so badly he could hardly make out his own words. "I saw you hanging out with another boy, so I got jealous".
What the heck am I even doing here !! Y/n screamed silently to himself, his soul shrinking with every single syllable that came out of his mouth. But he was stuck with this madness now. He'd committed to it, no matter how awful it felt. He read the next line, desperately trying to sound even remotely serious but coming up woefully short. "I tried to pull away from you but I couldn't resist you".
He glanced down to where Jiwoo was sitting, her eyes fixed on him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, and her gaze made his skin crawl with the intensity of it. He sucked in a shaky breath, fumbling to find the last bit of courage he had left, and read out the line that was supposed to seal the deal. "Please be mine...".
Instantly, Jiwoo clapped her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking in a fit of convulsive sobs.
Y/n just froze, his heart plummeting to the floor. Please, please tell me this is actually a huge joke... he thought to himself, willing that his acting was so laughably bad it was actually funny. Is she... actually trying to hold in her giggles to the point of passing out...? Thats what this had to be. She was just going to ride out the rest of the year making fun of him.
But as he looked closer, really studying the way she was shaking and the tension in the air, the vibe between them felt all wrong. It wasn't the sound of stifled laughter he was hearing anymore. The air between them had turned thick and heavy with tension and heat, almost to the point of unbearable.
No. Not a joke... Y/n felt a creeping dawn of understanding slowly spreading through him, his eyes widening as the penny finally dropped.
He kept on reading through the lines from the manga script, his voice shuddering with fear, as he kept on delivering a relentless barrage of sappy "attacks" that battered Jiwoo's defences like a relentless storm against a crumbling sea front.
"I LIKE YOU".
"I won't let anyone take you away from me".
"I need you".
Every cheesy, over-the-top romantic line Y/n battered out in his shuddering voice, like he was trying to break down a steel door, only seemed to make things worse. Jiwoo curled up tighter & tighter, completely overwhelmed, her shoulders hunched, knees drawn up & her whole body seemed to be shrinking. She wasn't laughing. She was on the verge of a meltdown. The school's toughest delinquent, the girl who sent grown men packing with a single unforgiving stare, had been completely caught out by the "attack". Her face remained hidden behind her hands, her face a deep vibrant red, no doubt with a massive blush raging across it.
Y/n, finally realizing the destructive power of the words he was reading, started to panic for an entirely different reason.
"Wait," he thought, watching her reaction intensify with growing alarm. His own face was burning now too.
"Stop...".
"Please... Stop..." Jiwoo whimpered, her voice almost a whisper, really soft and getting more and more pleading with every passing second. Which, you know, was pretty hard to reconcile with all the fear she usually inspired. She folded her arm over her face to hide that flush and clutched her uniform tight in her other hand with white knuckles.
He just stared at her, gobsmacked. The school's baddest delinquent was gasping for breath and her composure was all over the shop. hr chest was rising and falling like a jackrabbit, literally trembling with every breath. She covered her face with her arm to hide her intense blush, her other hand gripping the fabric of her uniform.
I get it now... He went to think as his eyes went huge behind his steamy glasses. That Lee Jiwoo is totally flustered!!
She's not even laughing at his rubbish acting. She was genuinely flustered, genuinely affected by the romantic lines. The school's most feared delinquent is a total softie when it comes to romance.
"Uh" , she mumbled after a good while, finally dropping her arm but still not quite looking at him, her face bright pink.
Its getting really tough to work out what she's even on about... Â He panicked inside, his mind in complete turmoil. What is this person even?
Just then, she tried to change course, using this really hard-won attempt to sound normal, though her voice still wobbled a bit. "This is your sister's book, right?" she asked, finally meeting his eye again. "How are you two getting along?"
"Ah!" He said, taken aback by the rather personal question. "I think we usually get along pretty well. We're both pretty big otaku fans after all."
Jiwoo nodded thoughtfully, while Y/n was lost in thought. But didn't she say something about my little sister liking Mems x Augy? The other day, he remembered that it was the day they first met and how this whole weird thing had started.
Y/n's memories went back to that day, to the way she just popped up behind him like a wrathful avenging angel.
"Do you get on well with your sister? Good, or not?" he asked, hoping to catch her off guard and get a better read on this weird and wonderful person
Jiwoo's expression transformed suddenly; she looked sad and wistful now, and this whole bad-girl delinquent thing had just melted away. "Thing is... I've got a sister who's my little sister by name only since she's my parents' little one from their second marriage, we're not related by blood".
She looked down at her hands, studying them as if they held answers. Her voice grew quieter, almost fragile. "Even though we're not blood related and she doesn't like me, she's still my little sister," she said with such genuine emotion it made Y/n's chest tighten. "I want to get to know her better".
Y/n's mind flashed back to their first encounter, when she had loomed over him with that intimidating presence and asked about the book in that knowing tone.
âThat's 'Mems x Augy', right?â
I see...
Everything clicked into place like puzzle pieces finally finding their proper spots. The intimidation, the weird requests, the awkward roleplay sessions where she made him read romance lines, it wasn't bullying or a strange whim or some elaborate prank. He looked at her with completely new eyes, seeing her clearly for the first time.
This person was... Always serious about this, he realized, feeling a sharp pang of guilt for judging her so harshly, for assuming the worst. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't even really scary, not in the way he'd thought.
She was just a clumsy big sister, desperate and determined, trying to bridge the gap with a sibling who wouldn't give her the time of day. She was reading BL manga and forcing awkward roleplay scenarios because she wanted something, anything, to talk about with her little sister. She was trying so hard it hurt to watch.
And somehow, Y/n had gotten caught up in her earnest, fumbling attempts at connection.
This is actually kind of... sweet? he thought, his fear finally beginning to melt away, replaced by something warmer and softer. In a really weird way.
The next day arrived with Y/n's stomach twisted in knots.
He stood frozen at the threshold of what should have been a classroom but looked more like the headquarters of an underground syndicate. The air felt heavy, thick with an unspoken threat that made his skin prickle. Delinquents in dark hoodies and intimidating masks lounged across desks like predators at rest, their eyes tracking him with the lazy interest of wolves spotting a lost lamb.
I must be crazy, Y/n thought, his knuckles white as he gripped the straps of his backpack. The weight of the manga volumes inside suddenly felt less like a burden and more like a lifeline.
"U-um, excuse me," he managed to squeak out, his voice barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. He shuffled forward, carefully weaving between scattered chairs and outstretched legs. "Please let me through."
The crowd parted reluctantly, their glares burning holes through his resolve with every step. He could feel sweat gathering at his collar despite the cool morning air.
Then he saw her. Jiwoo sat by the window, bathed in soft morning light that made her look almost ethereal despite her intimidating reputation. The girls clustered around her turned as one, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright hostility.
"Hmm?" one of them grunted, tilting her head like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. An intruder in their territory.
Y/n's legs trembled as he approached, but he planted his feet firmly in front of her. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape, but he wouldn't let himself run. Not now.
"U-um..." he started, the word catching in his throat. Jiwoo's gaze lifted to meet his, curious and patient. "After listening to your story... I thought about it last night."
He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs expanding until they felt ready to burst. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, threw caution to the wind, and let his inner otaku surge forward like a dam breaking.
"BEFORE TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THINGS LIKE COUPLING," he bellowed, his voice cracking with emotion as heat flooded his face, turning his cheeks bright crimson.
Jiwoo's eyes widened, genuine surprise flickering across her normally stoic features.
"I THINK YOU SHOULD READ THE ORIGINAL MANGA FIRST!!" Y/n declared, thrusting the paper bag forward with both hands as if offering a sacred treasure.
The bag crinkled loudly in the sudden silence. Inside sat carefully wrapped volumes of the original series, each one borrowed from his sister's prized collection. But once the floodgates opened, Y/n found he couldn't stop. His passion overflowed, drowning out every whisper of fear that still clung to his nerves.
"I always wanted to tell you this," he began, words tumbling out faster than he could think them through. His hands moved in animated gestures, painting pictures in the air. "But the title 'Mems x Augy' is the title that has been created by someone else and that title isn't used in the original manga! It is just a different version of the original title and so without the original it wouldn't have been made! I think your little sister has called the manga 'Mems x Augy' after understanding that!"
He gasped for air, barely pausing before diving back in. "For sure, the main reason this manga gained popularity can be attributed to the movie that was made with the two as the main characters, but a movie cannot be made without the original manga! Thankfully, my big sister is obsessed with the 'Pure White' series so most of the books are in my house! So..."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. One of the delinquents behind him cracked her knuckles, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense atmosphere.
"Unnie," she growled, stepping forward with menace radiating from every pore. Her shadow fell over Y/n like an omen. "Should I make that wimp shut up?"
Y/n's rambling stuttered to a halt, his survival instincts finally catching up with his mouth.
"No. Wait," Jiwoo commanded, her voice cutting through the threat with absolute authority.
The room fell silent instantly. Even the dust motes seemed to freeze mid-dance. Y/n stood there trembling, his arms still extended with the heavy paper bag, committed to his mission despite the very real possibility of getting pummeled.
"This is up to Book 67 of the manga, the DVD of its anime adaptation, and its movie version," he explained, his voice steadying as he focused on what mattered. The weight of the bag made his arms ache, but he held firm. "If you'd like them... I'll let you borrow them."
For a long moment, Jiwoo simply stared at the offering. Then her expression transformed. The sharp edges of her delinquent persona melted away like morning frost under sunlight, revealing something softer underneath. Something genuine and vulnerable.
"Okay," she said, the single word carrying more warmth than Y/n had ever heard from her.
She looked directly into his eyes, and a small smile bloomed on her lips like a rare flower. "I'll leave everything to you, Y/n."
Heat rushed to Y/n's face again, but this time it felt different. Not the burning embarrassment of before or the cold sweat of fear. This was something warmer, something that made his chest feel too small for his heart. Jiwoo-ssi is not only a beauty and strong, he thought, completely mesmerized by the transformation. But also stunning when she smiles.
The harsh classroom lighting seemed to soften around her, or maybe that was just his imagination.
"What do I start with?" Jiwoo asked, her eagerness breaking through like sunshine through storm clouds. She leaned forward slightly, ready to dive into this new world right there among the scattered desks and her confused subordinates.
The delinquents behind them exchanged bewildered glances. "Did you actually read all of these?" one whispered, staring at the mountain of manga volumes like they were looking at an impossible puzzle.
â
Minutes later, they had claimed a corner of the room. Jiwoo sat cross-legged with Book 1 spread open in her lap, while Y/n settled nearby with his own volume.
"You can understand the story even if you skip a bit if you get tired so..." Y/n murmured, watching her with gentle concern. The series was notoriously long, sprawling across dozens of volumes. He didn't want her to feel obligated to trudge through every page out of politeness.
"You don't need to hold back for me," he added softly, giving her an out.
But Jiwoo didn't look up. Her eyes moved across the pages with laser focus, absorbing every panel, every speech bubble, every tiny detail the artist had lovingly rendered. The usual hardness in her expression had completely vanished, replaced by pure concentration.
"No," she said firmly, turning a page with careful precision. "I'm going to read all of them fully."
There was something resolute in her voice, something that spoke of deeper motivation. She wasn't just reading a manga to pass time or humor a classmate. She was reading to understand her sister, to bridge the gap between them. And for that, there could be no shortcuts.
Y/n adjusted his glasses, warmth spreading through his chest as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Her determination was contagious, infectious in the best possible way. He picked up his own volume, deciding to re-read alongside her.
"Then please catch up to where I'm reading as quickly as possible," he challenged, a playful note entering his voice.
"I will," she replied without breaking her concentration, already two pages ahead.
Y/n looked at her profile, backlit by the window, and felt his nervous smile grow. Somehow, impossibly, he had transformed the scary delinquent into a reading companion. Now he just had to survive the marathon ahead. I have to keep up!
Time passed in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages. The afternoon sun had begun its lazy descent, painting the world in shades of amber and gold. They had migrated to the cluttered clubroom. The space was small and cramped, filled with forgotten sports equipment and dusty storage boxes, but somehow it felt cozy. Intimate.
They sat on the worn floor, resting back-to-back like bookends. The afternoon sun streamed through the single window, turning the floating dust motes into tiny stars that danced and swirled in the golden light. The warmth soaked into everything, making the air feel sleepy and sweet.
Jiwoo read peacefully, her shoulders relaxed as she leaned against him. The solid warmth of his back against hers felt grounding, comforting in a way she hadn't experienced before. It was nice. More than nice. She could feel his breathing, the slight shift of his muscles as he turned pages, the way he occasionally adjusted his position.
Y/n, meanwhile, sat rigid as a board. Every nerve in his body was on high alert. He could feel the sudden pressure of her weight leaning into him, the warmth seeping through his shirt, the way her hair occasionally brushed against his neck. His brain short-circuited trying to process the situation.
"Eh, what are you doing!?" he shouted, jerking forward and twisting to look over his shoulder with wide, bewildered eyes.
His expression was priceless, completely and utterly oblivious to the intimate moment she'd been trying to create. The confusion on his face was so genuine, so innocently clueless, that it was almost endearing.
Jiwoo bit back a smile, her blush deepening. This dense, passionate, completely oblivious boy had somehow walked into her world and turned it upside down. And despite his confusion, despite his nervousness, despite everything... she found she didn't mind one bit.
The dust motes continued their lazy dance in the golden afternoon light, bearing silent witness to the beginning of something sweet and wonderfully awkward.
â
And so in the same spot, the duo has found themselves spending their time together over the past few days. This time Y/n arrived to find Jiwoo already there, sitting by the window with Book 12 open in her lap. The sight made him pause in the doorway.
"You're early," he said, surprised. He'd expected to have to seek her out again, to navigate through her intimidating friends and muster up his courage all over again.
Jiwoo glanced up, and for just a moment, something shy flickered across her face. "I wanted to finish this volume before you got here," she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. "So we'd be closer to the same place."
She'd stayed up late reading, though she didn't mention that part. The story had grabbed her in ways she hadn't expected, but more than that, she found herself looking forward to discussing it with him. To sharing this thing that clearly meant so much to him.
Y/n felt his face warm as he made his way over, settling into what was quickly becoming 'his spot' near her. "Oh. That's... that's really dedicated of you," he managed, adjusting his glasses nervously.
They read in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the turning of pages and the distant chatter from other classrooms. Then Jiwoo spoke, her finger marking her place on the page.
"This part here," she said, tilting the book slightly toward him. "Where Augy hesitates before the tournament. Is that why people ship him with Mems? Because he's the one who encourages him?"
Y/n leaned in to see what she was referring to, their shoulders almost touching. The proximity made his heart skip, but he forced himself to focus on the panels. "Partly, yeah. But it goes deeper than that. If you keep reading, you'll see how their dynamic develops. It's really subtle at first."
"Subtle," Jiwoo repeated, her lips quirking into the smallest smile. "I'm not very good with subtle things."
"You're doing fine," Y/n assured her, and meant it. The fact that she was genuinely trying, genuinely engaging with something important to him, made something in his chest feel tight and warm.
Jiwoo looked at him then, really looked at him, and Y/n suddenly became very interested in his own manga. The intensity of her gaze was somehow more nerve-wracking than her delinquent persona had ever been.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For sharing this with me. For helping me understand what my sister loves about it."
"It's nothing," Y/n mumbled, his ears turning red. "I mean, I'm just lending you manga. Anyone could..."
"No," Jiwoo interrupted gently but firmly. "Not anyone would have the courage to walk into that classroom. Not anyone would care enough to bring all of this just to help me connect with my sister."
The sincerity in her voice made Y/n's throat tight. He didn't know how to respond to such direct honesty, so he did what he did best: deflected with enthusiasm.
"Well, if you really want to thank me, just keep reading! There's this amazing arc coming up in volume 20 that completely changes how you see the earlier chapters and..."
Jiwoo watched him ramble, that soft smile returning to her face. His passion was endearing, she found herself wanting to see that expression more often.
"If you finish reading that, we'll be able to watch the movie version together," Y/n said, his tone casual and matter-of-fact as he stared at the manga in his hands.
The words left his mouth without ceremony, without any recognition of their weight. He scratched his cheek absently, already backtracking in his practical way. "You don't have to watch with me, though. Just a thought."
Behind him, Jiwoo's eyes widened slightly. A soft blush crept across her cheeks like watercolor bleeding into paper, delicate and sweet. She stared at his back, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly as he read, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd just asked her on a date. Her heart did a little flip in her chest.
"But still..." she murmured, the words barely a whisper, carried on a breath of contentment. The happiness of simply being included, of sharing this space with him, warmed her from the inside out.
The scene shifted to the exterior of their hideoutâa dilapidated school building covered in layers of graffiti and surrounded by rusted barbed wire. It was a rough place, a sanctuary for outcasts, far removed from the gentle domesticity of the previous moment.
Inside a classroom plastered with peeling tape and scribbles, Y/n sat alone on a desk, scrolling through his phone to kill time. He had arrived way too early.
"I ended up coming here early..." he muttered to himself, the silence of the room amplifying his thoughts. He paused, a realization creeping up on him. "It's almost like I'm having fun."
He thought back to the conversation that had led him here. He recalled her bright smile when she had agreed to his earlier suggestion. âI think Iâll be able to finish the manga today,â she had said, âso letâs watch the movie version together.â
Suddenly, the implication of the setup hit him. Panic flared in his chest as he realized how this looked to the outside world. He gripped his phone tightly, his face flushing as he argued with his own thoughts.
"No! I don't mean it like that!" he yelled into the empty room, desperate to convince himself. "I was just talking about rewatching the series on TV! Itâs not... it's not a date or anything!"
Trying to shake off his embarrassment, he glanced out the taped-up window waiting for his companion to arrive.
Jiwoo was walking with a light step, her long hair flowing behind her, looking forward to their meeting. But before she could reach the classroom door, a frantic voice shattered the mood.
"Jiwoo Unnie!!"
Jiwoo stopped in her tracks, turning her head as a student from their group came sprinting down the hall, looking beaten and out of breath.
"Yeah, what is it?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, the softness from before instantly replaced by the sharp authority of a leader.
"Yubin is!" the lackey gasped, his face twisted in distress. "She's getting beaten up by some students from another school!"
Jiwooâs eyes narrowed, her expression hardening into cold steel. The movie date was forgotten; the war was back on.
"Where is this happening?" Jiwoo demanded, her voice cutting through the panic in the hallway.
"An arcade in Minami-guchi..." the messenger gasped, pointing vaguely towards the exit.
Without a moment's hesitation, Jiwoo turned on her heel. "Got it, I'll go immediately..." she said, her figure disappearing swiftly down the corridor.
Left alone in the sudden silence of the graffiti-ridden classroom, Y/n stood by the desk. He didn't chase after her. instead, he looked down at the floor with a calm, almost resigned expression, deciding to wait.
At the arcade, the atmosphere was thick with menace. "Finally here Jiwoo?" a thug sneered as she stepped into their territory, her gang looming behind her. One of them started to give a mocking explanation, "Our friend asked us toâ" but Jiwoo cut her off.
"Shut up," she said, her eye cold and focused. "You're a waste of time".
While violence erupted in the arcade, the classroom remained peaceful. The clock on the wall ticked slowly past the hour. Y/n stood by the window, an earbud in one ear, seemingly lost in his own world, patiently killing time, unaware of the war Jiwoo is fighting.
In the arcade, bodies hit the floor. Jiwoo moved with brutal precision, dispatching the delinquents one by one until she was the only one left standing.
"Haa... Haa..." She panted heavily, her chest heaving as the adrenaline began to fade.
She didn't see the movement behind her. A fallen thug, face bloodied and desperate, scrambled up with a metal pipe. "DIE Jiwoo-!" she screamed, swinging the weapon down with all his might. Jiwoo spun around, her eyes widening in shock, but it was too late to fully dodge.
.
.
.
.
-
Time passed. The sun set, and the moon rose high over the derelict school building, casting long shadows over the barbed wire fences.
The door to the clubroom slid open with a rattle. Jiwoo stood in the doorway, her uniform torn and dirtied, bruises marking her face. She looked exhausted, her usual intensity replaced by a fragile weariness.
"Jiwoo-ssi?" Y/nâs voice broke the silence as the door rattled open.
He was standing there, holding a first-aid kit he had prepared. "It's a good thing that I expected that this kind of thing had happened and went and got some medicine," he said, his voice laced with relief but also worry as he looked at her injuries. "But will this be enough...?"
He nervously scratched his cheek, rambling a bit to cover his anxiety. "I couldn't stop myself and watched it three times... Ahhh... while I was watching the TV series," he admitted. Then, he quickly added the most important part, "But I didn't watch the movie version of course".
Jiwoo didn't explain herself or describe the fight. She simply stepped forward and collapsed against him, burying her face into his chest, seeking the comfort she had been fighting to get back to.
"I know," she said softly, her voice muffled against his shirt. She knew he had waited. She knew he was safe. And she knew he had kept his promise.
The sudden impact took Y/n completely by surprise. He stiffened, his eyes going wide behind his glasses as Jiwoo collapsed forward, burying her face into his shoulder. She let out a muffled sound, a string of chaotic, intelligible noises that seemed to be a mix of exhaustion and pent-up emotion. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the warmth of her against him and his own panicked heartbeat.
Slowly, Jiwoo pulled back, though she didn't meet his eyes immediately. She seemed to suddenly become aware of her condition.
"Ah..." she breathed out, looking down. "I'm really dirty right now. I'll go and wash my face."
She stepped away, creating a cool distance between them that Y/n wasn't quite sure how to process. He stood there, awkwardly adjusting his tie, his mind still reeling from the hug.
Jiwoo paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. She didn't leave just yet.
"And also, Y/n," she said, her voice steadying slightly. She kept her back to him. "In terms of the two of us... would Jiwoo and Y/n be..."
She trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the heavy air of the hallway. Then, she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her face was battered, marked with cuts and scrapes from the day's events, but her eyes were clear and piercing.
"Jiwoo x Y/n?" she asked simply.
Y/n stared at her blankly. The meaning of the phraseâthe implication of the names paired together like thatâdidn't land immediately. A visible question mark seemed to float in the silence between them. He just looked at her, mouth slightly open, utterly confused.
Seeing his lack of reaction, or perhaps simply unable to sustain the moment any longer, Jiwoo turned back around.
"Jiwoo... Y/n?" Y/n muttered to himself, watching her retreating back as she walked down the hall.
Unseen by him, as she hurried away, Jiwooâs face erupted in a deep crimson flush. She covered her mouth with her hand, her heart pounding against her ribs, mortified by her own boldness.
Back in the room, the adrenaline finally crashed. Y/n walked inside and slumped heavily onto the bench. The realization of what she had just askedâand the feeling of her embraceâfinally caught up to him. His face burned hot, flushing a deep red as he sat there alone, staring at the floor. He realized, with a sinking, flustered feeling, that he had been caught completely off guard.
___
đđ„đšđšđŠ đđ§đđš đđšđź
Beneath every beautiful flower, lies a strength that soothes a shackled heart.
a j.wonyoung x m!reader fic series,
genre: fluff!
status: ongoing
sypnosis: Y/n L/n is a man of simple pleasures. He loves hydrangeas, the smell of damp earth, and the peace of his small flower shop. There is just one problem: he has the face of a hardened criminal. With a glare that scares off children and customers alike, the florist is used to being treated like a villain.
That is, until Jang Wonyoung walks through his door.
Where the rest of the world sees a beast, Wonyoung sees a kind soul. As the only person immune to his "scary face," she might just be the one to show Y/n and the world that the most beautiful things often bloom in the most unexpected places.
"maybe I can..."
â CHAPTERS â
Chapter 1
Bloom Into You - đ
Ëâ± â â°Ë
For Y/n, the scent of damp earth and fresh petals wasn't just a livelihood; it was a sanctuary. The two-story building, with its modest sign reading "L.N Flower Shop," stood like a quiet refuge in a world that had never been kind to him. Within these walls, surrounded by chrysanthemums and baby's breath, he found the only peace his twenty-seven years had ever offered. The flowers, after all, didn't have eyes. They didn't judge. They simply bloomed, vibrant and unafraid.
He watered the hydrangeas with a gentle hand, watching droplets cascade over pale blue petals that reminded him of morning skies he'd only ever admired alone. The flowers have been my only source of happiness, he thought, the familiar weight of isolation settling across his shoulders like a worn coat. And it's all because of my face.
His reflection appeared in the glass of the shop window, sharp and unwelcome. The face staring back was all harsh angles and shadows, possessed of eyes that seemed to pierce through the soul of anyone unfortunate enough to make contact. It was a face made for police sketches and wanted posters, not for wrapping tulips in brown paper and tying them with ribbon.
Memories washed over him like waves he couldn't hold back. The high school delinquent who had grabbed him by the collar, veins bulging in his neck as he screamed, "The hell yer lookin' at?!" when Y/n had merely been daydreaming about what to have for lunch.Â
The girl in middle school who had whispered behind cupped hands to her friends that "Y/n-ssi is into occult stuff," simply because he preferred standing in the corner where fewer people could see his face.Â
And then there were the children, innocent toddlers who would take one look at him and burst into wailing tears, their tiny faces crumpling as they cried about how scary his eyes were, how he looked like the monster from their nightmares.
That was his reality. An existence of being cast as the villain in his own life story, a role he'd never auditioned for but couldn't seem to escape.
THUD.
The soft collision pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. He had walked right into a young woman near the shop entrance, his attention still tangled in memories.
"Oh, my apologies!" she exclaimed, her voice bright and polite, the kind of tone that suggested she was raised well. She hadn't looked up yet, still gathering herself from the impact.
"Actually, I had..." Y/n started, his voice emerging low and gravelly by nature, roughened by years of minimal use.
The woman gestured toward the buckets of cut stems arranged along the shop's entrance, their colors a riot of hope against the gray pavement. "Excuse me, how much do these flowers cost?"
Y/n's heart lifted like a balloon released into clear sky. A customer. A normal interaction. The possibility of an exchange that didn't end in fear or flight. He straightened his apron with trembling fingers, took a deep breath that filled his lungs with the sweet perfume of roses and eucalyptus, and summoned what he desperately hoped would be his most professional, welcoming expression. He wanted to look kind. He wanted to look helpful. He wanted, just this once, to look human.
"Wel-come..." he rasped, putting every ounce of warmth he possessed into that single word.
But the signals from his brain, full of good intentions and nervous hope, did not translate to his facial muscles. Instead of a warm smile that invited browsing and conversation, his lips curled into something that resembled a manic, predatory grin. Shadows gathered under his eyes like storm clouds, intensifying his gaze into something that belonged in a horror film rather than a flower shop. The very air around him seemed to thicken and pulse with an almost audible menace.
The woman froze as if she'd been flash-frozen. The color drained from her face in an instant, leaving her pale as the white carnations in bucket three. She looked as though she was staring not at a florist but at death itself, personified and wearing an apron.
"Which flowers are you interested in?" Y/n asked, leaning in with genuine eagerness, completely unaware that from her perspective he looked like a serial killer selecting his preferred method.
The woman recoiled, her survival instincts overriding all social politeness. "Uhh... Err..." She stepped back, her hands raising defensively between them as if they could ward off whatever evil she perceived. "Never mind!"
She pivoted on her heel, preparing to flee.
"Ma'am?" Y/n called out, blinking in genuine confusion as his potential customer prepared to bolt like a startled deer. He stood alone among the lilies and roses, their silent beauty a stark contrast to his silent devastation, wondering once again why the world was so afraid of a simple florist who only wanted to share something beautiful.
The terrified customer was poised for escape, her body already turning toward the street and safety, but her flight was interrupted when the shop door chimed and someone new entered.
The newcomer, a girl with long, dark hair that caught the afternoon light and a gentle expression that seemed to soften the very air around her, looked apologetically at the frightened woman. "Sorry..."
But she didn't seem to register the terror that had filled the room like smoke. Her eyes bypassed the trembling customer entirely and landed squarely on the looming, dark-eyed figure of the florist. Instead of the scream that Y/n had learned to expect, her face lit up with a pure, affectionate smile that could have powered the whole shop.
"Wonyoung-ah!" Y/n exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly with relief and something warmer. He looked at the young woman who now stood in the shop's entrance like she belonged there, like she'd always belonged there.
"Y/n!" she called out cheerfully, her eyes closing in a happy smile that created little crescents of joy on her face.
Y/n stood amidst his flowers, petals surrounding him in every direction, stunned by the reality of his situation. Despite his terrifying visage and twenty-seven years of being treated like a monster to be avoided, a miracle had occurred. The kind of miracle he'd stopped believing in somewhere around age twelve.
Just recently, I've gotten myself a girlfriend.
She had shown up at his door earlier that morning, looking slightly flushed and bashful, her fingers twisting together in a gesture he'd come to recognize as nervous excitement.
"We're meeting up at one o'clock, right?" Y/n asked, acutely aware of his current attire: worn house clothes that were fine for watering plants but entirely unsuitable for a date. "I haven't gotten myself ready yet."
Wonyoung dipped her head, her cheeks flushing a pink that rivaled his prize peonies. "I got ahead of myself..." she admitted, the confession tumbling out with embarrassed honesty. Her excitement had made her arrive far too early, unable to wait the prescribed amount of time like a normal person with normal levels of self-control.
Y/n's internal monologue went into overdrive, his thoughts screaming what his face could never properly express. She's SO ADORABLE! The realization overwhelmed him, flooding his chest with warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun streaming through his windows. He turned and practically vibrated with motivation, energy coursing through him. "I'll get dressed right NOW!"
This was Jang Wonyoung. A college student with her whole life ahead of her, bright and kind and impossibly lovely. And somehow, inexplicably, wonderfully, she was here for him.
â
Later, walking down the street in his carefully chosen casual striped shirt and cardigan that he hoped projected "approachable boyfriend" rather than "escaped convict," Y/n couldn't help but admire the girl walking beside him. As they passed other men on the sidewalk, men with normal faces who probably never made children cry, his internal monologue played on repeat: She's really adorable.
But as they walked through the neighborhood, past shops with colorful awnings and the park where families gathered, he was reminded that her charm went deeper than her appearance, deeper than the surface beauty that had won her that campus contest. Ahead of them, an elderly woman struggled with a wheeled cart, trying to pull it up a set of stairs that seemed to grow steeper with each failed attempt.
Not only is she pretty on the outside, Y/n thought, watching what would happen next.
Before he could even process the situation or offer his own help, Wonyoung was already there, moving with the natural instinct of someone who helped because helping was simply what one did. "Let me carry that for you," she offered, smiling brightly at the stranger with genuine warmth that asked for nothing in return.
"Oh my, thank you, dear," the old woman said, relief flooding her weathered face.
Y/n watched her, a genuine, soft smile breaking through his usually scary features, transforming them into something almost gentle. The expression felt foreign on his face, unpracticed, but real.
He knew the truth about Jang Wonyoung, had learned it in the months since they'd met. She was attractive on the inside as well.
â
FLASHBACK
It started the previous autumn, when the trees were turning gold and red and the air had that crisp quality that made everything feel possible. For Y/n, the "32nd Campus Festival" was a world away from his own reality, a realm of youth and laughter and social ease that he'd never been permitted to enter. He was there simply to do a job, his purpose clear and limited: delivering flowers for the "Seoul Beauty Pageant."
"Here is your receipt," Y/n said, handing the slip to a student volunteer who barely glanced at his face, too busy with festival preparations to notice or care.
"Thank you very much," the student replied automatically.
As the rehearsal announcements blared over the loudspeakers, competing with music and laughter, Y/n walked back to his delivery van. He glanced at the stage where colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, his expression softening into a mix of wistful curiosity and practiced resignation. Wow, looks fun, he thought, before his usual self-deprecation kicked in with the reliability of a well-worn record. Well, not that I can participate or anything.
He reached the van and swung the back door open with a metallic CLACK that echoed in the afternoon air.
The interior should have been empty, save for the lingering scent of leftover stems and the few spare buckets he kept for emergencies. Instead, nestled among the orchids and lilies like she'd grown there herself, sat a girl. She was wearing a delicate white dress that seemed to glow in the filtered sunlight, and a crown of roses sat atop her head like something from a fairy tale. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them in a posture that spoke of someone trying to make themselves as small as possible.
Y/n's brain, conditioned by years of loneliness and secret longing for magic that would never come, skipped several beats. Logic fled the scene entirely, leaving the building without so much as a goodbye note.
A... A FLOWER FAIRY?! he panicked internally, his imagination running wild. Has she been watching over me and decided to reward me?
In the span of a single second, Y/n's desperate mind hallucinated an entire magical interaction that played out in vivid detail.Â
In his mind's eye, the "fairy" waved a little wand that sparkled with impossible light. "I will grant you a wish," she chimed, her voice like bells. Y/n didn't wish for money or fame or any of the things normal people wanted. Instead, he pointed to his terrifying eyes, those cursed features that had defined his entire existence. "...make my pupils bigger?" he pleaded, hope cracking his voice.Â
"No problem!" the imaginary fairy beamed with impossible kindness. "Your wish is my command!" Y/n gasped, clutching his face as his eyes sparkled with impossibly large, anime-hero pupils that belonged in a different universe. "Wow! It's like I'm photoshopped!" he exclaimed in his delusion, touching his face in wonder.
But the fantasy popped like a soap bubble as quickly as it had formed. The girl was real, solid and breathing and very much not magical. She wasn't casting spells or granting wishes; she was hiding, seeking refuge in a stranger's van.
Regaining his composure and feeling foolish for the flight of fancy, Y/n looked at her flower crown, noting the careful arrangement of roses. "...Participating in the contest?" he asked gently, keeping his voice as soft as he could manage.
She nodded silently, the movement barely perceptible.
"You don't want to join in?"
"It was all my friends' idea," she confessed, her voice small and tight. "But... I wasn't able... to refuse." She hugged her knees tighter, making herself even smaller, her gaze fixed firmly on the van floor. "I really hate... being judged on stage."
Y/n watched her, struck by her vulnerability, by the way she trembled slightly despite the warm afternoon. She wasn't just a "beauty queen" or a "fairy"; she was a shy girl who just wanted to disappear, who understood what it meant to be looked at and found wanting.
Suddenly, voices called out from nearby, growing closer. "You seen Wonyoung?" "Nope, nada." "The dry run's about to start."
The girl, Wonyoung, gasped. Panic flashed in her eyes, bright and sharp. She looked at Y/n with desperate, pleading eyes that reminded him of a trapped animal. "P-Please shut the door!" she begged.
Y/n didn't hesitate. In that moment, he wasn't the scary monster everyone saw; he was her accomplice, her co-conspirator in this small rebellion. "Y-Yes, miss!" he stammered, sliding the van door closed with a firm shut, creating a barrier between her and the prying eyes outside, shielding her from a world that demanded she be something she wasn't ready to be.
As the latch clicked into place, Y/n stood by the van, his heart racing like he'd just run a marathon. He replayed the image of her face in his mind, the vulnerability and trust she'd shown. Whoa... he thought, a blush creeping up his neck and warming his cheeks. She looks really adorable.
That was how they met. Not with a roar or a scream, but with a secret shared in the back of a flower van, two people hiding from a world that didn't quite understand them.
Inside the dim cargo area of the delivery van, the air was thick with the mingled scent of cut stems, earth, and Wonyoung's anxiety, which seemed to have its own presence. She sat curled up, the rose crown on her head feeling heavier than lead, like it might crush her under the weight of expectations.
"I really... really hate being the center of attention," she whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over.
Y/n looked at her, his scary eyes softening with empathy born from years of his own hiding. He reached into one of the buckets near him, his movements careful and deliberate. He didn't see a beauty queen or a pageant contestant; he saw a kindred spirit who just wanted to hide from the world's gaze.
"Beneath every beautiful flower," Y/n said quietly, his voice a low rumble that filled the small space, "...lies a strength... that soothes a shackled heart."
He passed a single rose to her, its stem carefully stripped of thorns. Wonyoung looked up, surprised by both the gesture and the unexpected poetry of his words.
He closed his eyes, offering a gentle smile that transformed his face entirely, softening every harsh angle. "Let's not call it being the center of attention," he suggested warmly, "but as the bringer of content to the audience."
Wonyoung stared at him, the flower trembling slightly in her hand. For the first time that day, the terror of the stage didn't feel quite so overwhelming. The weight hadn't disappeared, but somehow, in this dim van with this strange, kind man, it felt more bearable.
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Some time had passed since the campus festival, weeks sliding into months as autumn deepened into winter. Y/n was back to his daily routine, watering the plants outside his shop with the same gentle care he always showed them, when a familiar figure approached along the sidewalk.
"Why, if it isn't... the girl from before," Y/n said, recognition lighting his features as he took in the short hair and shy demeanor that he'd memorized without meaning to.
Wonyoung stood by the flower displays, looking much calmer than she had in the back of his van, though her fingers still twisted together nervously. "I was placed first in the contest..." she announced softly.
"WOW! Congratulations!" Y/n exclaimed, genuinely thrilled for her, his voice cracking with sincere joy.
Wonyoung looked at the colorful display of blooms spread before her like a rainbow had been arranged into buckets. "May I... have some flowers?" she asked.
Y/n watched as she accepted the bouquet he carefully prepared, burying her face slightly in the petals with a look of pure bliss that made something in his chest tighten. "I do," she murmured, answering a question only she had heard.
Y/n smiled, leaning against the counter in what he hoped was a casual pose. "You really love flowers, don't you, miss?" he observed.
It wasn't long before Wonyoung became a regular fixture in his shop, appearing at different times of day like a blessing he didn't deserve. On this particular afternoon, Y/n found himself staring at her as she browsed the displays, sunlight catching in her hair.
She's really adorable, he thought, his heart doing a traitorous flip in his chest that made breathing difficult. I'd love to date a girl like her. He immediately shook his head, physically trying to dislodge the thought, scolding himself harshly. What am I saying? That's rude. That's presumptuous. She'd never...
Wonyoung approached the counter, breaking him out of his self-deprecating spiral with her presence. "I'd like a bouquet, please," she said.
"A bouquet?" Y/n switched to professional mode, though his heart was still racing like a trapped bird. "How would you like it?"
Wonyoung hesitated. She looked down at the counter, her cheeks flushing pink like the roses behind her, and then looked up at him with eyes that held a determination he hadn't seen before.
"Something that you would want to give..." she started, her voice unwavering despite the blush, "...to a person you like."
Y/n blinked, his large, intense pupils widening. The romantic subtext, clear as daylight to anyone else, flew completely over his head like a bird he'd never learned to spot. He assumed she needed a design concept for a gift she was giving to someone else, some lucky person who'd captured her heart.
"Oh," he said, nodding solemnly, his heart already beginning to sink. "I see."
He set to work, completely unaware that the girl standing across from him wasn't asking for a hypothetical arrangement. She was asking for his flowers, for his heart, for him.
Y/n set to work on the arrangement with hands that had grown steadily less steady, but his heart was sinking with every stem he trimmed, every petal he adjusted. His mind raced with unwanted thoughts of the "lucky guy" Wonyoung was talking about, painting pictures he didn't want to see.
He must be a wonderful person, Y/n told himself, trying desperately to be happy for her even as something crumbled inside his chest. Wonyoung-ah would surely work out with him.
But as he placed the final flowers, adjusting them with shaking fingers, a treacherous thought crept in like poison: I wonder if he... will come here too. The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath. No way... I don't want to... see him.
Tears pricked his eyes, hot and unwanted, spilling over before he could stop them. Drip. He hastily rubbed his face with the back of his hand, trying to hide his heartbreak as Wonyoung watched, puzzled by the florist who was suddenly crying over his work.
He pulled himself together enough to present the finished bouquet, a stunning arrangement of soft pinks and whites that captured everything he felt but could never say. "Will this do?" he asked, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.
"It's so pretty," Wonyoung beamed, her eyes lighting up with genuine appreciation. "As expected of you, sir."
Then, she did something completely baffling. Instead of taking the flowers and leaving to give them to her lucky someone else, she extended the bouquet right back toward him, holding it out like an offering.
"Would you mind having this?" she asked.
Y/n froze. His brain short-circuited completely, all thoughts scattering like startled birds. "What? Wait... Uhh..." Panic and confusion washed over his face in waves he couldn't control.
Wonyoung smiled, a genuine, blushing smile that reached her eyes and transformed her entire face. "Sir, I really like you!"
The 'person she liked' wasn't a classmate or a handsome stranger with a normal face. It was the scary-faced florist who had saved her from a panic attack in a van, who spoke poetry about flowers, who understood what it meant to want to hide.
And that's how we got together.
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PRESENT
The cinema lobby was bustling with the Sunday crowd, filled with the chatter of excited moviegoers and the rich smell of buttered popcorn that hung in the air like a tempting cloud. But a distinct circle of silence had formed near the ticket counter, an invisible boundary that other patrons instinctively maintained. In the center of that silence stood Y/n.
He was wearing his best shirt, a carefully selected striped cardigan that he hoped made him look 'soft' and 'approachable,' like the boyfriends he'd seen in magazines and movies. Unfortunately, combined with his sharp features and the intense glare that was actually just him squinting to read the movie times on the board above, he looked less like someone's date and more like an underworld enforcer collecting protection money from the concession stand.
Calm down, Y/n told himself, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. It's just a movie. A normal activity for normal couples.
"Y/n-ah!"
The crowd parted, or rather scattered like leaves before a storm as Y/n approached, his towering frame casting long shadows across the pavement. Wonyoung waved happily, her smile bright as morning sunlight, completely immune to the menacing aura that seemed to ripple off him in dark waves. Her presence was like a breath of spring air cutting through winter's chill.
"I'm sorry, have you been waiting long?" she asked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze with those impossibly trusting eyes that seemed to hold nothing but warmth. In her delicate hand were two tickets for 'OTT', the paper crisp and new between her fingers.
"No," Y/n rasped, attempting gentleness but achieving a sound more akin to gravel grinding in a blender. His throat constricted with the effort. "Shall we... go?"
Inside the theater, darkness swallowed them whole, offering Y/n a brief sanctuary from the piercing stares of the outside world. But the shadows brought their own anxieties, crawling up his spine like phantom fingers. They found their seats in the center row, the plush fabric still warm from the previous showing, the view of the screen perfectly unobstructed.
Y/n sat ramrod straight, his spine like an iron rod, every muscle locked in place. The armrest between them might as well have been a chasm he dared not cross. Terror seized him at the thought of encroaching on Wonyoung's personal space. Don't move, he commanded his rebellious limbs, sweat beginning to bead at his temples. If I move my arm, I might elbow her. If I breathe too loudly, I might scare her away.
He stared at the screen with the laser focus of a bomb disposal technician examining a live wire, his eyes unblinking until they began to water. On screen, a couple shared a romantic kiss in the rain, water streaming down their faces as violin music swelled. Beside him, Wonyoung munched contentedly on popcorn, each soft crunch somehow audible over the movie's soundtrack.
Is she enjoying this? Y/n wondered, panic rising like bile in his throat. Is this boring? Do I look bored? I should look engaged. I need to look interested.
He widened his eyes deliberately, forcing them open until his eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. In the flickering light of the theater, the movie screen's reflection danced in his widened pupils, creating an effect both demonic and deeply unsettling. A child in the row ahead turned around, curiosity morphing instantly into primal fear, and slowly, silently slid down into their seat until only the top of their head remained visible.
Wonyoung, blissfully oblivious to the psychological warfare her date was inflicting on the surrounding audience, leaned closer. Her shoulder brushed against his arm, and she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, "This part is so romantic, isn't it?"
Y/n stiffened, every nerve ending firing at once from that single point of contact. His shoulder tingled where hers touched it. "Yes," he whispered back, his voice cracking and splitting like dry wood. "Very."
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As the credits rolled and the house lights gradually brightened, washing the theater in harsh fluorescence, Y/n felt utterly exhausted. His body ached from spending two solid hours flexing every single muscle, maintaining the illusion of "normal" through sheer physical determination. His jaw hurt from the careful control of his expressions.
They emerged into the afternoon sun, the brightness momentarily blinding after the theater's darkness. The warmth hit Y/n's face like a gentle slap.
"That was wonderful!" Wonyoung said, stretching her arms above her head with feline grace, her silhouette framed against the blue sky. She turned to him, and her smile was so genuine, so unguarded, it made his chest tighten. "Thank you for coming with me, Y/n-ah."
Y/n looked at her, really looked at her. He saw the genuine happiness radiating from her face, happiness that wasn't tinged with fear, that didn't recoil in judgment, that didn't turn and flee like everyone else's. Her eyes held only contentment and something softer he didn't dare name.
The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders like steel cable began to unwind. The dangerous glint that usually inhabited his eyes, the one that sent children crying to their mothers, softened into something warm and almost human.
"I'm glad," he said, and this time, the smile that formed on his face was small, awkward, entirely unpracticed, but genuine. "I'd like to... do this again."
Wonyoung's face turned a delicate shade of pink that perfectly matched the roses he tended in his shop, the blush spreading across her cheeks like watercolor on paper. "I... I would like that too."
Two passersby leaned toward each other conspiratorially, their eyes tracking the blonde girl gliding down the street as if she floated rather than walked. "My gosh!" one of them whispered excitedly, unable to tear their gaze away. "That girl we just passed is totally cute!"
"Where?" the other asked eagerly, craning their neck to catch a glimpse of the radiance Wonyoung seemed to emit naturally, like her own personal spotlight.
In stark, jarring contrast, Y/n walked stiffly beside her, moving like a marionette with tangled strings. A dark cloud seemed to hang perpetually over his head, following him like a personal storm system. The whispers that reached his ears weren't nearly as kind. "The girl right next to that Grim Reaper dude," a voice muttered with a mixture of pity and confusion, reducing him to nothing more than a frightening shadow trailing in her luminous wake.
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Later, they wandered into a bookstore, the smell of paper and ink filling the air with comforting familiarity. Soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers. Y/n stood by the magazine rack, pretending to browse but actually observing Wonyoung as she flipped delicately through glossy pages. She looked poised and lovely, practically glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights that made everyone else look washed out and tired. No room for doubt, Y/n thought with resignation, accepting the objective, undeniable truth. She is cute.
He stood there in the middle of the aisle, his large frame awkwardly wedged between shelves of bestsellers, looking utterly bewildered and entirely out of place like a bear accidentally wandered into a tea party. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down his temple as the logic of their relationship refused to compute, the equation simply not balancing in his mind. Honestly, he thought, his expression going vacant and distant, I don't understand why she would date a person like me.
His mind began to race desperately, grasping for any explanation no matter how ridiculous or far-fetched. A thought bubble bloomed in his imagination, vivid and absurd. Maybe... He pictured Wonyoung happily hugging a large, goofy-looking dog with drooping eyes and a lolling tongue that bore a suspicious resemblance to his own hangdog expression. Because I'm similar to her pet dog?
Or perhaps it was something more mystical, something written in the stars? His imagination shifted gears abruptly, picturing the two of them dressed in flowing traditional robes, standing on opposite sides of a misty bridge, star-crossed lovers from an ancient era holding glowing talismans. Or maybe, he wondered with increasing desperation, his mental gymnastics reaching Olympic levels, ties from a previous life?
Determined to shake off the suffocating gloom and perhaps bridge the vast, seemingly unbridgeable gap between them, Y/n decided to be playful. He spotted a display of plush toys arranged in a colorful pyramid, their button eyes gleaming.
Tap. Tap.
"Boo!" he shouted, leaning in from behind her with a goofy frog puppet stretched over his hand, its fabric mouth gaping wide. "Whoah!"
He expected a jump, maybe a startled laugh, perhaps even a playful swat at his arm. Instead, she turned around slowly, gracefully, a radiant and gentle smile already blooming on her face. In her hands, held against her chest, she was already cradling a matching frog plushie, its green fabric soft and inviting.
"Y/n-ah," she said softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth and amusement. "You have your head in the clouds."
Y/n froze completely, every system shutting down. The "Boo" died an inglorious death in his throat. His eyes widened until they threatened to escape his skull, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The combined attack of her smile and the impossible coincidence was too much for his circuits to handle.
SO ADORABLE!
The words screamed in his mind like a siren, ricocheting off the walls of his skull and leaving him utterly, completely speechless. The background of the bookstore seemed to fade into a heavenly light, soft and golden, as if they'd stumbled into a different dimension entirely.
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Moments later, they were walking again through the busy streets, but Y/n's internal monologue had turned catastrophic, spiraling into dark territory. He stared at her back as she walked ahead, sweat pouring down his face in actual rivulets. What if everything from our meeting is just all in my head? What if I've imagined this entire thing?
"Y/n-ah," Wonyoung said, turning slightly, her sweet tone suddenly carrying an edge that made his blood run cold.
His insecurity instantly conjured a nightmare scenario with vivid, painful detail. Don't tell me...
In his mind's eye, he saw Wonyoung turning to him with a blindingly cheerful but utterly hollow smile, her eyes closed in mock pity that cut deeper than any blade. The imaginary version of her clasped her hands together apologetically and said with devastating politeness, "I wasn't being serious about going out with you. I couldn't burst the bubble back then."
But then reality crashed through his nightmare like a wrecking ball. Wonyoung turned to face him fully, and there was no mockery in her expression, no cruelty hiding behind her eyes. Instead, a soft blush dusted her cheeks like rose petals scattered on snow, and flowers seemed to bloom in the air around her, a halo of spring. She looked up at him through her lashes, shy and vulnerable in a way that made his heart stop.
"Umm..." she murmured softly, her voice barely audible above the street noise. "Can we hold hands?"
Y/n's terrifying facade shattered instantly like glass hitting concrete. Thick, comic streams of tears poured down his face in ridiculous abundance, tears of sheer, overwhelming relief and joy that he couldn't possibly contain. He grinned maniacally, his heart soaring so high it threatened to escape his ribcage entirely. "WHY, ABSOLUTELY!" he shouted, loud enough to make several pedestrians turn and stare.
He didn't wait another second, didn't pause to second-guess or overthink. He reached down, and Wonyoung reached up simultaneously. Slip. Their hands slid together smoothly, fingers intertwining and interlacing in a firm, warm grip that anchored him to reality and finally, mercifully silenced the screaming doubts in his head.
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Y/n walked in a complete daze, his face pale with shock, his expression that of a man who'd been struck by lightning and survived. The sensation of walking down the crowded street while holding Wonyoung's soft hand felt less like reality and more like a fever dream, like he'd slipped into an alternate dimension. Goodness gracious! he thought, staring down at their joined hands as if they were a miraculous phenomenon. This is totally... a different world altogether!
But as the initial euphoric high began to wear off and logic tried to reassert itself, paranoia crept in through the cracks. He scanned the bustling crowd around them nervously, his eyes darting back and forth like a surveillance camera. I feel like everyone's watching us! The pressure was mounting, building in his chest, and he felt a cold, uncomfortable clamminess starting to build between their palms. Oh no, I'm sweating! he panicked internally, his grip trembling slightly with anxiety. My hand's gonna slip off! She's going to feel it and let go!
His treacherous insecurity immediately conjured yet another disastrous scenario in vivid detail. He imagined Wonyoung pulling her hand away slowly, looking at the sweat coating their palms with undisguised disgust and uttering a disappointed, damning, "Oh!"
Just as he was spiraling deeper into his anxiety vortex, a cheerful voice called out, shattering his train of thought. "Hey, Wonyoung! What a coincidence!"
A young woman with short dark hair that framed her face in choppy layers waved enthusiastically, stopping directly in their path. Y/n stood awkwardly to the side, suddenly feeling like an unwanted third wheel as they chatted animatedly about school schedules. Apparently, Wonyoung only had one class on Tuesday. A college friend, huh? Y/n noted silently, filing away the information.
The friend's attention soon shifted from Wonyoung to the looming, dark figure standing beside her like a guardian statue. She looked Y/n up and down with a teasing smirk playing at her lips. "So who's this guy? Don't tell me, your boyfriend?"
This was it. His golden opportunity to make a good, lasting impression. Y/n tried desperately to summon his friendliest, most charming expression, the one normal people used in social situations. He forced what he hoped was a warm smile onto his face, but the result was catastrophically terrifying. His features twisted into a shadowed, menacing grimace that looked more like a death threat than a greeting, something that belonged in a horror movie rather than a casual street encounter.
The friend recoiled instantly as if physically struck, all teasing demeanor evaporating like water on hot stone. "OH!" she gasped, her face going pale, genuine horror flooding her features.
She pointed an accusing finger straight at his face with trembling certainty, shouting loud enough to attract attention, "So you're a STALKER! You the same guy from before?!"
Y/n flinched visibly, completely taken aback by the sudden and entirely unexpected accusation. His mouth opened and closed uselessly. Before he could even attempt to defend himself or explain, Wonyoung stepped in smoothly. She remained perfectly calm, composed as still water, gesturing gently toward him with a serene smile that somehow conveyed absolute confidence. "He's Y/n," she said simply, as if that explained everything. "I'm going out with him."
The friend went completely rigid, her body freezing mid-gesture. Her mouth fell open in shock, jaw literally dropping as the information utterly failed to process, hitting a mental firewall. The gears in her mind ground to a halt.
Y/n watched her closely, reading every micro-expression and shift in her body language. She's troubled! he realized as she clutched her head in visible confusion, her world clearly rocked. Then she went eerily still, frozen like a computer buffering. She's thinking! Processing!
Finally, after what felt like an eternity compressed into seconds, the friend broke the heavy silence. She forced a stiff, painfully awkward smile onto her face, deliberately looked away from Y/n entirely, and completely ignored the earth-shattering revelation just dropped on her. "A... Anyway..."
She changed the subject! Y/n screamed internally, his mind reeling. She just completely pivoted away from that!
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The awkward, suffocating tension from the encounter with the friend began to gradually dissipate like morning fog as she and Wonyoung chatted for a few more minutes about mundane topics before both waving goodbye. The couple started walking again, their footsteps falling into sync. Wonyoung turned to him with a gentle, apologetic smile that made her eyes soften. "I'm sorry... for taking so long," she said quietly, guilt coloring her tone.
"No worries," Y/n replied quickly, perhaps too quickly, eager to move past the awkward moment and forget it ever happened. "Let's go."
As they strolled beneath the shade of trees lining the sidewalk, dappled sunlight filtering through leaves and dancing across the pavement, the comfortable silence was broken by Wonyoung's hesitant voice. "Umm... About the stalker thing..." She glanced at him sideways, wanting to clear the air regarding her friend's explosive outburst. "Don't worry about it. It's just that I have this clingy guy from college."
The revelation sent a sharp jolt through Y/n's system like touching a live wire. His imagination immediately took flight, soaring into fantasy territory. If I were a college student, he thought wistfully, picturing himself in a dashing university outfit complete with a letterman jacket, standing guard like a vigilant sentinel outside her classroom, I would've protected Wonyoung 24/7! I would have been there constantly!
But the heroic daydream collapsed as quickly as it had formed, crumbling like a sandcastle hit by a wave. His shoulders slumped forward in defeat as reality crashed back down on him with crushing weight. ...Well, I wish! he thought miserably, bitterly, recalling his own naturally terrifying appearance that sent children running. I won't be able to get close to her anyway. She'd never want someone like me hanging around her campus.
Wonyoung's voice cut cleanly through his spiraling self-pity. She looked at him with genuine concern furrowing her delicate brow, confusion and hurt flickering in her eyes. "Y/n, you don't like holding hands with me?"
"Wh-what?!" Y/n stammered, completely blindsided by the question, his brain short-circuiting. Where had that come from?
He averted his gaze immediately, unable to maintain eye contact as sweat beaded on his forehead. His deepest, most painful insecurity bubbled to the surface like poison. "Uhh... I... I didn't..." he fumbled desperately for words that wouldn't come. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, couldn't face those trusting eyes. "I mean, it's, uhh, kinda strange... being your boyfriend..."
He brought a hand up to cover half his face, trying futilely to hide the shame burning hot in his cheeks. "I don't give the best impression to people," he admitted, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. "I have a... pretty awful look." He finally voiced the fear that had been gnawing at him constantly, eating away at his confidence: "If we hold hands, people will start giving you weird looks. They'll judge you. They'll wonder what's wrong with you."
Before he could spiral further into his dark thoughts, before he could pull away and retreat into himself completely, he felt a sudden, surprisingly firm grip seize his arm. He looked up, startled, his eyes widening.
"Not at all!" Wonyoung cried out with fierce intensity, clutching his wrist tightly enough that he could feel her pulse racing against his skin.
She looked up at him, her face flushed a deep, burning red with emotion, her eyes glistening with fierce sincerity and something stronger, more defiant. She refused to let him believe his own poisonous thoughts, refused to let him diminish himself. "Really, they won't!" she insisted, her voice trembling but unwavering in its conviction.
Y/n stood frozen in place, rooted to the spot, staring down at her in stunned silence. "Huh..." was all he could manage, his breath catching painfully in his throat as her words sank in slowly, permeating through layers of self-doubt.
Y/n gazed at Wonyoung, his heart fluttering irregularly as the world around them seemed to soften at the edges, going hazy and dreamlike. All I've been doing up till now is just doing boring stuff, he reflected with sudden clarity, thinking back on his endless routine days of managing flowers in the shop, arranging stems and checking soil, and daydreaming about impossible things. But looking at her now, holding her hand, feeling her warmth, he realized with wonder, now it's like a dream come true. Like I've stepped into someone else's life.
The dream was rudely, violently interrupted. A blonde young man stepped directly into their path, blocking the sidewalk with his body, his expression twisted with annoyance and entitled anger. "Why didn't you answer my texts?" he demanded aggressively, looming over Wonyoung with barely restrained hostility.
Y/n stiffened instantly, his entire body going on high alert, his eyes widening. Who is he? he wondered, tension coiling in his muscles.
Wonyoung shrank back visibly, her voice tight with distress and exhaustion. "You're really... bothering me," she said, clutching her bag against her chest like a shield. "How many times do I have to tell you?"
The pieces clicked together for Y/n instantly, the puzzle solving itself. So this guy's... the stalker?! This is him!
Ignoring her clear rejection, ignoring the fear in her voice, the stalker reached out with deliberate aggression and grabbed her wrist roughly. Grip. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to leave marks. "Wonyoung..." he pleaded with false desperation masking demand.
"NO!" she cried out, pulling back in genuine fear, her voice cracking.
Y/n moved before conscious thought caught up, his body acting on pure instinct. He stepped firmly in front of Wonyoung, placing himself between them like a wall, his arm thrown out protectively to create a physical barrier separating them completely.
The stalker recoiled slightly, his eyes traveling up to take in the tall, dark-haired figure who had suddenly materialized to interrupt him. "The hell are you?" he sneered with false bravado.
But as he got a good, clear look at Y/n's intense, naturally terrifying face, at the dark aura that seemed to radiate from him like heat waves, the stalker's cocky confidence visibly faltered and cracked. He waved his hand dismissively, clearly unsettled and off-balance. "Get lost, man! You're creeping me out!" he said, his voice pitching higher, trying to shove past Y/n to get to her. "Move, move. Wonyoung!"
Y/n didn't budge even a millimeter, planted like an ancient tree. "NO WAY!" he shouted with absolute conviction, blocking the path completely with his body.
Adrenaline coursed through Y/n's veins like liquid fire. He took a deep, steadying breath, his face flushing bright red with emotion and determination, and yelled at the absolute top of his lungs to claim his place beside her, to announce his right to protect her. "I'M... WONYOUNG'S BOYFRIEND!"
The stalker's face contorted with rage. "Son of a..." he muttered through clenched teeth, winding up his arm with violent intent.
Smack.
His fist connected squarely with Y/n's cheek with a sickening sound, the impact reverberating through his skull.
Y/n staggered but did not back down, did not retreat an inch. Instead, his own fist came up and he returned a punch of his own, his knuckles meeting flesh with satisfying force.
"Bastard!" the stalker spat venomously. But the violence had drawn immediate attention from surrounding pedestrians, people stopping and staring. Realizing he was now in serious trouble and outnumbered, the stalker's survival instinct kicked in. He turned and fled abruptly. DASH. He sprinted down the street at full speed, his footsteps echoing, desperately trying to escape the consequences of his actions.
Y/n stood there for a split second, his cheek throbbing with hot pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Wonyoung looked at him with wide eyes, her expression a mixture of terror and deep worry. "Y/n..."
But Y/n wasn't interested in continuing the street fight, wasn't interested in chasing him down for revenge. He spun around dramatically, pointing an accusing finger that shook slightly at the fleeing figure and yelling frantically at a passing policeman who was already reaching for his radio.
"OFFICER, HE'S THE GUY!" he shrieked desperately, seeking immediate justice through proper channels.
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With the police efficiently handling the stalker in the background, their voices mixing with radio static as they took statements, the adrenaline that had been flooding Y/n's system began to fade gradually. The rush left him feeling hollow and shaky. He watched the officers lead the guy away in handcuffs, finally allowing himself to relax slightly, his shoulders dropping.
Wonyoung turned to him immediately, her eyes finding and locking onto the angry red mark blooming across his face like a bruise-colored flower. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them, her expression shifting rapidly from relief to deep, crushing concern. "Y/n..." she murmured softly, staring at his injured cheek with intense focus. She looked absolutely heartbroken, her delicate brows knitting together as she assessed the damage with careful eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice trembling with overwhelming guilt that threatened to break her. She clutched her hands to her chest tightly. "You got hurt... because of me. This is my fault." Her eyes glistened dangerously, tears pooling at the corners, and she looked as though she was about to burst into tears right there on the busy sidewalk in front of everyone.
Y/n panicked instantly, his own pain forgotten. Taking a punch to the face was manageable, something he could handle, but dealing with a crying Wonyoung was a crisis he was completely unprepared for and had no protocol to handle. "Ah, wait! No, no!" he stammered frantically, waving his hands in the air like he was trying to physically ward off her tears. "Don't cry! Please don't cry!"
He pointed almost aggressively at his own bruised cheek, trying to prove through sheer insistence how completely fine he was. "This?! This is nothing! Literally nothing!" he insisted loudly, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "It doesn't hurt at all! I'm super tough! I've had worse!"
Seeing that she was still worried, that his words hadn't fully convinced her, his chaotic energy deflated like a punctured balloon. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, averting his gaze as a blush crept up his neck and spread to his ears. "Besides..." he mumbled, his naturally scary face softening into shy, vulnerable embarrassment. "I... I wanted to protect you. I wanted to be useful."
The confession hung in the air between them for a long moment, suspended and precious. Wonyoung blinked, her building sadness melting away like snow in sunlight. A bright, radiant smile broke across her face like dawn, warm enough to heal any bruise, powerful enough to erase any pain. She looked at him with pure, undiluted gratitude that made his sacrifice worth it. "Thank you, Y/n," she beamed, the words simple but weighted with meaning.
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The couple found themselves sitting on a nearby bench, the wooden slats still warm from the afternoon sun. Wonyoung watched him quietly, intently, her expression softening as the golden sunlight filtered through the trees above them and dappled her face. There was a profound gentleness in her eyes, a patient, expectant waiting that made the air between them feel thick and heavy with unsaid things pressing against the silence. She listened with complete attention, hanging on to every word, absorbing the vulnerability in his voice like precious water.
Y/n sat before her rigidly, his hand instinctively clutching the fabric of his shirt over his chest, gripping it tightly as if trying to physically calm or contain the wild, erratic rhythm pounding beneath his ribs. A sheepish, flushed smile broke across his face, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassed and elated, unable to settle on one emotion.
"Since meeting you," Y/n admitted, his voice slightly breathless and unsteady, "I've experienced a lot of new things." He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, laughing nervously at his own honesty, at his own transparency. "Like... having my heart beat so fast that I felt like I couldn't even contain myself. Like it would burst right out."
The raw, unfiltered honesty of his words hit Wonyoung all at once like a physical force. A deep crimson flush rose rapidly to her cheeks, spreading like wildfire, the heat traveling to the tips of her ears until they glowed. She looked down quickly, unable to hold his intense gaze any longer, her carefully maintained composure cracking and crumbling under the overwhelming weight of his confession. She bit her lip hard, completely overwhelmed by the emotion flooding through her.
Y/n blinked, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected such a visceral, visible reaction from her, hadn't anticipated affecting her so strongly. The sudden silence that fell between them caught him off guard, made him second-guess his words.
Then, there was movement. Wonyoung didn't pull away or retreat. Instead, her hand slid slowly across the smooth surface between them, her fingers trembling slightly but moving with determination as they sought him out deliberately. She reached for his hand, her touch hesitant but filled with purpose and decision.
She looked up then, forcing herself to meet his eyes, her own shimmering with barely contained emotion, her cheeks still burning that impossible shade of pink. She looked at him with a potent mixture of shyness and a newfound boldness that surprised them both, deliberately ignoring the pounding of her own heart to focus entirely on him.
Y/n froze completely, his whole body going tense and rigid as her fingers grazed his skin with feather-light contact. He stared at her with wide eyes, actual sweat forming and beading on his brow from the sheer overwhelming intensity of the moment, from the electricity of her touch.
Wonyoung squeezed his fingers gently, her voice barely rising above a whisper, soft as silk. "Y/n's hand..." she murmured, pointing out the obvious with an innocent, almost childlike bluntness, "...is a bit sweaty."
Y/n felt his breath hitch painfully in his chest. The comment hung in the air between them, not as a criticism or complaint, but as a simple acknowledgment of his nervousness, concrete proof that she knew exactly, precisely how much she affected him, how much power she held. I can't express it into words, he thought as the embarrassment faded gradually into something warmer, deeper, more substantial.
She didn't let go. Instead, she interlaced her fingers deliberately with his, threading them together, the grip firm and reassuring and real. The world around them seemed to dissolve and fade into soft, golden light, the edges blurring until only they remained in focus.
It'll be nice, Y/n realized with sudden, perfect clarity as he squeezed back, returning the pressure, if we get to understand our feelings in this way from now on. If this becomes our normal.
No more words were needed or necessary. The simple, profound warmth of her hand in his said everything they were both too afraid, too overwhelmed to speak aloud.
â
The heavy, romantic atmosphere was suddenly punctuated by a sharp gasp. Y/n's eyes widened dramatically as a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning directly to his brain. "Oh, I almost forgot!"
He turned away abruptly, dropping to a crouch and rummaging urgently through his bag with increasing desperation. Wonyoung watched him with mild confusion, tilting her head to the side like a curious bird as he dug frantically through his belongings, items shuffling and rustling.
Moments later, he pulled a small object carefully from the depths of the bag. He inspected it critically with narrowed eyes, turning it over in his hands, then let out a heavy sigh of profound relief. "Phew, it's still in one piece," he muttered gratefully, flashing her a nervous, relieved smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
He straightened up slowly and held out his hands with careful reverence, presenting a small, intricately woven basket filled with delicate flowers in various soft colors. "Here you go," he said softly, his voice gentle. The shyness was back, coloring his features, but his gaze remained steady and sure. "I was thinking of you when I made this. Every flower."
Wonyoung stared at the gift in stunned silence, genuinely surprised by the intricate detail and obvious care that had been woven into every aspect of its construction. Y/n scratched his cheek awkwardly with one finger, trying his best to downplay the heavy sentimentality behind the gesture. "Think of it as a thank-you gift... for the bouquet. An exchange."
But as he held the flowers out to her, as she reached to accept them, the emotions he had been carefully holding back surged forward again like a dam breaking. His face turned a brilliant, impossible shade of red, practically glowing in the afternoon light, and his carefully maintained composure cracked and shattered completely. He practically shouted, his voice trembling with raw intensity that he couldn't control, "I am looking forward... to being with you!"
Wonyoung's eyes softened immediately, shimmering like water catching light as she took in his overwhelming earnestness, his complete sincerity. A gentle flush spread across her own cheeks to perfectly match his. She lowered her gaze modestly, her voice quiet but filled with absolute certainty and conviction. "...Me too."
They stood there bathed in the soft, warm light, the space between them charged with a sweet, sparkling tension that felt almost tangible. It was a moment of perfect clarity and understanding for both of them, a shared awareness that this was real and right.
Y/n closed his eyes, a broad, genuine smile stretching across his face, transforming his usually intimidating features into something almost beautiful. She's... really... he thought, his heart soaring so high it felt weightless. Beside him, Wonyoung looked at his beaming, unguarded face, her own internal monologue echoing his perfectly. He's reallyâŠ
The thought bubbled up from somewhere deep inside and spilled over before she could catch it, before she could stop herself. She beamed at him, her smile radiant and completely unguarded, all pretense stripped away. "...Adorable..."
The single word hung in the air for a split second, suspended like a soap bubble. Wonyoung froze instantly, her entire body going rigid as the realization of what she'd just said out loud crashed over her. Her hand flew to her mouth in pure panic, her eyes widening to impossible proportions. "Whoops! I'm sorry! I spoke my mind aloud!" she stammered frantically, her face heating up so fast she thought she might spontaneously combust right there on the street.
Y/n stood stock still, blinking blankly at the sudden, unexpected compliment that had just been launched at him like a missile. He was completely disarmed, his defenses shattered, his brain struggling to process that someone had just called him, of all people, adorable. The word seemed to bounce around in his skull, refusing to settle.
As he watched her fluster and panic, her hands waving frantically, a calm, peaceful thought settled gently in his mind like snow falling on a quiet winter evening: There's still going to be new things I have yet to experience.
The realization brought a soft, genuine warmth to his chest. This was just the beginning. There would be more moments like this, more surprises, more joy, more fear, more everything. And for the first time in his life, he found himself genuinely, desperately looking forward to it all.
The afternoon sun continued its slow descent, casting long shadows across the pavement as they stood there together, two unlikely people who had somehow found each other in a world that seemed determined to keep them apart. But standing there now, hands still intertwined, flowers cradled carefully between them, none of that seemed to matter anymore.
Y/n looked at Wonyoung, really looked at her, at the way the sunlight caught in her hair and made it glow like spun gold, at the way her embarrassed blush made her look even more impossibly beautiful, at the way she still hadn't let go of his hand despite her mortification. And he thought, with absolute certainty that surprised even himself, that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so terrible after all.
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W.c: 9.2k
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Straightforward - đđ
The winter morning arrived crisp and crystalline, sunlight piercing through the skeletal branches overhead to paint the frost-dusted ground in soft, hexagonal patches of white. Each breath Minju exhaled formed delicate clouds that dissipated into the sharp air. As she walked down the familiar path, the same worn cobblestones she'd traced countless times. She clutched her wool scarf tighter against the biting chill, fingers curling into the fabric's warmth. Her mind drifted, turning over a realization that had been quietly settling into her consciousness like snowfall.
These days... she thought, and despite the cold nipping at her nose, a small smile touched her lips, softening the line of her mouth. Walking to school with Y/n is...
She turned the corner where the old maple tree stood, its bare branches reaching skyward, and saw him. He was already there, always there first, somehowâa tall, quiet figure wrapped in a dark wool coat and a patterned scarf that caught the morning breeze. His glasses reflected the slanting rays of winter sunlight, turning the lenses momentarily opaque and mysterious.
"Y/n. Good morning," she called out, her voice carrying across the cold air.
He turned at the sound of her voice, unhurried and deliberate. His expression settled into that calm, steady look he always wore, the one that made her feel like the world could slow down, just for a moment. As they fell into step together, their footfalls creating a synchronized rhythm on the path, Minju felt a sense of comfort settle over her shoulders like a warm blanket.
...becoming a routine.
The word felt significant somehow, weighted with meaning she wasn't quite ready to examine.
They reached the school entrance, where the wide glass doors reflected the pale morning sky. All around them, the ambient chatter of other students filled the air, the scrape of shoe lockers opening, the rustle of indoor slippers being retrieved, friends greeting each other with animated gestures and laughter that echoed off the polished floors. Minju glanced up at him, a little crease of perplexity forming between her brows. She had checked the clock on her nightstand specifically this morning, had even left five minutes earlier than usual to beat him here this time.
"I thought I left earlier..." she murmured, looking between him and the crowded hallway beyond, genuinely puzzled. "But today... you always get here before me."
"Right," Y/n replied simply, his tone matter-of-fact, not denying it or offering an explanation.
A twinge of guilt pricked at Minju's chest. I'm sorry for making you wait, she began to think, the apology already forming on her tongue, but Y/n interrupted the thought before she could give it voice.
He turned fully toward her, pivoting on his heel so they stood face to face. His gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. The sunlight streaming through the entrance seemed to frame him perfectly, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, creating a halo effect around his dark hair.
"Well," he said, his voice lowering into a gentle, sincere register that seemed to bypass her ears and go straight to her chest. "I enjoy the time I spend waiting for you."
Minju's breath hitched, trapped somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The words hung in the cold air between them, impossibly warm. Before she could process the weight of that statement, before she could untangle what it meant or how to respond, Y/n offered her a smile. Not his usual slight upturn of lips, but something genuine and unguarded, one that reached his eyes and made them shine with reflected light behind his lenses, crinkling at the corners.
"Good morning, Minju-ssi," he added softly, the honorific somehow tender in his mouth.
The attack was super effective.
Minju felt the blood rush to her face instantly, a wave of heat that started at her neck and flooded upward, turning her ears a bright, burning shade of red. She stiffened like she'd been struck by lightning, her fingers gripping her bag tightly enough that her knuckles turned white. Her heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat that surely everyone in the hallway could hear.
Endure, she commanded herself desperately, squeezing her eyes shut for a fleeting second as a nervous gulp escaped her throat, her Adam's apple bobbing visibly. ...I can do it!
â
The winter morning remained bright and merciless, sunlight still filtering through the trees in those same geometric patterns. Minju was still reeling from Y/n's comment about enjoying the wait, her heart pounding like a trapped bird, desperately telling herself to endure this onslaught. But Y/n wasn't finished.
He touched his chin thoughtfully with two fingers, his head tilting slightly as a soft, contemplative look entered his eyes. It was the expression he wore when he was recalling something pleasant, something worth savoring.
"Also..." he added, his voice dropping to a murmur that felt almost private despite their public surroundings. "...the way you run when you find me... it's cute."
In his mind, he pictured it clearlyâher rushing toward him with quick, eager steps, her scarf trailing behind her, practically sparkling with energy and morning light, her face lighting up with recognition.
For Minju, this was the finishing blow, the critical hit that shattered her remaining defenses. Her knees gave out completely, structural integrity failing, and she slumped into a crouch right there in the middle of the hallway, burying her burning face in her scarf until only her eyes were visible.
"...Agh," she groaned, the sound muffled by wool and mortification.
He's on a roll this morning, again!! She screamed internally, her thoughts a chaotic mess.Â
His unintentional charm attacks were coming too fast to defend against. Where are my shields? Why am I so weak?!
Several students glanced at them curiously as they passed, whispering behind their hands, but Minju was beyond caring about appearances.
Once she managed to scrape herself off the floor with Y/n patiently waiting, slightly concerned but not quite understanding what he'd done, and they resumed walking through the corridors, the conversation turned to the changing season.
"I can't believe it's already winter," Minju said, trying desperately to steady her breathing and return her heart rate to something resembling normal.
"Yeah," Y/n agreed, looking ahead as their footsteps created soft echoes in the hallway, passing by classroom windows that glowed with warm yellow light. "Fall passed in the blink of an eye."
The mention of the season brought a specific thought to Minju's mind, arriving with sudden clarity. Her heart gave a nervous thump, different from before, this one tinged with hopeful anticipation.
"By the way..." she ventured, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "...Christmas is coming."
The atmosphere around them seemed to amplify the sentiment. Even in the background, she could hear other students chatting excitedly, their voices bright with anticipation. "Hey, what should we do for Christmas?" one girl asked her friend. "I heard there's going to be illuminations at the park!" another responded.
Minju fidgeted with the strap of her bag, stealing glances at Y/n's profileâthe straight line of his nose, the way his glasses sat perfectly balanced, the slight movement of his throat as he considered her words.
Christmas! she thought, hope rising in her chest like a balloon filling with warm air. Is he gonna... talk about a date?
The possibility made her pulse quicken again, but this time with excitement rather than embarrassment.
Y/n turned to her, and a bright, pleasant smile spread across his face that suggested he was about to say something he thought was helpful.
"Before that..." he said cheerfully, almost enthusiastically.
Minju leaned in slightly, waiting with bated breath, her imagination already spinning scenarios of winter dates and Christmas lights.
"...we have finals."
Minju froze mid-step. The romantic tension evaporated instantly, like water hitting a hot pan, replaced by the crushing, suffocating weight of academic reality. Y/n just smiled at her, completely oblivious to the emotional whiplash he had just delivered with the efficiency of a sledgehammer.
The weight of Y/n's words crashed down on Minju like an avalanche, burying her in cold, mathematical dread.
"Final exams."
"Oh," she whispered, her face draining of color until she resembled the white snow outside, all the warmth and giddiness from moments before evaporating.
The romantic atmosphere, the one that had wrapped around them like a comfortable blanket, vanished entirely, replaced by a sense of impending doom. She stood there in the hallway, mentally crushed under the weight of textbooks she should have been reading, formulas she should have been memorizing, concepts she should have been understanding.
"I totally... forgot about them," she realized with dawning horror, her eyes widening.
â
Later that afternoon, the reality of the situation set in with uncomfortable clarity. They sat together at a desk in the library's corner, a quiet alcove usually reserved for serious studying in what felt uncomfortably like a student-teacher conference. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in stark, unforgiving illumination. Y/n held her test papers from the last exam, reviewing them with a critical eye, occasionally making small sounds of consideration while Minju sat stiffly across from him, her hands folded in her lap like a repentant student before the principal.
"You relatively did well on liberal arts..." Y/n noted, flipping a page with a crisp rustle that seemed loud in the quiet space, "...but it looks like you are not good at STEM."
Minju physically shrank in her seat, her shoulders hunching inward, trying to make herself smaller. She wanted to disappear into the chair.
"Let's work on them first," he decided calmly, his tone professional and organizedâthe voice of someone who had a plan and intended to execute it.
"...Okay," she replied meekly, her voice barely above a whisper.
So embarrassing... she thought, unable to meet his gaze, her eyes fixed firmly on a water stain on the desk's surface.
Y/n lowered the papers and looked at her seriously, his expression shifting into something more grave. "Work hard not to fail..."
The implication hit Minju like a freight train at full speed. Her mind immediately flashed to the calendar on her wallâthe one with the cute cat photos for each month, currently showing December with its red circles around holidays. If she failed...
...I have to take remedial classes during winter break, she realized in a panic, her stomach dropping.
Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she imagined spending her Christmas holidays trapped in a classroom with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, chalk dust in the air, while everyone else enjoyed hot chocolate and illuminations and festive music. She pictured herself alone at a desk while Y/n was... where would Y/n be? Would he be enjoying Christmas without her?
Also, if I fail... the thought trailed off into deeper despair, too terrible to fully articulate.
â
That evening, back in the sanctuary of her room, Minju sat at her desk with renewed determination. The lamp cast a warm circle of light over her workspace, and outside her window, the winter darkness had already fallen, stars beginning to emerge in the clear, cold sky.
Slap!
She patted her cheeks vigorously with both hands, the sound sharp in the quiet room, the sting waking her up and focusing her resolve.
"Okay," she said aloud to the empty room, her voice firm with conviction. "I have to do my best...!"
She reached out and grabbed a textbook with both hands, pulling it toward her like a warrior drawing a sword. "First, math!"
She opened the book with renewed vigor, the spine cracking slightly. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking each passing second. Tick... tick... tick.
Minutes turned into an hour. The determined energy that had filled the room, bright and almost tangible, slowly leaked out like air from a punctured balloon, replaced by a heavy cloud of gloom that seemed to press down from the ceiling.
Minju stared blankly at the equations marching across the page in neat, mocking rows. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the winter chill seeping through her window. Numbers and symbols swam before her eyes, refusing to resolve into anything comprehensible.
"I don't understand at all...!!" she cried internally, the logic completely escaping her grasp like water through her fingers, the concepts as foreign as ancient hieroglyphics.
She slumped over her desk, defeated and deflated, her forehead coming to rest on the cool surface of the textbook with a soft thump.
"Ah. I don't wanna do it..." she groaned, burying her face in her arms, her voice muffled and pitiful.
Minju remained slumped over her desk, the math equations swimming before her eyes like incomprehensible abstract art. The silence of her room felt heavy and oppressive, amplified by her own mounting frustration and the relentless ticking of the clock. Her gaze drifted sideways to the smartphone sitting idly on her notebook, its dark screen reflecting the lamplight.
Maybe should I ask Y/n? the thought popped into her head unbidden, arriving with the subtlety of a whisper.
She hesitated, her heart giving a small, nervous thump against her ribsâdifferent from the earlier panicked beats, this one tinged with anticipation. She picked up the phone, the cool glass and metal solid in her palm, staring at the black screen for a long moment before unlocking it with her thumb.
I wonder what he's doing now, she mused, her thumb hovering over his contact name, the photo beside it showing his school ID picture, characteristically serious and formal. I guess he's studying.
Taking a deep breath that filled her lungs with courage, she typed out a message, carefully choosing each word, trying to sound casual and polite rather than desperate.
"Good evening," she tapped out with deliberate precision. "There are some parts I don't understand in the math workbook... Can you help me with them?"
She hit send and set the phone down on the desk with exaggerated care, expecting to wait at least several minutes. Maybe he was in the middle of a problem. Maybe he'd respond after finishing his current study session.
Bzz bzz.
The phone vibrated violently against the wooden desk almost instantly, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room.
"Woah. That was quick!!" Minju gasped, jumping in her seat so suddenly her knee hit the underside of the desk.
She grabbed the phone and looked at the screen, her eyes widening to the size of saucers. It wasn't a text back. The screen read simply: Y/n with a phone icon beside it.
"A call?!" she squeaked, her voice climbing an octave.
Panic flared hot and bright for a second. She hadn't mentally prepared herself for a voice conversation, hadn't rehearsed what to say or how to sound natural, but she scrambled to answer it before it could go to voicemail, her fingers fumbling slightly with the screen. She pressed the phone to her ear, her hand trembling slightly, very aware of the warmth of the device against her skin.
"He... Hello!" she stammered, internally cursing the crack in her voice.
"Good evening. This is Y/n," his voice came through the speaker, calm and steady as always, that familiar tone that somehow felt different filtered through technology. "I thought it would be easier to call you... than write you the explanation."
Minju blinked rapidly, gripping the phone tighter against her ear as if that would somehow ground her. As he spoke, something peculiar washed over herâa sensation she hadn't anticipated. The sound of his voice, filtered through the phone's speaker and delivered directly into her ear, felt incredibly intimate, almost invasive in its closeness. It was as if he were sitting right beside her, speaking softly so only she could hear.
Every slight breath, every subtle inflection seemed magnified, more present. She became hyperaware of her own breathing, trying to keep it quiet and steady.
She was so captivated by the timbre of his voiceâthe way it seemed to resonate through the phone and straight into her chestâthat she almost missed his question entirely.
"Do you have a moment?" Y/n asked politely, ever considerate.
"Yeah. Sure," Minju replied automatically, her voice coming out breathier than intended, her free hand fidgeting with a lock of her hair, twirling it around her finger.
"This problem is an advanced version of the example..." Y/n began, launching straight into tutor mode with characteristic efficiency. "...so you might wanna check that page..."
Minju tried to look at her textbookâreally, she did, but her eyes glazed over the numbers. Her mind was barely registering the mathematical concepts, instead entirely focused on the sound of his voice and the strange intimacy of this moment.
...I mean... she thought, her focus completely derailed, every nerve ending attuned to the boy on the other end of the line rather than the equations sprawled before her.
â
Y/n's voice flowed through the speaker like a gentle stream, calm and methodical, completely unaware of the absolute turmoil he was causing on the other end of the connection.
"This problem is an advanced version of the example..." he explained patiently, his tone taking on that teaching quality he had. "...so you might wanna check that page..."
Minju stared at her textbook, but the numbers were blurring together into meaningless shapes. Her entire focus had narrowed down to a pinpoint, the sound of his breathing between words, the slight rustle as he presumably turned pages of his own textbook, the deep timbre of his voice resonating in her ear like a low musical note.
Is it 'cuz we're talking over the phone? She wondered dizzily, her head feeling light and strange. His voice sounds... deeper and softer than usual....
The silence stretched for a moment too long, a pause where she should have been responding or asking questions.
"Hello? Minju-ssi?" Y/n's voice cut through her daydream like a knife through silk. "Can you hear me?"
There was a note of genuine concern in his question.
Minju jolted upright in her chair as if she'd been electrocuted, her spine snapping straight, nearly dropping the phone in her sudden movement.
"YES!! VERY! CLEARLY!!" she shouted into the receiver, far too loud, her face burning with the heat of a thousand suns.
She immediately clamped her other hand over her mouth, mortified by her own volume. Oh god, why am I like this?
After a few more minutes of actual studyingâduring which Minju forced herself to concentrate, physically pointing at the textbook with her finger to keep her eyes focusedâthings finally clicked into place. The equation that had seemed like an impossible puzzle suddenly resolved into clarity, the pieces falling together with satisfying logic.
"Oh, so that's why this is the correct answer," she murmured, scribbling down the solution with quick, relieved strokes of her pencil.
"Right. Did you solve it?" Y/n asked, and she could hear the smile in his voiceâthat pleased tone he got when he successfully explained something.
"Yeah. Thanks to you, I got it!" she replied enthusiastically, feeling a genuine wave of relief wash over her like cool water on a hot day. The weight of that one problem, at least, had lifted.
"That's good," Y/n said gently, warmth evident in those simple words.
Minju leaned back in her chair, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them, the phone still pressed to her ear, cradled between her shoulder and cheek. The panic of the math problem had faded, leaving behind a lingering warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with academic achievement.
"Thank you..." she said softly into the receiver, her voice quieter now, more sincere. "...for your time when you're also studying."
"Don't worry," Y/n replied immediately, without hesitation. There was a pause, she could hear him take a breath, and then his voice dropped to an even softer register, almost vulnerable. "If anything, I feel happy... to hear your voice like this."
Minju's grip on her knees tightened. She buried her face against them, her heart doing somersaults and backflips, performing an entire gymnastics routine in her chest.
It makes me shy!! she screamed internally, her entire body heating up all over again, the warmth spreading from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes.
The intimacy was becoming too much for her fragile heart to handleâa pressure building behind her ribs that felt like it might burst. She needed to escape before she said something weird, before she blurted out something she couldn't take back.
"Anyway, I have to go now," she squeaked out, the words tumbling over each other in her haste.
"Oh. Hold on, Minju-ssi..." Y/n interrupted quickly, his tone shifting slightlyâless teaching, more... something else.
Minju froze, every muscle in her body going still. The phone remained pressed to her ear, and she held her breath without meaning to.
"Do you have any plans this Saturday?" he asked.
The question hung in the air like a snowflake suspended in time.
Minju blinked, her mind going completely blankâa white void where thoughts should be. The winter trees outside her window stood stark against the darkening sky, their bare branches like black lace against deep blue. The question echoed in her head, bouncing around, refusing to quite land.
"...What?"
The word came out as barely a whisper, disbelieving and small.
â
Saturday arrived, and Minju found herself standing inside the local library with Y/n. The air was thick with the hushed rustle of pages and the quiet scratching of pens, sounds that seemed to amplify in the cathedral-like stillness of the study hall.
"Is it because it's the weekend, and everyone is in finals week?" Y/n murmured, his eyes sweeping across the crowded rows of tables. "There are a lot of people."
Minju stood beside him, her canvas tote bag clutched against her ribs, her face a carefully constructed mask of resignation while her inner voice screamed in protest.
Yeah. I knew it!! I knew we were gonna be studying!!
Despite the "date" setupâdespite her hopes, her careful outfit selection that morning, the way she'd practiced casual conversation topics in the mirrorâthe reality was purely academic. Y/n spotted an opening near the shelves, a small wooden table nestled between Psychology and World History.
"Shall we sit there?" he suggested, already moving toward it.
"...Okay," Minju replied, following his lead with leaden steps.
They settled into the seats side-by-side, the old chairs creaking softly under their weight. As Minju placed her bag on the desk with a soft thump, she felt a sudden spike of anxiety crawl up her spine like ice water.
"If you have any questions, you can ask me," Y/n said, arranging his materials with methodical precisionânotebook aligned perpendicular to the table edge, pens organized by color, textbook opened to the exact chapter they needed.
Minju sat stiffly, her spine rigid as a board, acutely aware of the minimal distance between their shoulders. Maybe six inches. Maybe less. Close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body.
I feel... kinda nervous, she thought, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of her notebook. We... we're closer than I thought!!
She stared at her book, the equations blurring into incomprehensible symbols, but her peripheral vision was filled with Y/n. The slope of his shoulder. The way his collar sat against his neck. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. She clenched her hands in her lap, trying to force her brain to switch gears, to focus on derivatives and integrals instead of the boy beside her.
Oh no, I have to concentrate... We're here to study today! she told herself sternly, her internal voice taking on a drill sergeant quality. I'm not gonna let anything bother me. Okay, stay calm...
Beside her, Y/n simply turned a page with elegant economy of movement.
Tap.
The soft sound of the paper flipping echoed like a gunshot in Minju's hyper-aware state, reverberating through her oversensitized nervous system.
Rattle!
"!!"
Minju jumped in her seat with a violent flinch, her knees slamming upward against the underside of the desk and shaking the whole table. Her pencil rolled off the edge, clattering to the floor with a sound that might as well have been a cymbal crash.
Y/n paused mid-equation, his pen hovering above the page as he looked over at her with mild concern etched across his features. "What's wrong?"
"What? Um. Well," Minju stammered, her face burning hot as volcanic rock as she realized what had happened, the mortification washing over her in waves.
I overreacted!! She mentally cried, physically shrinking into herself, wishing she could fold into origami and disappear into her backpack.
â
Minju desperately tried to recover from her embarrassing jump scare, her hands trembling slightly as she retrieved her fallen pencil. The library air was quiet, save for the scratching of pencils across paper, the distant hum of the ventilation system pushing stale air through ceiling vents, and the occasional cough from somewhere in the stacks. For Minju, however, the silence was deafening, amplified by the thundering of her own heart hammering against her sternum like it was trying to escape.
She stared blankly at the pages in front of her, the numbers swimming together in an incomprehensible soup of symbols. Cosine, sine, tangentâthey might as well have been ancient hieroglyphics. She needed to say something. She needed to break this suffocating tension that was wrapping around her throat like a python.
"I... I don't understand this problem," she managed to squeeze out, pointing a trembling finger at the page, her nail tapping weakly against the glossy textbook paper.
Beside her, Y/n paused. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, his expression calm and analytical as he leaned slightly to look at where she was pointing. He was silent for a beat too long, his eyes scanning the page with surgical precision.
"...The textbook is upside down," he said, his voice flat but not unkind, simply stating an observable fact.
Minju felt the blood drain from her face in a cold rush, only to come rushing back in a violent wave of heat that threatened to set her hair on fire. She looked down. Indeed, the diagrams were inverted, the parabolas pointing in the wrong direction, the axis labels backwards.
Get it together, stupid me! she screamed internally, hurriedly flipping the book around with shaking hands, the pages crinkling under her desperate grip. You're embarrassing yourself!
Y/n didn't seem to mind her clumsiness. He simply leaned in, resting his elbow on the scarred wooden table to get a better look, his sleeve brushing against hers. "You mean problem number two?"
"Wait..." Minju whispered, her body freezing completely, every muscle locking up.
Because he was leaning in to see the book, the distance between them had vanished entirely. He was right there. Close enough that she could count his eyelashes. Close enough to see the faint texture of his skin, a tiny freckle near his temple she'd never noticed before.
His face is so close!!
Minju forgot about the math. She forgot about the library, the other students, the finals week stress. Her eyes were locked on his profile like a magnet to steel. She watched the way his dark bangs fell just above the rim of his glasses, casting delicate shadows across his cheekbone. She watched the way his eyelashes, surprisingly long, she noted distantly, lowered as he focused intently on the text, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration.
When I look at him this close...
She had always known he was polite. She knew he was smart, probably the smartest person in their year. But she had never been close enough to count the specks of light in his eyes, to notice the way his jaw tensed slightly when he was thinking, to see the subtle expressions that flickered across his features.
...Y/n is actually...
The thought trailed off, replaced by the loud, rhythmic thump-thump of her pulse in her ears, drowning out the ambient library sounds.
...Good looking.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, like someone had shoved her backwards. She blinked, feeling a little lightheaded, the edges of her vision softening. I just realized it.
She sat there, stunned by this new information, staring at the side of his face while he worked through the equation for her, his pencil moving across his scratch paper with confident strokes. Then, as he shifted slightly to write something down, a faint scent wafted toward her on the recycled air. It wasn't cologne or anything artificial, just the clean smell of laundry detergent, maybe that floral kind with the blue cap, and something distinctly him, warm and subtle.
Oh, she thought, her senses heightening to an almost painful degree. Y/n kind of...
Without thinking, driven by some primal instinct she couldn't control, some lizard-brain impulse that bypassed all rational thought, Minju leaned her head just a fraction of an inch closer to his shoulder.
Sniff.
...Smells good.
The tiny sound of her inhalation seemed to echo in the quiet space, magnified a thousand times in her mortified awareness. Y/n stopped writing mid-equation, his pencil freezing against the paper. He turned his head slowly, deliberately, his eyes meeting hers with a look of mild confusion, catching her mid-sniff like a deer in headlights.
The moment hung suspended in the air, fragile and terrifying, crystallized in time.
â
Minju froze as Y/n turned his head, his gaze landing squarely on her, his eyes searching her face for an explanation.
"... Minju-ssi?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion and something elseâconcern, maybe?
The sound of her name snapped the trance like breaking glass. Minju jerked back as if she had been electrocuted, her spine slamming against the back of her chair. The realization of what she had just done crashed down on her with the weight of a falling piano, each key striking a different note of horror.
Wait, why am I acting like a pervert?! she screamed internally, her mind reeling in absolute horror. Did I just sniff him? In public? In a library?!
Panic seized her by the throat. She needed an escape route. She needed to act normally immediately, to salvage this situation before it became unsalvageable.
"I THINK I UNDERSTAND THIS ONE NOW!!" she shouted, her voice cracking and echoing painfully loud in the quiet library, bouncing off the high ceilings and wooden shelves.
The damage was done. From the nearby bookshelves, heads turned in unison like meerkats. Other students stopped their reading to stare at the girl who was yelling about math, their expressions ranging from annoyance to judgment to confusion. Someone whispered something behind their hand. Another student glared openly.
Minju shrank in her seat, burying her face in her hands to hide the fire burning in her cheeks, her palms unable to contain the heat radiating from her skin. She curled inward, her shoulders hunching, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole, drag her down to some subterranean level where she could live among the forgotten books and never face human interaction again.
This is too embarrassing, she whimpered to herself, her thoughts fragmenting. I wanna disappear...
"I'm sorry..." she mumbled through her fingers, her voice trembling like a plucked string. She couldn't look at him. He must think she was a creep. He was probably going to move to a different table or a different library entirely. Maybe transfer schools. Maybe move to a different city.
"Minju-ssi."
She flinched at the sound of her name. His voice wasn't distant; it was right there, close and immediate.
Slowly, she peeked through her fingers like a child watching a scary movie. Y/n hadn't moved away. In fact, he had leaned in again, closing the distance she had just tried to create, invading her space deliberately. His expression was serious, intense, his eyes locked on hers with unwavering focus.
He lowered his voice to a soft, intimate whisper that sent a fresh shiver racing down her spine like lightning.
"Let's concentrate and work hard today," he said, each word deliberate and weighted.
Minju stared at him through the gaps in her fingers, her brain short-circuiting, neurons misfiring. He wasn't weirded out? He just wanted to... study?
"...Okay," she whispered meekly, the word barely audible.
Y/n nodded once, satisfied, and turned his attention back to his textbook with professional efficiency. But as the silence settled over them once more, heavy and thick, Minju stared blankly at the page, the equations meaningless squiggles, her heart still doing gymnastics in her chestâbackflips and somersaults and dismounts that would score a perfect ten.
HOW CAN I CONCENTRATE?!
â
By the time they left the library, evening had set in, the sky transitioning from pale blue to deep indigo. The evening air was crisp and biting, carrying the sharp scent of winter, as they walked down the street side by side. The orange glow of streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows on the pavement, their silhouettes stretching and contracting with each step. For Minju, every step felt heavy, weighted with exhaustion. The adrenaline from the library had crashed, leaving her drained and hollow.
Wow, my brain and heart are both completely exhausted... she thought, her shoulders slumping forward as she trailed slightly behind him, watching his back, the way his coat swayed with his gait.
Y/n walked ahead with purposeful strides, his gaze fixed on his phone screen, the blue light illuminating his features as he calculated their schedule with his usual terrifying efficiency.
"Considering how far we are from the station..." he muttered, more to himself than to her, his thumb swiping across the screen. "...I think we can get on the train at about 6 PM."
Minju stopped dead in her tracks, her shoes scraping against the concrete.
"WHAT?!" she blurted out, the word escaping before she could check her volume, raw and unfiltered.
Y/n paused mid-stride and turned back, looking at her with genuine puzzlement etched across his features, his head tilting slightly. "What?"
Minju's face flushed hot again, the warmth spreading from her cheeks to her ears. She waved her hands frantically in front of her chest, as if erasing an invisible whiteboard. "No... never mind."
She forced her feet to move again, her shoes feeling like concrete blocks, but her mind was racing at highway speeds. Are we... she wondered, staring at the back of his coat, the way the fabric creased at his shoulders. ...Going home already?
Y/n resumed walking, oblivious to her internal turmoil, his attention already back on his phone. "It might be crowded around this time..." he noted pragmatically, probably calculating optimal train cars and platform positions.
Minju looked at his back, his steady pace, his unbothered posture. He was so calm. So composed. So utterly unaffected. It was infuriating. Maddening. Heartbreaking.
"Hey..." she called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the evening traffic sounds.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"You're usually more aggressive than this," she said, her voice trembling slightly, each word feeling like pulling teeth.
Y/n stopped completely. Tmp. The sound of his footstep halting on the pavement seemed loud in the quiet street, final and definitive.
Minju bit her lip hard enough to hurt, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, hot and insistent. Am I the only one... she thought bitterly, her chest tightening. ...thinking this much?
She couldn't take it anymore. The uncertainty, the one-sided longing, the feeling of shouting into a void. She reached out and grabbed the fabric of his coat, her fingers twisting into the wool, pulling him to a halt with more force than necessary.
"Minju-ssi?" Y/n asked, his voice careful now, sensing the tension radiating off her in waves.
"NO," she stated firmly, refusing to let go, her grip tightening.
She pressed her forehead against his back, feeling the warmth of him through the layers of clothing, her hands clutching his sleeve tight enough that her knuckles went white. She couldn't let the day end like this, not with just math problems and train schedules and polite distance.
"I studied hard all day today..." she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion, muffled against the fabric.
She looked up at him through blurring vision, tears welling in her eyes and threatening to spill, her face flushed red and splotchy.
"...S-so I won't go home until you give me a reward!" she cried out, clinging to him desperately, her voice cracking on the last word.
Minju buried her face against the wool of his coat, the fabric rough against her overheated skin, her hands gripping tight enough to leave creases. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, fueled by a day's worth of pent-up anxiety and longing and frustration.
"'Cuz only my heart's been pounding today," she complained, her voice muffled against his back but loud enough for him to hear every word, every tremor. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears leak from the corners. "It's not fair!!"
She felt Y/n stiffen beneath her touch, his entire body going rigid. For a moment, there was silenceâabsolute, suffocating silenceâand Minju's heart sank into her stomach like a stone. Great, she thought miserably. Now I'm being annoying on top of being weird. Now I've ruined everything.
But then he turned.
Y/n looked back at her, pivoting in her grip, and for the first time that dayâthe first time maybe everâhis composure was completely gone, shattered like dropped porcelain. His cheeks were dusted with a bright red flush that matched her own, vivid against his skin. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical behind his lenses, were wide with surprise, almost vulnerable.
"What?" he breathed out, the word barely more than an exhale, seemingly caught completely off guard by her confession.
He stared at her, really looked at her, processing her words, the realization dawning on him slowly like sunrise. His lips parted slightly.
"You've been..." he started, his voice wavering slightly, uncertain. "...Thinking like that all day today?"
Minju blinked up at him, her tears creating a prismatic effect around the streetlights. "Oh," she let out a small sound of surprise, stunned by the intensity of his gaze, by the raw emotion she saw flickering there. She had assumed he was made of stone, immune to the tension that had been eating her alive since they sat down in that library.
Minju squeezed her eyes shut, her face burning against the back of his coat, the wool scratchy against her flushed skin. The confession had escaped her like steam from a pressure cooker, and the silence stretching between them was excruciating, pulling taut like a wire about to snap.
But instead of retreating into herself, a wave of defiant frustration washed over her, hot and fierce and reckless. She was already embarrassed beyond redemption; she might as well double down. What did she have to lose at this point?
She lifted her head abruptly, glaring at the back of his neck with teary, determined eyes that burned with challenge.
"YEAH. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT?!" she shouted, her voice cracking with a volatile mix of desperation and aggression, the words echoing off the building facades.
Y/n seemed completely unprepared for this sudden shift in tone, for this frontal assault. He stiffened like he'd been struck, then abruptly tried to pull away and turn, perhaps to escape the intensity of the situation, perhaps to respond. In his haste and apparent fluster, an emotion she'd never seen him display, he didn't look where he was going.
THUD.
The sound of his forehead connecting squarely with a metal utility pole echoed loudly in the quiet street, a hollow ringing that made Minju wince sympathetically.
Minju let go immediately, her hands flying to her mouth, her bravado vanishing instantly into pure panic. "OH NO!"
Y/n didn't fall, but he leaned heavily against the pole, essentially face-planting against the cold metal, burying his face in his arm. He was practically radiating heat; Minju could almost see steam rising from his slumped shoulders as he stood there, motionless, communing with the inanimate object like it held the answers to the universe.
"HUH? WHAT?!" Minju stammered, hovering behind him uncertainly, her hands fluttering uselessly, terrified she had actually broken him with her demands, that she'd short-circuited his brain. "ARE YOU OKAY?"
For a long, agonizing moment, Y/n just stood there, his forehead pressed against the pole, his breathing visible in small clouds in the cold air. Then, his voice rumbled low, muffled against his sleeve, rough with something she couldn't quite identify.
"Hey..." he called out, barely audible.
Minju froze, her eyes wide as dinner plates, waiting breathlessly for whatever he was going to say next, her heart suspended mid-beat.
"Please..." he whispered, his voice rougher than usual, strained. "Don't make my heart beat any faster."
The world seemed to stop spinning. The traffic sounds faded. The streetlights blurred. Minju stood frozen on the sidewalk, the cold air forgotten, staring at his back. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the pole for support.
What?
"What?" she squeaked aloud, her mind unable to comprehend that the calm, collected Y/nâthe boy who never seemed rattled by anything was actually struggling just as much as she was, maybe more.
He turned slowly, peeling himself away from the pole. His expression was no longer composed. The stoic mask was gone, destroyed, replaced by a raw, flustered intensity that made Minju's breath hitch in her throat. His glasses were slightly askew. His hair was mussed. He looked undone.
He took a step toward her, closing the distance instantly, deliberately.
"I feel the same way," he confessed, his voice low and steady despite the flush on his cheeks, despite the visible tension in his jaw.
Minju blinked rapidly, her anger evaporating into confusion, her thoughts scrambling to catch up. "Eh?"
Y/n reached out, his hands grasping her shoulders gently but firmly, warm even through her coat, as if he needed to anchor himself to something solid. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers with desperate intensity.
"You were next to me all day today..." he murmured, a hint of frustration leaking into his tone, his fingers tightening slightly. "...But there were people around us."
The realization washed over Minju like a wave, cold and clarifying. He hadn't been ignoring her in the library. He hadn't been oblivious. He had been holding back. Just like she had. Restraining himself. Torturing himself.
Before she could process this revelation, Y/n's hands moved up, sliding from her shoulders. His warm fingers brushed against her jawline, cupping her face with a tenderness that made her knees weak, threatening to buckle. His palms were warm against her chilled cheeks.
"I was trying so hard not to touch you," he whispered, his thumb grazing her cheekbone in a feather-light caress.
Minju's heart hammered against her ribs, louder than it had all day, a drumbeat that surely he could hear. She stared up at him, mesmerized by the way his thumb traced her cheek, by the intensity in his eyes, by the vulnerability written plainly across his features.
A small, breathless silence passed between them, charged and heavy. Then a flicker of his usual playful sharpness returned to his eyes, a ghost of his normal self. He leaned in closer, his gaze dropping deliberately to her lips.
"You're more of a pervert than I thought," he teased softly, referring to her earlier demand for a reward, his voice carrying a hint of amusement despite everything.
Minju's face turned scarlet, heat flooding every capillary. "Y-Y/n..." she stammered, unable to form complete thoughts.
He didn't let her finish. He brushed her bangs away from her forehead with gentle fingers, his touch lingering, reverent.
"...I can't help it," he murmured, closing the final inch between them.
The evening streetlights cast a soft, hazy glow around them, creating a pool of amber light, but Minju could only focus on Y/n. He had stopped walking and turned to face her fully, the playful atmosphere of their walk home suddenly vanishing, replaced by something profound and weighty. The air between them thickened, charged with a new, undeniable electricity that crackled invisibly.
Y/n reached out, his movements deliberate and careful, his hands gently cupping her face. The touch was warm and firm, his long fingers brushing against her jawline, tilting her face up toward his. He looked down at her, his expression serious and unwavering behind his glasses, more serious than she'd ever seen him.
"It's because I like you," he said, his voice low and clear, letting the confession hang in the cool night air like a banner.
The words hit Minju with physical force, like a punch to the solar plexus. Her breath hitched audibly, and a tidal wave of heat rushed straight to her cheeks, flooding her face with warmth. Her mind reeled, trying to process the admission, but Y/n didn't give her time to overthink, didn't give her time to panic or retreat.
He began to lean in, slowly, deliberately.
Minju's heart hammered against her ribsâthump, thump, thumpâso loudly she feared he could feel it through his fingertips, the rhythm erratic and wild. Panic and thrill warred within her chest, tangling together into something overwhelming.
What� Huh? Wait a minute, her internal monologue stammered, fragmenting. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, paralyzed by the sudden proximity, by the reality of what was happening. Is this� The realization dawned on her, dizzying and overwhelming, making her head swim. Are we gonna kiss�
Y/n tilted his head slightly, closing the final few inches with agonizing slowness. The rest of the world faded into a blurâthe streetlights, the traffic sounds, the cold air. There was only him. Surrendering to the gravity of the moment, to the inevitability, Minju let her eyelids flutter closed. She felt his hand tighten slightly on her shoulder, a reassuring squeeze, grounding her as she braced herself for the contact, her lips parting slightlyâ
"Hey, Mommy! Look! They're kissing!"
The loud, shrill voice of a child sliced through the silence like a knife through silk, sharp and devastating.
The romantic bubble didn't just pop; it was annihilated, obliterated, destroyed beyond recognition. Y/n and Minju jolted apart violently, as if they had been electrocuted, their bodies moving on pure instinct. They stood rigid and separate, blinking rapidly, the shock written plainly on their burning faces, their lips tingling with almost-contact.
A few feet away, a small child bundled in a puffy coat and rainbow scarf pointed a tiny, accusing finger directly at them, the gesture damning.
"Stop it!" the mortified mother hissed through clenched teeth, grabbing the child's hand with visible force and accelerating her pace to near-jogging speed.
"Huuuh? But..." the child whined, confused as to why their accurate observation was a problem, their voice trailing off as they were dragged away.
As the pair hurried away down the sidewalk, the mother's loud whisper drifted back to the frozen, awkward couple, carried on the cold air. "Hey. You just spoiled their good mood!"
Y/n and Minju remained rooted to the spot long after they had passed, staring at the concrete beneath their feet, the profound silence now heavy with embarrassment, thick enough to cut with a knife.
â
The winter air was crisp around them, biting at exposed skin, but a different kind of warmth was spreading between the two, tentative and fragile and precious. Y/n hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting downward to the pavement, his cheeks dusted with a shy flush that hadn't completely faded. He touched his chin thoughtfully with one hand, working up the nerve to speak, the words clearly difficult.
"...Does holding hands count as a reward?" he asked, his voice quiet and hopeful, almost vulnerable.
Minju felt a flutter in her chest, delicate as butterfly wings. She looked at him, her eyes soft and warm, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah," she answered simply, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable suggested.
Tentatively, almost shyly, Y/n reached out. His large hand enveloped hers, his fingers sliding between hers to close the gap, threading together like they were meant to fit that way. As his palm pressed against hers, warm and slightly rough, a gentle squeeze reassured her, communicated everything they weren't saying aloud.
This is supposed to... make my heart beat and make me shy... Minju thought, glancing down at their joined hands, watching the way their fingers interlaced, the contrast of their skin tones. The sensation was electric, sending sparks up her arm, yet comforting in a way she hadn't expected. As they continued walking down the quiet, illuminated street, their footsteps falling into sync, looking at the backs of their coats swaying in parallel with each step, she realized something deeper, something that settled into her bones. ...But I find myself wanting to... touch him like this longer.
The silence between them wasn't empty; it was filled with the weight of their unspoken feelings, with promise and possibility. Their hands remained intertwined, a bridge between them, as they walked into the deepening evening. < series front page next >
How to Disappear From Your Own Movie (J. Ahyeon)
Two film club members fake a perfect romance for a mockumentary, but real feelings emerge, challenging their authenticity when one tries to erase herself from the story.
genre: fluff
wc: 10.9k
The media room at Haneul Arts High School smelled of dust and forgotten dreams, a faint tang of instant coffee clinging to the air. The walls, papered with curling posters of old Korean filmsâOldboy, The Handmaiden, a sun-faded Parasiteâseemed to lean inward, as if guarding secrets the students had yet to uncover. A projector hummed in the corner, its light flickering across a cracked screen, while tripods stood like silent sentinels, their legs tangled with cables. Outside, the ocean whispered against the cliffs of their small coastal town, a sound Y/N had long stopped noticing but could never quite escape.
He slouched in a chair at the back of the club room, earphones dangling around his neck like a noose he hadnât decided to tighten. His hoodie, perpetually wrinkled, bore the faint logo of his motherâs DVD rental shopâa relic of a time when people still believed in physical discs. Y/Nâs eyes, dark and watchful, scanned the room, cataloging the chaos of his fellow club members: Min-soo, arguing with a tripod that refused to stand straight; Da-in, scribbling shot lists on a crumpled napkin; and Ahyeon, perched on a desk, her long hair catching the projectorâs glow like a halo she didnât mean to wear.
Ms. Kim, their adviser, clapped her hands, her bracelets jangling like a warning bell. âEnough bickering,â she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. âThe national contest deadline is in six weeks. You need a film, and you need it to be good. No more experimental nonsense about existential dread.â She shot a pointed look at Y/N, who sank lower in his seat. âThis year, I want something accessible. Something with heart. A romance.â
A groan rippled through the room, loudest from Y/N. Romance? The word tasted like cheap candyâsweet for a moment, then gone. Heâd spent years behind a camera, framing other peopleâs stories, because it was safer than stepping into his own. Romance films, with their slow-motion gazes and predictable confessions, were the opposite of truth. They were lies, polished and framed for applause.
âMs. Kim,â he said, raising a hand, âcan we at least make it ironic? Like, a romance about two people who hate romance?â
Ms. Kim sighed, her glasses slipping down her nose. âY/N, not everything needs to be a critique of the human condition. Sometimes people just want to feel something.â
He opened his mouth to argue, but Ahyeon beat him to it, her voice bright and sharp, like sunlight cutting through fog. âOh, come on, Y/N. Donât be such a grump. A love story could be fun.â She leaned forward, her sweater slipping off one shoulder, revealing a paint stain shaped like a comet. âPicture it: the perfect high school couple. Cherry blossoms, longing looks, maybe a dramatic rain scene. We could make it so over-the-top itâs basically a parody.â
Y/N raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching despite himself. âWhat, like you fake-crying over a love letter while violins play?â
She grinned, undeterred. âExactly. Iâd be iconic. Youâd just have to figure out how to film it without tripping over your own cynicism.â
The room laughed, and Y/N felt a flicker of somethingâannoyance, maybe, or amusement. Ahyeon had a way of turning everything into a performance, her words a spotlight she wielded effortlessly. She was the kind of person who could charm a room and then vanish before anyone noticed she was gone. Heâd seen her do it beforeâjoin a project with a burst of ideas, only to quit when the work got real. Yet here she was, proposing a film sheâd probably abandon by next week.
Still, the idea wasnât terrible. A mockumentary about a fake couple could be sharp, a way to poke fun at the clichĂ©s while sneaking in something truer. He leaned back, tapping his pen against his knee. âFine. But if weâre doing this, itâs a mockumentary. We play it like a documentary crew following the âperfect couple,â but itâs all scripted. Every trope in the book, dialed up to eleven.â Min-soo, wrestling with the tripod, looked up. âWhoâs playing the couple? You need chemistry, or itâll fall flat.â
Da-in smirked, her pen pausing. âY/N and Ahyeon, obviously. Theyâre already arguing like an old married couple.â
Y/N choked on air, his face warming despite his best efforts to stay cool. âMe? In front of the camera? No way. I direct. I donât act.â
Ahyeon tilted her head, her eyes glinting with mischief. âScared, Mr. Director? Come on, itâll be hilarious. Iâll do all the heavy liftingâswooning, gazing, the works. You just have to stand there and look smitten.â
âI donât do smitten,â he said, his voice drier than the chalkboard behind her. âAnd youâd probably ditch the project before we even get to the fake kiss.â
Her smile faltered, just for a second, but it was enough for Y/N to notice. She recovered quickly, tossing her hair. âOh, please. Iâm in this one for the long haul. Bet you ten thousand won I stick it out longer than you.â âDeal,â he said, before he could stop himself. The room whooped, and Ms. Kim clapped again, looking far too pleased.
âThen itâs settled,â she said. âY/N and Ahyeon, youâre co-directors and stars. The rest of you, support them. Script, shoot, editâget it done. And Y/N?â She fixed him with a stare. âDonât overthink it. Sometimes a story just needs to breathe.â
As the meeting broke up, Y/N lingered, his fingers brushing the worn edge of his camera bag. Ahyeon was already at the door, laughing with Da-in, her voice carrying like a melody he didnât want to hear. He told himself it was just a project, another chance to capture something true through his lens. But as he watched her silhouette against the fluorescent hallway light, he wondered if truth was the one thing he wasnât ready to frame.
â
The courtyard of Haneul Arts High School was a riot of pink in late spring, cherry blossoms drifting like confetti caught in a lazy breeze. The air carried the faint salt of the nearby sea, mingling with the chalky scent of the schoolâs worn stone paths. Y/N adjusted the camera on its tripod, his fingers steady despite the chaos around him. Min-soo was untangling microphone cords with the focus of a man defusing a bomb, while Da-in waved a makeshift reflectorâa piece of cardboard wrapped in foilâshouting directions no one followed. The club was in full production mode, and it was, as Y/N had predicted, a beautiful disaster.
At the center of it all stood Ahyeon, her sweater sleeves rolled up, her hair catching petals like a net. She was reading from their scriptâa spiral notebook filled with Y/Nâs neat handwriting and her chaotic doodlesâher lips moving silently as she memorized lines. The mockumentary had officially begun, and their first scene was a classic: the âperfect coupleâ holding hands under the cherry blossoms, gazing into each otherâs eyes with exaggerated devotion. Y/N had written it to be ridiculous, every line dripping with irony, but watching Ahyeon practice, he felt an odd twist in his chest. She made even the absurd look effortless.
âReady, director?â she called, glancing up with a grin that was half challenge, half tease. Her eyes sparkled in the afternoon light, and Y/N busied himself with the camera settings to avoid meeting them.
âReady when you stop looking like youâre auditioning for a soap opera,â he said, his voice dry but softer than he meant. He stepped behind the camera, the lens a familiar shield between him and the world. âMin-soo, you got the sound?â
Min-soo gave a thumbs-up, then promptly dropped the microphone. Da-in groaned, shoving the reflector into his hands. âFocus, Min-soo. Weâre not filming a silent movie.â
Ahyeon laughed, a sound like wind chimes, and Y/N felt it ripple through him, unbidden. He cleared his throat. âAlright, scene one, take one. Perfect couple, cherry blossom moment. Letâs make it painfully clichĂ©.â
Ahyeon struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other clutching an imaginary love letter. âOh, my heart beats only for you, noble scholar of Haneul High,â she declared, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. The club members snickered, and even Y/Nâs lips twitched.
âLess soap opera, more⊠human,â he said, adjusting the focus. âAnd Iâm supposed to be in this, so someone grab the second camera.â
Da-in handed him a script page and pushed him toward Ahyeon. âYour turn, lover boy. Try not to trip over your own ego.â
Y/N rolled his eyes but stepped into the frame, feeling exposed without the cameraâs weight in his hands. He stood opposite Ahyeon, their sneakers inches apart on the stone path. The script called for him to take her hand and say something nauseatingly romantic, but his tongue felt heavy, his usual sarcasm deserting him.
Ahyeon raised an eyebrow, sensing his hesitation. âWhat, no lines? I practiced my swooning for hours, you know.â
âIt shows,â he said, recovering. âMaybe practice being less terrifying next time.â
She laughed again, and this time it wasnât for the camera. It was quick, unguarded, her nose crinkling in a way that made Y/Nâs stomach lurch. He grabbed her handâtoo fast, too stiffâand muttered his line: âYouâre⊠the only star in my sky or whatever.â
The club erupted in laughter, Min-soo nearly dropping the microphone again. âY/N, that was awful,â Da-in called. âYou sound like youâre reading a weather report.â
Ahyeon squeezed his hand, her fingers warm and steady. âCome on, give me something to work with. I canât carry this whole romance myself.â
He met her eyes, and for a moment, the courtyard fadedâthe blossoms, the club, the cameraâs soft whir. Her gaze was steady, not mocking now, and it made him feel like he was being seen, not just filmed. He swallowed, forcing a smirk. âFine. Youâre the only star, period. Happy?â âBetter,â she said, her voice softer, almost real. Then she turned to the camera, slipping back into character. âAnd you, my love, are the moon that lights my path.â
Da-in clapped sarcastically. âOscar-worthy. Now do it again, but with feeling.â
They ran the scene three more times, each take more absurd than the lastâAhyeon twirling dramatically, Y/N stumbling over his lines, petals sticking to their clothes. But between takes, when the camera stopped rolling, there were moments Y/N couldnât script: Ahyeon brushing a blossom from his hair, her fingers grazing his temple; him catching her when she tripped over a cable, their laughter mingling in the air. The club noticed, their teasing growing sharper, but Y/N waved it off, retreating behind the camera as soon as he could.
That night, in the dim glow of his bedroom, Y/N uploaded the footage to his laptop. His motherâs DVD shop was quiet downstairs, the hum of the refrigerator a familiar lullaby. He clicked through the clips, pausing on a frame of Ahyeon laughing, her eyes half-closed, her hand still in his. It wasnât scripted. It wasnât supposed to be there. But he watched it again, and again, the cursor hovering over the delete button. He didnât press it.
â
The classroom was a cocoon of shadows after hours, its windows streaked with rain that tapped a restless rhythm against the glass. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the clubâs makeshift set: two desks pushed together, a prop coffee cup, and a script page scribbled with Y/Nâs notes and Ahyeonâs doodles of stars and half-drawn faces. The air smelled of wet sneakers and the faint chemical tang of the schoolâs ancient projector, tucked in the corner like a forgotten relic.
Y/Nâs fingers lingered on the cameraâs focus ring as if it could steady the unease knotting his chest. Todayâs scene was a âfake fightâ for the mockumentaryâa scripted spat between the âperfect coupleâ meant to poke fun at melodramatic teen romances. Heâd written the lines to be sharp, petty, absurd: accusations about forgotten dates, stolen hoodies, glances given to someone else. But standing across from Ahyeon now, her sweater sleeves slipping over her knuckles, he felt the script was a flimsy shield against something he couldnât name.
Ahyeon flipped through the notebook, her lips pursed as she read. âYou really went all in on this one,â she said, her voice light but edged with something else. â âYou never listen to meâ? What is this, a K-drama rerun?â
âItâs supposed to be over-the-top,â Y/N said, stepping behind the camera to avoid her gaze. âThatâs the point. Make it so fake itâs funny.â
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes catching the light like sea glass. âRight. So I yell about you forgetting our anniversary, and you⊠what, sulk about my imaginary fan club?â
âExactly,â he said, his mouth twitching despite himself. âGive me your best betrayed girlfriend glare.â
She obliged, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes with such exaggerated fury that Min-soo, manning the sound, snorted. Da-in, perched on a desk with the reflector, called, âTone it down, Ahyeon. You look like youâre about to curse his entire bloodline.â
Ahyeon grinned, dropping the act. âFine, fine. Letâs do this.â She took her place at one desk, Y/N at the other, the cameraâs red light blinking like a heartbeat. âScene two, take one,â Y/N said, his voice steadier behind the lens. âAction.â
Ahyeon leaned forward, her voice sharp but playful. âYou forgot our date last week, didnât you? I waited at the cafĂ© for an hour, and you were probably off filming seagulls or something equally pointless.â
Y/N matched her tone, leaning in. âPointless? At least I donât spend all day texting my fan club instead of talking to me.â
The lines were ridiculous, and the club laughed, but as they traded barbs, something shifted. Ahyeonâs next lineâabout him not caring enoughâcame out quieter, less rehearsed. âYou act like Iâm just⊠background noise in your stupid movie.â
Y/N faltered, the script forgotten. Her words stung, not because they were true, but because they felt like they could be. He scrambled for a reply, his voice low. âMaybe if you didnât keep rewriting the script to suit you, Iâd actually know what you want.â
Her eyes flickered, a flash of something realâhurt, maybe, or recognition. The room went quiet, the club sensing the shift. Min-soo whispered, âAre they still acting?â
âCut,â Y/N said quickly, stepping back from the desk. His pulse was loud in his ears, and he busied himself with the camera, checking settings that didnât need checking. âThat was⊠fine. Letâs take a break.â
Ahyeon stayed seated, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk. The others drifted out to grab snacks from the vending machine, leaving the classroom emptier, the rain louder. Y/N should have followed, but his feet stayed rooted, the camera still rolling out of habit.
âYouâre good at this,â Ahyeon said suddenly, her voice soft, not looking at him. âMaking it feel real, I mean. The fight.â
He glanced at her, surprised. âYouâre not bad yourself, with that line earlier.â
She smiled, but it didnât reach her eyes. âItâs easy to sound convincing when youâve got practice.â She paused, her fingers stilling. âMy momâs always saying Iâm too loud, too much. Like Iâm a sketch she canât finish.â
Y/Nâs throat tightened. He knew he should say something light, keep the distance, but the cameraâs hum was a quiet nudge, urging him to stay. âMy dad used to say I was too quiet,â he said, almost to himself. âHe was a filmmaker. Documentaries. I watch his old tapes sometimes, just to⊠I donât know. Hear him again.â
Ahyeon looked up, her gaze steady now, searching. âDoes it help?â
âSometimes,â he said. âSometimes it just reminds me heâs gone.â
The rain tapped harder, filling the silence. Ahyeonâs hand rested on the desk, close enough that he could have reached out, but he didnât. Instead, he glanced at the camera, its red light still blinking. It had caught everythingâtheir fight, her confession, his. A moment too raw for their satire.
âWe should probably cut that last part,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
âYeah,â Y/N said, but his hand didnât move to stop the recording. âProbably.â
She stood, brushing past him to grab her bag, her sleeve grazing his arm. âDonât go soft on me, director,â she said, her teasing tone back, but it sounded fragile, like glass about to crack. She left before he could reply, her footsteps echoing in the hallway.
Y/N sat alone, the classroom dim and cold. He rewound the footage, watching their fight, their quiet truths. Her face filled the screenâopen, unguarded, her eyes holding something he hadnât scripted. He hovered over the delete button, his finger steady, then pulled back. Some moments, he thought, were too true to erase, even if they scared him.
â
The media room at Haneul Arts High School was a pocket of warmth against the evening chill, its air thick with the scent of dust and the faint hum of the projector. The walls, lined with peeling film posters, seemed to hold their breath as the crew gathered for their first screening of the mockumentaryâs rough cuts. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the mismatched chairs where the club members sprawled, their chatter a low buzz like cicadas in summer. Outside, the ocean murmured, its rhythm steady but distant, as if unwilling to intrude.
Y/N sat at the back, his laptop balanced on his knees, the screenâs glow painting his face in soft blues. His earphones hung loosely around his neck, a habit he couldnât shake, as if music might shield him from the vulnerability of this moment. The footage theyâd shotâcherry blossom confessions, the staged fightâwas meant to be a joke, a satire of loveâs clichĂ©s. But as heâd edited the clips late into the night, frame by frame, heâd noticed things he hadnât meant to capture: Ahyeonâs half-smile when she thought the camera was off, the way her fingers lingered on his sleeve, his own gaze softening when she laughed. The truth was creeping into their fiction, and it unnerved him.
âReady for your big debut, lover boy?â Da-in called from the front, her grin sharp as she adjusted the projector. Min-soo, fiddling with a bag of popcorn, snorted, spilling kernels onto the floor.
âItâs not a debut,â Y/N said, his voice dry but tighter than usual. âItâs a rough cut. And Iâm only in it because you all forced me.â
âExcuses,â Min-soo said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him. âYou and Ahyeon look like youâre about to write sonnets out there.â Y/N rolled his eyes, but his fingers tightened on the laptop. He glanced at Ahyeon, who was perched on a desk near the screen, her legs swinging slightly. Her sweater was speckled with paint, her hair tucked behind one ear, revealing a single silver earring that caught the light. She was flipping through her sketchbook, pretending to read, but her eyes never lingered on the pages. She hadnât looked at the screen once since theyâd arrived.
âAlright, quiet down,â Y/N said, clicking play. The projector whirred, and the first scene filled the room: Ahyeon under the cherry blossoms, her mock-dramatic confessionââMy heart beats only for you, noble scholar of Haneul High!ââdrawing laughs from the club. Y/Nâs stilted response, all awkward smirks and mumbled lines, earned more chuckles, but as the scenes rolled on, the laughter softened.
There was the fight scene, their voices sharp with scripted jabs, but the camera had caught the moment afterâAhyeonâs quiet admission about her mother, Y/Nâs confession about his fatherâs tapes. The club went silent, the air heavy with something unspoken. Y/Nâs chest tightened; he hadnât meant to leave that part in, but cutting it had felt like betraying the truth.
âWow,â Da-in said, breaking the silence as the clip ended. âY/N, did you mean to make it look like youâre in love with her?â
His face warmed, and he busied himself with his laptop, avoiding her grin. âItâs called editing, genius. I can make anything look like anything.â
Ahyeon laughed, but it was quick, forced, like a door slamming shut. âYeah, relax, Da-in. Itâs just a movie. Nobodyâs falling for anybody.â She flipped a page in her sketchbook, her fingers gripping the edges too tightly.
Y/N glanced at her, catching the way her shoulders tensed, the way her eyes stayed fixed on her drawings. She was performing again, hiding behind her casual tone, and it stung more than it should have. âRight,â he said, his voice quieter than he meant. âJust a movie.â
Min-soo leaned forward, oblivious to the undercurrent. âNo, but seriously, you two have chemistry. Like, rom-com level. Are we sure this is a mockumentary?â
âVery sure,â Ahyeon said, her smile bright but brittle. She stood, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. âGood work, director. Iâm grabbing a drink. Anyone want anything?â
The club called out requests, but Y/N stayed silent, watching her slip out the door. The projector flickered, looping the last frameâa close-up of Ahyeon laughing, her eyes soft, unguarded. He hadnât meant to linger on that shot, but his hands had refused to cut it.
Later, in his bedroom, the glow of his laptop was the only light, the hum of his motherâs DVD shop downstairs a faint comfort. He opened the project files, scrubbing through the footage again. There she was, frame after frame: Ahyeonâs teasing grin, her fingers brushing petals from her hair, the way her voice softened when she spoke about feeling trapped. He paused on a moment from the fight scene, her eyes meeting his, raw and real, before sheâd looked away. His cursor hovered over the delete button, but he couldnât press it.
He leaned back, the oceanâs distant sigh filtering through his window. Editing was supposed to be control, a way to shape the story, to keep it safe. But Ahyeonâs face on the screen was a story he couldnât rewrite, and for the first time, he wasnât sure he wanted to.
â
The beach stretched before Haneul Arts High School like a canvas painted in dusk, its sand cool and damp underfoot, streaked with the seaâs restless fingerprints. The sky was a bruise of purple and gold, the sun sinking into the horizon as if reluctant to leave. Waves lapped at the shore, their rhythm soft but insistent, carrying the salt-heavy air that clung to Y/Nâs skin. His lens trained on Ahyeon, who stood near the waterâs edge, her silhouette sharp against the fading light. Her sweater hung loose, the sleeves swaying as she moved, and her hair danced in the ocean breeze, catching the last glimmers of gold.
The crew was filming their mockumentaryâs centerpiece: a grand, cheesy confession scene, scripted to be the height of romantic clichĂ©. Y/N had written it with a smirkâlines about eternal love, promises under the stars, all meant to mock the tropes they both despised. But now, as the club scrambled to set up lights and Min-soo fumbled with the microphone, Y/N felt a tremor of unease. The camera, his usual refuge, felt less like a shield and more like a witness, capturing things he wasnât ready to see.
âReady, Ahyeon?â he called, his voice steadier than he felt. He stepped behind the camera, checking the frame, though it was already perfect. She was perfect, he realized, then pushed the thought away.
She turned, her eyes catching his through the lens, a playful glint in them. âBorn ready, director. Letâs make the audience swoon.â Her voice was light, but there was a tightness to it, like a string pulled too taut.
Da-in, holding the reflector, grinned from her spot on the sand. âJust donât make us gag, okay? This is supposed to be satire, not a wedding vow.â
âSpeak for yourself,â Min-soo said, finally securing the microphone. âIâm ready to cry at their undying love.â
Y/N ignored them, focusing on the cameraâs hum. âScene five, take one. Epic beach confession. Action.â
Ahyeon took a step forward, her sneakers sinking into the sand. The script called for her to gaze at Y/N with melodramatic adoration, to say, âYou are my forever, my one true light.â But as she opened her mouth, her expression shiftedâless performative, more searching. âIâve been stuck here my whole life,â she said, her voice quiet, unscripted. âThis town, these expectationsâitâs like Iâm trapped in someone elseâs movie.â
Y/N froze, his hands still on the camera. The club exchanged glances, but no one called cut. Her words werenât in the script, but they carried a weight that silenced the waves. He should have stopped the take, reset the scene, but instead, he stepped out from behind the camera, the lens still rolling. âI know what you mean,â he said, his voice low, almost lost in the wind. âMy dad⊠he left me his films, but theyâre all I have of him. Sometimes I think Iâm just trying to finish his story instead of starting my own.â
Ahyeonâs eyes met his, wide and unguarded, the sunset painting her face in soft hues. âDo you ever wonder what yours would look like? Your story, I mean.â
He swallowed, his throat dry. The cameraâs red light blinked, a silent witness, but for once, he didnât care. âEvery day,â he said. âBut Iâm scared itâs not worth telling.â
She stepped closer, her sneakers brushing against his, the space between them shrinking. âItâs worth it,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper. âEven if itâs messy. Even if itâs not perfect.â The air felt charged, the world narrowing to the sound of her breath, the crash of the waves, the faint hum of the camera. Y/Nâs heart pounded, and he wondered if this was still acting, if the script had ever mattered at all. The club was silent, Min-soo clutching the microphone like a lifeline, Da-inâs reflector forgotten in the sand.
âCut,â Y/N said finally, his voice rough. He stepped back, the moment breaking like glass. Ahyeon blinked, her expression shuttering, and she turned to the water, her arms crossed as if to hold herself together.
âUh, that was⊠intense,â Da-in said, breaking the silence. âAre we keeping that? Itâs not exactly mockumentary material.â
âYeah,â Min-soo added, scratching his head. âThat felt like⊠real talk.â
Y/N glanced at Ahyeon, but she was staring at the horizon, her profile sharp against the darkening sky. âWeâll figure it out in editing,â he said, though he already knew he wouldnât cut it.
That momentâher words, his, the way her eyes had held hisâwas too true to erase. The club packed up as the light faded, their chatter filling the air, but Ahyeon lingered by the water, her figure small against the vastness of the sea. Y/N hesitated, then approached, the camera slung over his shoulder. âYou okay?â he asked, his voice softer than he meant.
She turned, her smile quick but fragile. âJust getting into character, you know? Gotta sell the romance.â Her tone was light, but her eyes didnât meet his, and she brushed past him to join the others.
That night, in the quiet of his bedroom, Y/N played the footage back. His motherâs DVD shop hummed below, the faint clatter of discs a familiar comfort. The screen showed Ahyeon on the beach, her words raw, her gaze piercing. He paused on a frameâher standing close, her lips parted as if to say more. His finger hovered over the delete button, but he couldnât press it. Some truths, he thought, were too heavy to cut away, even if they burned.
â
The art room was a chaos of color, its walls splashed with half-finished murals and pinned-up sketches that curled at the edges. The air held the sharp bite of acrylic paint and the faint must of old canvases, stacked like forgotten stories in the corner. Y/N stood in the doorway, his camera bag slung over his shoulder, his heart a knot of confusion and something sharperâbetrayal, perhaps, though he hesitated to name it.
Ahyeon had been absent from Reel Society meetings for three days, her texts unanswered, her seat at the clubâs table empty. At first, Y/N had chalked it up to her usual patternâstarting projects with a blaze of enthusiasm, only to vanish when the work grew heavy. But this felt different, heavier, as if sheâd taken something with her when she left. Last night, unable to sleep, heâd opened the shared project files on his laptop, expecting to tweak the beach scene that still haunted him. Instead, heâd found entire clips missingâmoments where Ahyeonâs laughter rang clear, where her eyes had met his with unguarded truth. The beach confession, their fight, her quiet words about feeling trappedâall gone, erased as if theyâd never happened.
Now, he found her alone in the art room, perched on a stool, her sketchbook open before her. Her fingers moved restlessly, smudging charcoal into abstract shapesâstars, waves, faces that dissolved into shadow. Her sweater was streaked with black, her hair falling loose, shielding her face. The sight of her, so present yet so distant, made Y/Nâs chest ache.
âYou deleted the scenes,â he said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the roomâs quiet. He stepped inside, letting the door creak shut behind him.
Ahyeonâs hand stilled, but she didnât look up. âYou checked the files,â she said, her tone light, as if discussing the weather. âSnooping, huh?â
âItâs my project too,â he said, sharper than he meant. He set his camera bag on a table, the thud louder in the stillness. âThose scenesâthe beach, the fightâthey were the best parts. Whyâd you do it?â
She flipped a page in her sketchbook, her movements deliberate. âThey were messy. Didnât fit the vibe. You said it yourself, itâs supposed to be a mockumentary, not⊠whatever that was.â Y/N stared at her, the words stinging more than they should. âMessy? Thatâs the point, Ahyeon. It was real. You canât justââ He stopped, running a hand through his hair, his earphones tangling around his fingers. âYou canât erase yourself from the movie.â Her eyes flicked up, sharp and guarded, like a door half-opened then slammed shut. âItâs not me in those scenes. Itâs a character. The filmâs better without the extra noise.â
He stepped closer, his sneakers scuffing the paint-splattered floor. âThatâs not true, and you know it. Those momentsâwhen you talked about your mom, the townâthey werenât scripted. They were you.â
She laughed, a short, brittle sound that didnât reach her eyes. âYouâre reading too much into it, director. Itâs just a movie. We were playing parts.â
âThen why are you hiding?â The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unfiltered. Her flinch was subtle, a tightening of her jaw, but he saw it, and it fueled his resolve. âYouâve been dodging club, dodging me. And now youâre cutting yourself out of the footage like youâre trying to disappear.â
Ahyeonâs fingers gripped the charcoal, smudging a star into a blur. âMaybe I am,â she said, so softly he almost missed it. She looked down, her hair falling like a curtain. âYou wouldnât get it, Y/N. Youâre always safe behind that camera, picking what stays and what goes. Some of us donât get to choose how people see us.â
The words hit like a wave, cold and heavy. He thought of the beach, her voice breaking as she spoke of being trapped, his own confession about his fatherâs tapes. Heâd felt exposed then, but safe, because it was her. Now, she was pulling away, and he didnât know how to reach her. âIs that what this is?â he asked, his voice quieter now, searching. âYou think Iâd use you? Like⊠like what happened before?â
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, and he knew heâd struck something true. Sheâd never told him the full storyâabout the senior whoâd taken credit for her art, left her work erasedâbut heâd pieced it together from Da-inâs offhand comments, from the way Ahyeon flinched when her contributions were praised. âDonât,â she said, her voice sharp. âDonât act like you know me.â âIâm not,â he said, stepping closer, close enough to see the charcoal smudges on her knuckles, the tremor in her hands. âBut I saw you in those scenes, Ahyeon. Not the character, not the perfect girl everyone thinks you are. You. And I didnât want to cut that out.â
She stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. Her sketchbook fell shut, hiding the smudged stars. âYou donât get to decide whatâs real,â she said, her voice trembling now, not with anger but with something deeperâfear, maybe, or pain. âYou donât get to keep pieces of me just because you like how they look through your lens.â Y/Nâs throat tightened, her words cutting deeper than heâd expected. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the hurt in her eyes stopped him. âIâm not trying to trap you,â he said finally. âI just⊠I thought we were telling this story together.â
She looked at him, her expression softening for a moment, then hardening again. âWe were. But itâs not real, Y/N. Remember? Itâs just a movie.â She grabbed her bag and brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his, leaving a faint smear of charcoal on his sleeve.
The door swung shut, and the art room felt emptier, the light dimmer. Y/N stood there, his fingers tracing the smudge on his sleeve, the camera bag heavy at his side. He thought of the deleted scenes, her laughter erased, her truths buried. He could restore themâhe knew where the backups wereâbut it wouldnât bring her back. Not yet.
â The glow of Y/Nâs laptop cast a pale halo across his bedroom, its light mingling with the faint flicker of a streetlamp outside. The room was a quiet haven, cluttered with film books and old DVDs from his motherâs shop downstairs, their plastic cases glinting like relics of a forgotten era. The air carried the faint hum of the refrigerator below, punctuated by the occasional creak of the house settling. Beyond the window, the oceanâs murmur was a distant lullaby, steady but indifferent to the storm in Y/Nâs chest.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, the laptop balanced on a pillow, its screen filled with the mockumentaryâs project files. The deleted scenesâor what remained of themâstared back at him, fragments of Ahyeonâs laughter, her unguarded gaze, her quiet truths. Sheâd erased them with surgical precision, leaving gaps in the timeline that made the film feel hollow, like a story missing its heart. But Y/N had backups, hidden in a folder on his external drive, a habit born from years of fearing lossâhis fatherâs tapes, his motherâs shop, the moments that slipped away too fast.
He scrubbed through the footage, pausing on the beach scene. There she was, her silhouette sharp against the dusk, her voice soft as she spoke of being trapped. His own words followed, raw and unscripted, about his fatherâs legacy. The memory of that momentâher eyes meeting his, the waves a quiet chorusâmade his throat tighten. Heâd thought they were building something together, a story they both believed in. But her absence, her deletions, said otherwise. The Reel Society had met that afternoon, their voices sharp with frustration. âWeâre running out of time,â Da-in had said, tapping her pen against a shot list. âThe festivalâs in two weeks, and half our film is gone. Whereâs Ahyeon?â
Min-soo, slouched in a chair, had shrugged. âShe does this. Starts strong, then bails. You know how she is.â Y/N had stayed silent, his fingers tracing the edge of his camera bag. He knew how she wasâcharming, impulsive, quick to laughâbut heâd also seen her in the art room, her hands trembling, her voice breaking. She wasnât just running from the project. She was running from herself.
Now, alone, he opened the backup files, restoring the deleted scenes one by one. The cherry blossom confession, her laughter bright and unforced; the fight scene, her words about being background noise cutting deeper than the script intended; the beach, where their truths had spilled like ink on a blank page. Each clip was a piece of her sheâd tried to erase, and keeping them felt like defiance, a way to hold onto the Ahyeon heâd seen in those moments. But defiance wasnât enough. He needed her backânot just in the film, but in the club, in the story theyâd started. He pulled out his phone, hesitating, then opened their chat. Her last message, from days ago, was a casual âSee you at club,â as if nothing had changed. His thumb hovered over the call button, the weight of her words in the art room echoing: You donât get to keep pieces of me just because you like how they look.
He opted for a voice message, his voice low, unsteady. âHey, Ahyeon. I donât know why youâre running, but Iâm not letting you disappear. Not from the film, not from⊠whatever this is. The scenes you cutâtheyâre the best parts. Theyâre you. Just⊠come back, okay? Weâre not done.â He hit send before he could second-guess himself, the message vanishing into the digital void. The laptop screen glowed, Ahyeonâs face frozen in a frame from the beach, her eyes soft, searching. He wondered if sheâd listen, if sheâd hear the plea beneath his words, or if sheâd delete this too.
The clubâs pressure weighed heavier now. Da-in had texted earlier, her words blunt: Fix this, Y/N. We canât submit a half-finished film. He knew she was right, but the film felt secondary. It was Ahyeon he wanted to saveânot from him, but from the fear that made her erase herself. He closed the laptop, the room plunging into darkness, and leaned back against the wall, his earphones dangling unused around his neck.
Downstairs, his mother was closing the shop, the jingle of keys a faint echo. He thought of her, alone among the DVDs, preserving stories no one rented anymore. He thought of his fatherâs tapes, grainy images of places heâd never seen, people heâd never meet. And he thought of Ahyeon, her charcoal-smudged hands, her brittle smile, her voice saying sheâd rather disappear than be seen wrong.
â
The pier jutted into the sea like a fragile thread, its weathered planks groaning under Y/Nâs steps as he approached the waterâs edge. The evening air was cold and sharp, laced with salt and the faint tang of rust from the railing. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries slicing through the wind, while waves crashed against the pilings below, a restless rhythm that echoed Y/Nâs unease. The sky was a tumult of gray clouds, the ocean a churning expanse that seemed to swallow the last light of day. In his pocket, a USB drive weighed heavy, its contentsâAhyeonâs restored scenesâboth a lifeline and a risk.
The club had met that morning in the media room, its dusty air thick with frustration. âThe filmâs a mess without her,â Da-in had said, her pen tapping a furious beat against her shot list. âWeâve got gaps where scenes used to be, and the festivalâs in a week.â Min-soo, slouched over a tripod, had nodded grimly. âSheâs gone AWOL, Y/N. Youâre the director. Do something.â Y/N had stayed silent, his thoughts fixed on Ahyeonâs trembling hands in the art room, her voice sharp with fear: You donât get to keep pieces of me.
Heâd spent the night before in his bedroom, the glow of his laptop casting shadows across stacks of his motherâs DVDs. Against the clubâs advice, heâd restored the deleted scenesâAhyeonâs laughter under cherry blossoms, her raw confession on the beach, the fight where her words cut deeper than the script. The new cut wasnât just a mockumentary anymore; it was a truth he couldnât unsee, a story he couldnât let her erase. Heâd transferred it to the USB drive, a gesture he hoped would reach her where his words had failed.
Now, he spotted her at the pierâs end, leaning against the railing, her figure small against the vast sea. Her sweater hung loose, paint-stained and fluttering in the wind, her hair a dark cascade whipped by the breeze. A sketchbook rested beside her, its pages fluttering like trapped birds. Y/Nâs steps slowed, his heart a steady drumbeat, the USB drive burning in his pocket. Heâd come to give it to her, to show her heâd kept the scenes sheâd tried to erase, but the words heâd rehearsed felt fragile now, like lines from a script he didnât trust.
âAhyeon,â he said, his voice nearly lost in the wind. She turned, her eyes narrowing, then softening for a fleeting moment before her arms crossed, a familiar shield.
âOut here to film the tragic heroine?â she said, her tone light but edged, a smile that didnât reach her eyes. âThe windâs perfect for a dramatic close-up.â
He stopped a few feet away, the planks creaking beneath him. âIâm not filming,â he said, his voice steady despite the knot in his chest. âIâm here because youâre gone. No club, no texts, and you deleted half the film. Whatâs going on?â
She turned back to the sea, her fingers gripping the railing, her knuckles pale against the rust. âI told you, those scenes didnât fit. They were messy, off-tone. The filmâs better without them.â Y/N shook his head, stepping closer. âThatâs not true. Those scenesâthe beach, the fightâthey were the heart of it. You canât just cut yourself out, Ahyeon. Not from the film, not fromâŠâ He faltered, the words catching. Not from me, he wanted to say, but didnât.
Her laugh was sharp, brittle, like glass cracking. âYouâre making it sound personal. Itâs just a movie, Y/N. We were playing parts.â
âIt stopped being just a movie on that beach,â he said, his voice low, raw. âYou talked about being trapped. I talked about my dad. That wasnât acting, and you know it.â
Her shoulders stiffened, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The seagulls cried again, their voices harsh against the waves. âYou donât get it,â she said, her voice quieter now, almost lost. âLast time I let someone tell my story, they erased me. I worked on this huge art project with a senior I trusted. He took my sketches, my ideas, and passed them off as his. Everyone clapped for him, and I was just⊠gone. Iâd rather do it myself first, before someone else decides I donât belong.â
The confession hung heavy, a truth sheâd buried until now. Y/Nâs chest ached, the weight of her words settling like damp sand. He thought of the art room, her charcoal-smudged hands, the way sheâd flinched when he mentioned her past. âIâm not them,â he said, stepping closer, close enough to see the wind tangle her hair. âI kept every frame of you, Ahyeon. Even the ones you hate. The laughter, the way you looked at me when we werenât pretending. I couldnât cut them.â
Her eyes met his, wide and unguarded for a moment, before she looked down, her fingers tightening on the railing. âWhy?â she asked, her voice barely a whisper. âWhy does it matter so much to you?â
He swallowed, his throat tight. Because youâre the story I want to tell, he thought, but the words felt too big, too exposed. Instead, he pulled the USB drive from his pocket and held it out. âBecause youâre the only thing in this movie I canât imagine cutting,â he said, his voice rough with honesty.
She stared at the drive, her expression unreadable, then took it, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second. The touch was electric, a spark in the cold air, and Y/N felt it linger long after her hand pulled away. âWhatâs this?â she asked, though her voice betrayed she knew.
âThe scenes you deleted,â he said. âI restored them. Watch them, keep them, delete them againâI donât care. Theyâre yours. Iâm not trying to trap you, Ahyeon. I just want you to see what I see.â
She turned the drive over in her hand, her thumb tracing its edges, her eyes distant. The wind tugged at her sketchbook, flipping a page to reveal a half-drawn wave, smudged and incomplete. âYouâre an idiot, you know,â she said, her voice soft, almost fond, but her gaze stayed on the sea. âMaybe,â he said, a small smile breaking through. âBut Iâm not the one running from a good story.â
She didnât reply, her silence louder than the waves. Y/N stepped back, giving her space, the USB drive a small weight lifted from him. âThe festivalâs soon,â he said. âWeâre showing the film, with or without you. But itâs better with you.â
He turned to leave, the pier creaking under his steps, the seagullsâ cries fading into the wind. He didnât look back, but he felt her presence behind him, a frame he couldnât edit out. The ocean rolled on, its secrets locked in its depths, and Y/N hoped the drive in her hand might be enough to keep her from disappearing.
â
The auditorium thrummed with life, a tapestry of voices woven from students, teachers, and parents packed into rows of creaking chairs. Fairy lights draped along the walls cast a warm, golden glow, softening the roomâs stark angles, while the scent of buttered popcorn and instant coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the faint salt of the ocean beyond. The stage held only a screen and a projector, its lens gleaming like a sentinel, ready to unveil the clubâs work. Outside, the night was heavy with clouds, the seaâs restless murmur a quiet undercurrent to the crowdâs anticipation.
Y/N stood at the back, his camera bag slung over his shoulder, his fingers restless against the strap. His earphones hung loose around his neck, a familiar weight, but they offered no shield against the knot in his chest. The mockumentary was about to screen, a labor of weeks now distilled into fifteen minutes of flickering light. Against Da-inâs warnings and Min-sooâs nervous shrugs, Y/N had re-edited the film, weaving Ahyeonâs deleted scenes back into the narrativeâthe cherry blossom confession, the fightâs raw edge, the beach where their truths had spilled like waves. The final cut was no longer just satire; it was a story of something real, and showing it felt like stepping into a spotlight heâd spent years avoiding.
Da-in leaned close, her shot list crumpled in her fist. âYou sure about this?â she whispered, her eyes scanning the crowd. âThose scenes⊠theyâre not exactly mockumentary material. If Ahyeon freaks outââ
âShe wonât,â Y/N said, though his voice lacked conviction. Heâd left the USB drive with her on the pier two days ago, but she hadnât respondedânot a text, not a call. Heâd seen her in the halls, her head down, her sketchbook clutched tight, but sheâd slipped away before he could speak. Still, heâd made his choice: the film would tell their truth, even if she wasnât ready to hear it.
The lights dimmed, and the crowd hushed, their faces lit by the projectorâs glow. Y/Nâs heart pounded as the title card flashedâThe Perfect Couple: A Mockumentaryâfollowed by the clubâs name in his careful handwriting. The opening scene unfolded: Ahyeon under the cherry blossoms, her voice dripping with mock sincerity, âMy heart beats only for you, noble scholar of Haneul High!â The audience laughed, the sound bright and easy, and Y/Nâs lips twitched despite himself. His own stilted lines drew more chuckles, his awkwardness a perfect foil to her charm.
But as the film progressed, the tone shifted. The fight scene played, their scripted jabs giving way to Ahyeonâs quiet, âYou act like Iâm just background noise.â The crowdâs laughter faded, replaced by a murmur of recognition. Then came the beach, the dusk painting her face in gold, her unscripted words about being trapped ringing clear. Y/Nâs response followed, his voice low, âIâm scared itâs not worth telling.â The auditorium fell silent, the air heavy with the weight of something too real for satire.
Y/Nâs eyes found Ahyeon in the crowd, seated near the front, her silhouette stiff against the flickering light. She hadnât been there when heâd arrived, and her presence now made his breath catch. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, her face half-hidden by her hair, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched as if to tear the screen down.
The final scene playedâa moment Y/N had added in secret, a clip from the beach after the âcut.â Ahyeon laughed, her nose crinkling, as she brushed a petal from his hair, and he smiled, unguarded, his eyes soft. The audience sighed, a collective breath of awe, and Da-in nudged Y/N, whispering, âYouâre in trouble.â
The screen went dark, and applause erupted, loud and warm, but Y/N barely heard it. Ahyeon stood, her movements quick, and slipped out a side door, her sketchbook under her arm. His heart lurched, and he followed, ignoring Min-sooâs call of, âY/N, take a bow!â
The media room was dark when he reached it, the only light a faint flicker from the projector, left on by mistake. The air smelled of dust and old film, a familiar comfort, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest. Ahyeon stood by the window, her back to him, her silhouette framed against the night. The oceanâs murmur seeped through the glass, a quiet echo of their beach scene. âYou kept that scene,â she said, her voice low, trembling. She didnât turn, but her hands gripped her sketchbook, knuckles pale. âThe beach. You werenât supposed to keep it.â
Y/N stepped closer, the floor creaking under his sneakers. âItâs the best part,â he said, his voice steady despite the storm inside. âItâs you.â She turned then, her eyes wide, glistening in the dim light. âYou donât get it, Y/N. Thatâs not me. Thatâs⊠some version you saw, some story you made up. I told you I didnât want to be trapped again.â
âYouâre not trapped,â he said, his voice softer now, urgent. âThose scenesâtheyâre not my story. Theyâre ours. You said it yourself, on the beach. Itâs worth telling, even if itâs messy.â
Her laugh was sharp, almost a sob. âMessy gets you erased. You saw what happened out there. They loved it, but they donât know me. They just see what you showed them.â
âAnd what I showed them was real,â he said, stepping closer, close enough to see the paint smudges on her sleeve, the tremor in her lips. âI didnât keep those scenes to trap you, Ahyeon. I kept them because theyâre the only thing that feels true.â
She looked at him, her eyes searching, raw, and for a moment, he thought she might stay. But then she shook her head, her hair falling like a curtain, and brushed past him, the door swinging shut behind her. The projector flickered, casting shadows across the empty room, and Y/N stood alone, the applause from the auditorium a distant echo.
â
The media room at Haneul Arts High School was a quiet refuge after the festivalâs clamor, its air heavy with the scent of dust and old film reels. The projectorâs faint flicker cast shadows across the cluttered spaceâtripods leaning like weary soldiers, posters curling at the edges, a forgotten coffee mug perched on a shelf. The only sound was the soft hum of the machine, left running by some oversight, its light painting the wall with a blank, trembling glow. Outside, the ocean whispered against the cliffs, a steady murmur that felt like permission to breathe.
Y/N stood near the door, his camera bag still slung over his shoulder, his earphones dangling loose around his neck. The auditoriumâs applause still echoed in his ears, a distant triumph overshadowed by Ahyeonâs absence. Heâd followed her here after sheâd slipped out during the screening, her silhouette vanishing like a frame cut too soon. The restored scenesâher laughter, her truths, their shared moment on the beachâhad played to a captivated audience, but her reaction, her flight, left him hollow. Heâd laid their story bare, and now he waited, hoping sheâd choose to stay in it.
The door creaked open, and Ahyeon stepped inside, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, her sweater streaked with paint. Her hair was loose, framing her face in soft waves, and her eyes, still raw from the screening, met his with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. The projectorâs light caught the silver of her earring, a small glint in the dimness. âYouâre still here,â she said, her voice low, almost accusing, but there was a tremor in it, a crack in her usual armor.
Y/N shifted, his fingers tightening on the camera strap. âDidnât feel right leaving,â he said, his voice steady but soft. âNot after⊠everything.â
She glanced at the projector, its light flickering like a heartbeat, then back at him. âYou showed them,â she said, her words clipped. âThe beach, the fight. All of it. I told you I didnât want that.â He took a step closer, the floor creaking under his sneakers. âYou told me you didnât want to be trapped. But those scenesâthey werenât trapping you, Ahyeon. They were you, the real you. I couldnât cut that out.â
Her laugh was soft, almost a sigh, and she set her sketchbook on a desk, her fingers lingering on its worn cover. âThe real me,â she echoed, her voice bitter but quiet. âYou think you know what that is? Iâve spent years trying to figure it out, and all I know is that every time I let someone see it, they take it and make it theirs.â
Y/Nâs chest ached, her words pulling at the memory of her confession on the pierâthe senior whoâd stolen her work, erased her from her own story. âIâm not him,â he said, his voice firm but gentle. âI didnât show those scenes to claim you. I showed them because⊠because theyâre the only thing that made sense. You made sense.â
She looked at him then, her eyes wide, searching, the projectorâs glow catching the shimmer of unshed tears. âYouâre an idiot,â she said, but there was no venom in it, only a softness that made his heart lurch. âYouâre supposed to be the director, not the guy who risks everything for a stupid moment.â
He smiled, small and unguarded, stepping closer until the space between them was just a breath. âMaybe Iâm tired of directing,â he said. âMaybe I want to be in the frame for once.â
The air stilled, the projectorâs hum a quiet pulse. Ahyeonâs lips parted, as if to argue, but instead she laughedâa real laugh, light and unguarded, the kind that crinkled her nose and made the room feel warmer. âYouâre terrible at it,â she said, her voice teasing but warm. âYouâre all awkward lines and bad timing.â
âYeah, well,â he said, his smile widening, âyouâre not exactly Oscar-worthy yourself. That beach confession? Total improv disaster.â
She swatted his arm, her touch light but lingering, and the tension between them cracked like thin ice. âDisaster?â she said, mock-offended. âI carried that scene. You were the one mumbling about your dad like a sad documentary narrator.â
He laughed, the sound surprising him, and for a moment, the media room felt like the beachâopen, unguarded, theirs. âOkay, fine,â he said. âBut weâre keeping it. All of it. No more edits.â
Her smile faded, but not into fear this timeâinto something softer, more certain. âNo more edits,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper. âBut if weâre doing thisâthis story, whatever it isâyou donât get to hide behind the camera anymore.â
He nodded, his throat tight. âDeal. And you donât get to disappear.â
She held his gaze, her eyes steady, and for the first time, he saw no trace of her usual defenses. âDeal,â she said, and the word felt like a beginning.
The projector flickered, its light catching a forgotten camera on a tripod, its red light blinkingâa silent witness to their laughter, their promises. Neither noticed, too caught in the moment, and Y/N thought that some scenes didnât need a lens to be real.
â
The rooftop shimmered under a canopy of fairy lights, their soft glow weaving a net of stars against the night sky. The oceanâs breath carried a faint salt tang, mingling with the scent of grilled skewers and soda cans clinking in the cool evening air. The club had claimed the rooftop for a celebratory party, their laughter rising like music over the distant murmur of the waves. Tables were strewn with snacksâcrinkled chip bags, half-eaten tteokbokki, a thermos of instant coffee gone coldâwhile a portable projector hummed, casting a flickering light across a makeshift screen of strung-up bedsheets.
Y/N leaned against the railing, his camera bag resting at his feet, his earphones looped loosely around his neck. The mockumentary had won a small award at the national contestâa certificate and a modest cash prize, enough to keep the clubâs equipment from falling apartâbut the victory felt secondary. His eyes kept drifting to Ahyeon, who stood near the projector, laughing with Da-in over a shared joke. Her sweater was paint-splattered, her hair catching the fairy lights in glints of gold, and her smileâunguarded, realâmade his chest ache in a way that was no longer unfamiliar. A month had passed since the festival screening, since their quiet agreement in the media room to stop hiding, to let their story unfold without edits. Their relationship was new, tentative, a series of small momentsâshared glances in the hallway, texts sent late at night, her hand brushing his during club meetings. It wasnât the grand romance of their mockumentary, but it was theirs, and that was enough.
âOi, director!â Min-soo called, waving a USB drive like a flag. âTime for the outtakes. You canât hog all the glory forever.â
Y/N rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. âItâs not glory, itâs torture. Those clips are embarrassing.â
âExactly why weâre showing them,â Da-in said, plugging the drive into the projector. âThe audience deserves to see you trip over your own lines.â
Ahyeon joined them, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, a mischievous glint in her eyes. âOh, come on, Y/N. Youâre not scared of a few bloopers, are you? I mean, you survived my acting.â âBarely,â he said, his voice dry but warm. âYour dramatic hair flip almost took out a tripod.â She laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and nudged his shoulder. âAnd your attempt at a love confession? Iâm pretty sure the seagulls did it better.â
The club gathered around the screen, their chatter fading as the outtakes began. The projector flickered, showing Y/N stumbling over a cherry blossom petal, his muttered curse drawing giggles from the crowd. Then Ahyeon, mid-scene, sneezing so hard she knocked over a prop coffee cup, her laughter infectious as she tried to recover. The beach scene followed, a moment they hadnât usedâher teasing him about his âsad documentary voice,â him retaliating by splashing her with seawater, both of them collapsing into laughter as the camera tilted, forgotten.
The rooftop crowd cheered, their voices mingling with the oceanâs hum, but Y/Nâs attention was on Ahyeon, who stood close now, her arm brushing his. âYou kept that one too?â she asked, her voice soft, meant only for him.
âCouldnât help it,â he said, his eyes meeting hers. âItâs you. Messy, annoying, perfect.â She raised an eyebrow, her smile teasing but warm. âCareful, director. Youâre starting to sound like you mean it.â
âMaybe I do,â he said, and the words felt easier now, no camera needed to make them real. Da-inâs voice cut through, sharp with mock exasperation. âOkay, lovebirds, save it for the sequel. Some of us are trying to enjoy the snacks.â
Min-soo tossed a chip at them, grinning. âYeah, get a room. Or at least a better script.â Ahyeon laughed, tossing a chip back, and Y/N felt the moment settle, light and sure, like a frame that needed no editing. Later, as the crowd thinned and the fairy lights swayed, they slipped to the edge of the rooftop, the ocean stretching dark and endless below. She leaned against the railing, her sketchbook open to a new pageâa rough sketch of the pier, waves curling like promises.
âYou know,â she said, her voice quiet, âyouâre not half bad when youâre not hiding behind that lens.â
He smiled, leaning closer, the fairy lights casting soft shadows across her face. âAnd youâre not awful when you stop trying to vanish.â
âHigh praise,â she said, her eyes glinting. âShould I put that in the sequel?â
âOnly if I get to direct this time,â he said, and her laughter was a sound he wanted to keep forever, no delete button required.
â The beach at sunrise was a quiet hymn, its sand cool and damp under Y/Nâs sneakers, streaked with the oceanâs gentle etchings. The sky bloomed in soft pinks and golds, the first light kissing the waves with a shimmer that felt like a promise. The air was crisp, laced with salt and the faint tang of seaweed, and the horizon stretched wide, an invitation to begin again. Y/N adjusted the camera on its tripod, the lens trained on the sea, but his hands hesitated, less certain now of the barrier it once provided. His earphones hung loose around his neck, unused, as if silence were the truer soundtrack.
Ahyeon stood nearby, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, her sweater flecked with paint and sand. Her hair danced in the breeze, catching the dawnâs glow, and her eyes held a quiet resolve, brighter than the morning itself. The Reel Society was on hiatus after the festival, their awardâa modest certificateâpinned proudly in the media room. But Y/N and Ahyeon had started something new: a short film about their town, not a satire but a portrait, capturing its imperfectionsâthe crooked streets, the weathered pier, the people who stayed despite the pull of elsewhere.
âReady, director?â Ahyeon called, her voice light but warm, a tease that carried no edge.
She stepped into the frame, her sneakers sinking into the sand, and pointed at a distant fishing boat bobbing on the waves. âThatâs your opening shot, right? Old man, old boat, timeless struggle?â
Y/N smiled, adjusting the focus, though his eyes were on her. âMaybe,â he said. âBut Iâm thinking more⊠you, standing there, looking like you belong.â
She laughed, the sound clear and unforced, crinkling her nose in the way that still made his heart skip. âSmooth, Y/N. Youâre getting better at this whole âin front of the cameraâ thing.â
âDonât get used to it,â he said, his voice dry but soft. âIâm still better behind the lens.â
She raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, her sketchbook brushing against his arm. âNot true. Youâre not half bad when you let people see you.â
He met her gaze, the cameraâs hum a quiet pulse between them. The past months had woven them togetherâlate-night texts, shared coffee in the media room, her sketches pinned beside his shot lists. Their relationship wasnât the grand romance of their mockumentary, but it was real: messy, imperfect, theirs. Theyâd talked about the futureâcollege applications looming, the townâs pull versus the world beyondâbut here, now, the beach felt like enough.
âSpeaking of seeing,â she said, flipping open her sketchbook to reveal a drawing of the pier, its lines soft but sure, waves curling at its base. âI thought this could be our poster. Something simple, honest.â
He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, and studied the sketch. âItâs perfect,â he said. âNo filters, no edits. Just⊠us.â
She smiled, her eyes softening. âYouâre learning, director. But youâre not allowed to hide back there forever, you know.â
He laughed, a sound lighter than heâd thought possible. âFine. But only if you stop trying to delete yourself.â
âDeal,â she said, her voice steady, certain. She reached out, her fingers grazing his, and tugged him gently toward the camera. âCome on. Get in the shot with me.â
Y/N hesitated, the old instinct to stay behind the lens flaring briefly, but her touch was an anchor, pulling him forward. He stepped into the frame, the sand shifting under his feet, and she stood beside him, her shoulder warm against his. The cameraâs red light blinked, capturing them togetherâhim with his awkward smile, her with her sketchbook, the ocean stretching endless behind them.
âYouâre terrible at this,â she teased, nudging him. âSmile like you mean it.â
âOnly if you do it first,â he said, and her laughter rang out, a sound he wanted to keep forever, no delete button needed. The camera panned slowly to the sea, the sunrise painting the waves in gold, no edits required.
The town lay quiet behind them, its imperfections a story worth telling, and Y/N felt, for the first time, that he was part of itânot just the director, but the one in the frame.
CHOOSE CHOOSE!
I'm close to finishing some fics from my drafts and would love your opinion on which idol's story should I complete first.
Pick
TripleS Yooyeon
BaeMon Ahyeon
Fromis_9 Jiheon
1K FOLLOWERS
DAS CRAZYYYY
WE, yes, WE HAVE REACHED A MILESTONE. This wouldnât be possible without everyoneâs support. Thank you to everyone who actively read and love the stories I put out despite the crazy hiatus. Expect more stories to come ofc ;)
-wonyo <3
After Midnight (P.Hanni X M!Reader)
A delivery driver and a curious filmmaker find meaning in Seoulâs nocturnal world, their late-night routes weaving stories of the city and possibly something more personal
wc: 8.8k
genre: fluff
a/n: belated happy birthday to one of the most beautiful soul the kpop industry has ever seen.
sorry for the hiatus guys, uni is a bitch.
â
Everyone in Seoul knows, or at least likes to think, that a delivery driver with a fast scooter and an empty wallet wants a peaceful night. Y/N, at twenty-six, had no such luck. He worked late to pay off his familyâs debt, a burden left by his late fatherâs failed business. Seoulâs bright streets, full of neon lights and noise, gave him no rest. They were just a place for his endless work.
On this particular night, the clock had just struck a quarter to midnight, and Y/N maneuvered his scooter through the labyrinthine streets of Hongdae, where the air thrummed with the laughter of revelers and the sizzle of street vendorsâ griddles. His helmet visor reflected the kaleidoscope of signsâTteokbokki! Soju! Karaoke 24/7!âand he sighed, not for the first time, at the irony of ferrying sustenance to others while his own stomach growled in protest. The order in his satchel was destined for a cafĂ© tucked in an alley, a place called Moonlit Brew, which, by its name alone, promised more whimsy than Y/N had patience for.
He dismounted with the practiced efficiency of one who had long since surrendered to routine, his dark eyes scanning the cafĂ©âs exterior. Its windows glowed with fairy lights, and a chalkboard sign declared, âOpen till the stars fade!â Y/N snorted. The stars had little chance against Seoulâs electric glare. He pushed open the door, the bell jingling with an enthusiasm he did not share, and stepped into a space that smelled of espresso and misplaced optimism.
At the counter stood a young woman, perhaps twenty-four, whose presence was as incongruous as a sunbeam in a storm. She was petite, with dark hair spilling in loose waves over a denim jacket, and her eyes sparkled with a curiosity that Y/N found instantly alarming. In her hands was a camera, its lens pointed at a barista who was recounting, with theatrical flourish, the saga of a spilled latte. The womanâPham Hanni, though Y/N had no name for her yetâturned at the sound of the bell, and her smile was a weapon, bright and disarming.
âYou must be the delivery knight!â she declared, lowering her camera. Her voice carried a lilt that suggested she found the world endlessly amusing. âPerfect timing. Iâm filming a documentary about people awake past midnight, and you, sir, are positively nocturnal.â
Y/N blinked, his hand tightening around the delivery bag. âIâm just dropping off an order,â he said, his tone as flat as the pavement outside. âNot here to be filmed.â
âOh, but youâre exactly who I need!â Hanni stepped closer, undeterred by his scowl, which had been known to quell even the most persistent street vendors. âA delivery driver, weaving through the cityâs secrets at night? Youâre practically a poet of the asphalt. Tell me, whatâs the strangest thing youâve delivered?â
Y/N set the bag on the counter with deliberate care, as if handling a diplomatic treaty. âFood. Clothes. Once, a pet hamster in a travel cage. Nothing poetic about it.â He glanced at the barista, who was watching with ill-concealed amusement. âOrder for Kim?â
Hanni, however, was not so easily dismissed. She leaned against the counter, her camera dangling from a strap, and fixed him with a look that suggested she could see through his defenses as clearly as through the cafĂ©âs glass windows. âCome on, you must have stories. The city at night is a confessional. People order things theyâd never admit to in daylight.â
âI donât pry,â Y/N said, his voice edged with the weariness of a man who had long ago learned to keep his own counsel. âAnd I donât like being pried into.â
Hanniâs smile faltered, but only for a moment, like a candle flickering in a draft. âFair enough,â she said, with a nod that suggested she was conceding a skirmish, not the war. âBut youâre out here, racing against time, feeding the cityâs insomniacs. Thatâs a story worth telling. Let me ride along, just for one delivery. Iâll film the city, not you. Promise.â
Y/Nâs instinct was to refuse, to retreat to the safety of his scooter and the anonymity of the night. But there was something in her earnestness, in the way her eyes lit up at the prospect of a story, that gave him pause. Or perhaps it was the gnawing realization that his shift was far from over, and a passenger might make the hours less monotonous. Whatever the reason, he found himself muttering, âOne delivery. Then youâre gone.â
Hanni clapped her hands, a sound as bright as the cafĂ©âs fairy lights. âYou wonât regret it! Well, maybe a little, but Iâm charming enough to make up for it. Whatâs your name?â
âY/N,â he said, already regretting his lapse in judgment. He turned to leave, assuming she would follow, but paused when she called after him.
âWait! One question before we go.â Hanni tilted her head, her expression mischievous. âIf you had to pick a midnight snack, what would it be? Tteokbokki, right? You look like a tteokbokki guy.â
Y/N froze, his hand on the door. How had she guessed? He ate tteokbokki at least twice a week, a guilty pleasure savored in the solitude of his tiny apartment. He turned, narrowing his eyes. âLucky guess,â he said, his voice betraying a flicker of amusement.
Hanni grinned, triumphant. âIâm good at those. Letâs go, delivery knight. The night awaits.â
As they stepped into the neon-drenched street, Y/N felt the weight of her presence behind him, a spark in the darkness he had not anticipated. He told himself it was only one delivery, that she would vanish as quickly as she had appeared. But the city, in its infinite caprice, had other plans, and Y/N, for all his caution, was not immune to its whims.
â
One may traverse a cityâs veins night after night, bearing the sustenance of strangers, yet remain a stranger to oneself. Y/N, astride his faithful scooter, was no stranger to Seoulâs nocturnal pulse, but he preferred its anonymity to its confessions. The streets, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights and the occasional flicker of an apartment window, offered a quiet companionship that demanded nothing of him. Yet, on this night, his solitude was disrupted by the irrepressible Pham Hanni, who clung to the back of his scooter with the tenacity of a summer breeze and the curiosity of a magpie.
Their destination was a modest residential neighborhood, where the clamor of Hongdae gave way to the hush of sleeping buildings. Y/N navigated the narrow lanes with practiced ease, the delivery bag warm against his side, its contents destined for an elderly woman whose order of kimbap and banchan suggested a solitary supper. Hanni, her camera strapped securely across her chest, was an unaccustomed weight behind him, her occasional gasps at the cityâs fleeting sights punctuating the hum of the engine. âLook at that!â she exclaimed, pointing to a cat perched on a wall, its eyes glinting like twin moons. âItâs like itâs guarding the night.â
Y/N grunted, unwilling to be drawn into her whimsy. âItâs just a cat,â he said, though he slowed the scooter slightly to avoid startling the creature. Hanniâs presence, he decided, was a temporary inconvenience, like a detour on a familiar route. One delivery, and she would be gone.
They arrived at a weathered apartment building, its facade a patchwork of peeling paint and stubborn ivy. Y/N dismounted, retrieving the order with the efficiency of routine, and motioned for Hanni to stay put. âDonât wander,â he warned, his tone that of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Hanni, however, was not so easily governed. She followed him to the door, camera in hand, her footsteps light but resolute.
The recipient, a woman whose silver hair and gentle eyes belied her frailty, opened the door with a smile that seemed to carry the weight of years. âYouâre early tonight,â she said to Y/N, her voice warm with familiarity. âBless you for it.â
Y/N nodded, handing her the bag. âTake care, ajumma,â he said, already turning to leave. But Hanni, with the audacity of one who sees stories where others see only errands, stepped forward.
âExcuse me,â she said, her camera raised but not yet recording. âIâm making a film about people who stay up late. May I ask why youâre awake at this hour?â
Y/N stiffened, his jaw tightening as if to brace against an impending storm. The woman, however, seemed delighted by the question. âOh, at my age, sleep is a fickle friend,â she said, her eyes crinkling. âI eat late to remember my husband. He loved kimbap, you see. Weâd share it at midnight, talking about our day. Now, itâs just me, but I keep the habit.â
Hanniâs face softened, her camera lowering slightly as if in reverence. âThatâs beautiful,â she said. âDo you mind if I film you? Just this moment, to share your story?â
The woman hesitated, then nodded, her smile tinged with nostalgia. Hanni recorded a brief clip, her questions gentle but probing, drawing out a tale of love and loss that hung in the air like the scent of rain. Y/N stood to the side, his arms crossed, feeling an unfamiliar pang. The womanâs words stirred memories of his own fatherâconversations cut short, debts left behind. He pushed the thoughts away, but Hanniâs voice, soft and earnest, kept pulling him back.
When they returned to the scooter, Y/Nâs silence was heavier than usual. Hanni, settling behind him, seemed undeterred. âThat was amazing,â she said, her voice bright but thoughtful. âShe was so open. Donât you ever wonder about the people you deliver to?â
âNo,â Y/N said, starting the engine with more force than necessary. âItâs a job, not a talk show.â
Hanni laughed, a sound that danced over the rumble of the scooter. âYouâre so grumpy! But you listened to her, didnât you? I saw you. Youâre not as cold as you pretend.â
Y/Nâs grip tightened on the handlebars. âYou donât know me,â he said, but the words lacked conviction. He felt her gaze, not through her camera but through the weight of her attention, and it unnerved him. As they rode back into the cityâs heart, a stray bicycle swerved into their path, and Y/N instinctively angled his body to shield Hanni, his arm brushing hers. The moment was fleeting, but her quiet âThanksâ lingered, warm against the cool night air.
They stopped at a traffic light, the cityâs pulse thrumming around them. Hanni leaned forward, her chin nearly resting on his shoulder. âYouâre wrong, you know,â she said, her voice softer now. âEvery delivery is a story. Youâre just too stubborn to see it.â
Y/N didnât reply, but as the light turned green, he felt the stirrings of something unfamiliarâa curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest crack in the walls he had so carefully built. The night stretched before them, vast and unknowable, and Y/N, for the first time in a long while, wondered what other stories it might hold.
â
Y/N, whose existence was tethered to the ceaseless demands of his delivery app, had long mastered the art of moving through Seoulâs nights unseen, a shadow among shadows. Yet, with Pham Hanni as his uninvited companion, invisibility was proving as elusive as sleep on a summerâs night. What should have been a one time gig, became a recurring event in his midnight hours. Her camera, ever-present, seemed to cast a spotlight on the very corners of his soul he preferred to leave in darkness.
Their latest errand brought them to a 24-hour convenience store, its fluorescent hum a beacon in a quiet alley where vending machines buzzed like drowsy bees. The order was simpleâtwo servings of ramyeon and a canned coffee for an office worker lingering past midnight. Y/N parked his scooter with his usual precision, the delivery bag a familiar weight against his hip, and turned to Hanni, who was adjusting her camera with the fervor of a painter before a canvas. âStay here,â he said, his tone clipped. âThis is quick.â
Hanni, predictably, ignored him. She trailed him into the store, her steps light but purposeful, as if the linoleum floor were a stage for her curiosity. The office worker, a man in his thirties with tired eyes and a rumpled suit, sat at a small table by the window, his laptop casting a pale glow on his face. Y/N set the order down with a curt nod. âEnjoy,â he said, already retreating.
But Hanni, with the audacity of one who believes every soul has a story worth filming, slid into the chair opposite the man. âHi,â she said, her smile as warm as the ramyeonâs steam. âIâm making a documentary about people up past midnight. Mind if I ask what keeps you awake?â
Y/N froze at the door, his hand tightening on the knob. The man blinked, surprised but not displeased, and after a momentâs hesitation, began to speak. âWork,â he said, his voice heavy. âDeadlines. But really, itâs the dream I gave up. I wanted to be a musician, you know? Now Iâm just⊠this.â He gestured to his laptop, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
Hanniâs camera captured the moment, her questions gentle but piercing, drawing out a confession of lost hopes and late-night regrets. Y/N, lingering despite himself, felt a stir of unease. Her ability to unravel strangers was unnerving, as if she wielded a key to locked doors he had no wish to open. When the manâs story ended, Hanni thanked him with such sincerity that he smiledâa real smile, fleeting but true.
Outside, under the alleyâs dim glow, Y/Nâs patience snapped like a taut string. âWhat was that?â he demanded, rounding on Hanni as she tucked her camera away. âYou canât just dig into peopleâs lives like that. Itâs not your business.â
Hanniâs eyes widened, but her chin lifted with defiance. âIâm not digging,â she said. âIâm listening. People want to be heard, Y/N. Their stories matter. Donât you ever feel that?â
âTheyâre strangers,â he shot back, his voice low but sharp. âYouâre turning their pain into your project. Thatâs not listeningâitâs using.â
The accusation hung in the air, heavy as the humidity. Hanniâs face fell, her usual brightness dimming, and for a moment, Y/N regretted his words. But before he could retract them, she stepped closer, her gaze steady. âYouâre wrong,â she said quietly. âIâm not using them. Iâm saving themâtheir dreams, their sorrows. If I donât, who will? You deliver their food, but you donât see them. Not really.â
Y/N flinched, her words striking a nerve he hadnât known was exposed. He saw them, didnât he? The late-night orders, the tired faces, the quiet desperationâhe saw it all. But he kept it at armâs length, locked away with his own burdens. His fatherâs debt, his motherâs sacrifices, his own silenced dreamsâthey were weights he carried alone. To see othersâ pain was to risk feeling his own.
The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable, until Hanni sighed. âCome on,â she said, softer now. âLetâs eat something. My treat.â She led him back into the store, where she purchased two cups of ramyeon and a bottle of soju, setting them on the same table the office worker had vacated. Y/N, too weary to argue, sat opposite her, the steam rising between them like a fragile truce.
As they ate, Hanniâs usual chatter gave way to something quieter. âIâm scared, you know,â she admitted, stirring her noodles. âWhat if my filmâs no good? What if Iâm chasing something that doesnât matter?â Her voice was small, stripped of its usual bravado, and Y/N felt a pang of recognition.
He hesitated, then spoke, his words reluctant but honest. âI get it,â he said. âIâm stuck too. Family debtâitâs like a chain. I donât know whatâs on the other side of it.â He stopped, surprised by his own admission, and focused on his ramyeon, the spicy broth burning his tongue.
Hanni looked at him, her eyes soft but searching. âYouâre not just a delivery guy, Y/N,â she said. âYouâre carrying more than food.â She pushed her bowl toward him, offering a bite with a shy smile. âHere. Itâs better when you share.â
Y/N took the chopsticks, their fingers brushing briefly, and the gesture felt more intimate than he cared to admit. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, the city hummed outside, and for a moment, the weight of his solitude lightened, as if Hanniâs warmth could thaw even the coldest of nights.
â
Their eveningâs errand, a delivery of fried chicken and beer, was meant for a quiet apartment in Gangnamâs glittering maze of high-rises. Yet, as Y/N pulled his scooter to a stop before a building pulsing with neon and the unmistakable wail of karaoke, it became clear the app had led them astray. The address was wrong, a glitch in the digital constellation that guided his nights. Hanni, perched behind him, peered at the signâStarlight Karaoke Loungeâand clapped her hands with delight. âThis is fate!â she declared, her voice cutting through the din of passing traffic. âWe have to go in.â
Y/N removed his helmet, his scowl as fixed as the stars Seoulâs lights obscured. âWeâre not going in,â he said. âIâll call the customer, get the right address. Stay put.â
Hanni, with the predictability of a summer storm, ignored him. She dismounted, camera in hand, and strode toward the entrance, her denim jacket catching the neon glow like a canvas. âCome on, Y/N,â she called over her shoulder. âOne wrong turn, one great story. You canât say no to that.â
He could, in fact, say no, and had every intention of doing so. But the delivery app, as if conspiring with Hanni, offered no immediate reply from the customer, and Y/N found himself trailing her into the lounge, the delivery bag an awkward burden. The interior was a riot of color and soundâvelvet booths, flashing lights, and a group of revelers belting out a ballad with more enthusiasm than skill. The air smelled of soju and fried food, a heady mix that promised chaos.
Hanni, undaunted, approached a table where a birthday party was in full swing, the guest of honor adorned with a paper crown and a tipsy grin. âExcuse me!â she said, her smile disarming the groupâs surprise. âIâm filming a documentary about night owls. Mind if I capture this moment? Itâs so alive!â
The group, lubricated by alcohol and festivity, welcomed her intrusion. Y/N, lingering at the edge of their orbit, handed over the chicken and beer to a woman who, in her exuberance, mistook him for part of the celebration. âSing with us!â she urged, thrusting a microphone toward him. Y/N recoiled as if offered a live serpent, but Hanniâs laughter rang out, bright and infectious.
âOh, heâs shy,â she teased, her camera now recording the scene. âBut I bet heâs got a voice. Come on, Y/N, one song. For the birthday girl!â
The crowd cheered, and Y/N, cornered by their enthusiasm and Hanniâs mischievous gaze, felt his resolve waver. He was no stranger to karaokeâhis mother had loved it, filling their home with old ballads before debt silenced such joysâbut to sing now, under Hanniâs watchful lens, was unthinkable. Yet, as the group chanted his name, he seized the microphone with a grudging sigh and chose a song he knew by heart, a melancholic tune from his childhood.
To his surprise, and perhaps to Hanniâs, his voice was steady, warm, and unexpectedly resonant. The room quieted, the revelers swaying to the melody, and Hanniâs camera lingered on him, her expression softening from mischief to something akin to awe. When the song ended, the applause was raucous, but Y/Nâs eyes found Hanniâs, and her quiet nod felt like the only approval that mattered.
Outside, in the cool night air, Hanniâs teasing resumed with renewed vigor. âYouâre full of surprises, delivery knight,â she said, nudging his arm as they returned to the scooter. âWho knew you could sing like that? Youâve been holding out on me.â
Y/N shrugged, his cheeks warm despite the breeze. âItâs just a song,â he muttered, but her laughter suggested she saw through his deflection. They sat on a low wall, waiting for the customerâs corrected address, and Hanniâs questions turned quieter, more pointed. âWhy do you hide so much?â she asked, her camera resting in her lap. âYouâre good at thingsâsinging, shielding me from bicycles, being there for people. Why act like it doesnât matter?â
Y/N stared at the neon skyline, the weight of her words stirring memories of happier daysâhis fatherâs laughter, his motherâs voice, a life before debt. âItâs easier,â he said at last, his voice low. âIf you donât let things matter, they canât hurt you.â
Hanniâs gaze softened, and she reached out, her hand brushing his as she tugged him toward the scooter. âCome on,â she said, her voice gentle but firm. âLetâs find the right address. Together.â
As they rode into Gangnamâs glittering heart, Y/N felt the fleeting warmth of her touch linger, a reminder that even a wrong turn could lead somewhere unexpectedly right.
---
Where a wrong turn had led Y/N to the clamor of a karaoke lounge and the reluctant unveiling of his voice, a storm now conspired to halt his nocturnal wanderings altogether. The skies above Seoul, which had shimmered with neon defiance in Gangnamâs embrace, now wept with a fervor that turned streets to mirrors and plans to disarray. Y/N, his scooter laden with a delivery of medical supplies for a hospital, felt the first drops as he and Hanni sped through a labyrinth of rain-slicked roads. The city, usually so forgiving of his haste, now seemed determined to slow him, as if it knew the weight of the moment gathering between him and his persistent passenger.
Hanni, clinging to his back, her camera tucked beneath her jacket, laughed into the wind. âThis is cinematic!â she called, her voice barely audible over the rainâs patter. âLike a scene from a melodrama, donât you think?â Y/N, his helmet visor streaked with water, offered only a grunt, though her cheer sparked a warmth he was loath to acknowledge. Her presence, once an irritation, had become a curious constant, like the hum of his scooterâs engine.
Their journey was cut short when the rain thickened to a torrent, forcing Y/N to pull beneath the awning of a shuttered shop. The hospital was still a mile off, and the downpour showed no mercy. He dismounted, shaking water from his gloves, and glanced at Hanni, who was wringing out her hair with a grin that belied the damp chill. âYouâre soaked,â he said, his tone caught between annoyance and concern. âYou shouldâve stayed back at the lounge.â
âAnd miss this?â Hanni replied, gesturing to the glistening street, where raindrops danced under streetlights. âThis is life, Y/N. Messy, wet, and worth filming.â She paused, her eyes softening. âBut youâre rightâIâm freezing. Letâs wait it out.â
They stood in silence, the awningâs shelter a fragile barrier against the storm. A nurse, hurrying toward the hospital, paused nearby, her umbrella battered by the wind. Hanni, ever the opportunist, stepped forward. âExcuse me,â she said, her voice gentle despite the rainâs roar. âIâm making a film about people up past midnight. May I ask what keeps you out in this weather?â
Y/N tensed, expecting another of Hanniâs intrusions, but the nurseâs tired smile disarmed him. âMy kids,â she said simply. âI work night shifts to be home when theyâre awake. Itâs hard, but theyâre worth it.â Her voice carried a quiet strength, and Hanni, to Y/Nâs surprise, lowered her camera, choosing to listen rather than record.
The nurseâs words lingered as she hurried on, and Y/N felt a familiar acheâhis motherâs face, worn from years of sacrifice, flashed in his mind. He glanced at Hanni, who was watching the rain, her usual brightness tempered by something softer. âThat was kind of you,â he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. âNot filming her.â
Hanni turned, her eyes meeting his. âSometimes itâs enough to just hear,â she said. âShe reminded me of my mom. Always working, always giving.â She hesitated, then added, âWhat about you? You talk about debt, but what about your family? What keeps you going?â
Y/Nâs throat tightened. The rain, a steady curtain, seemed to blur the world beyond their shelter, narrowing it to just the two of them. âMy mom,â he said at last, his voice low. âAfter my dad died, she took on everythingâbills, shame, me. The debtâs his, but itâs hers too. I canât let her carry it alone.â He stopped, startled by his own candor, and looked away, focusing on the rivulets tracing patterns on the pavement.
Hanniâs silence was rare, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost lost in the rain. âI get it,â she said. âMy familyâs not rich either. Iâm scared my film wonât be good enough to make them proud. Or to make me feel like Iâm enough.â She shivered, and Y/N, without thinking, shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The gesture was instinctive, born of a protectiveness he hadnât named, and Hanniâs surprised smile sent a jolt through him.
âThanks,â she said, pulling the jacket tighter. âYouâre not as tough as you act, you know.â
Y/N scoffed, but his lips twitched upward. âDonât get used to it,â he muttered, though the warmth in his chest betrayed him. They stood there, the rain a soft murmur, and for the first time, Y/N didnât mind the delay. The hospital could wait a moment longer; this, whatever it was, felt like something worth pausing for.
â
The city, in its boundless caprice, now flung them into the vibrant whirl of a midnight market. Seoul, never content to slumber, offered its nocturnal denizens a bazaar of delightsâstalls laden with steaming skewers, trinkets glinting under lanterns, and voices weaving a tapestry of laughter and barter. Y/N found himself navigating this clamor with Hanni at his side, her camera an extension of her restless curiosity. The intimacy of their rainy confession lingered, a quiet undercurrent beneath the marketâs pulse.
Their errand was a delivery of grilled fish cakes to a vendor whose stall, tucked between a kimchi cart and a fortune-tellerâs tent, brimmed with the scent of spice and nostalgia. Y/N parked his scooter at the marketâs edge, the neon glow of Gangnam now a memory, replaced by the warm flicker of lanterns strung like stars. Hanni, her hair still damp from the earlier downpour, bounded forward, her eyes alight with the sceneâs vibrancy. âThis is perfect!â she exclaimed, her camera already sweeping the crowd. âLook at this placeâitâs alive, like the cityâs heart beating.â
Y/N, adjusting the delivery bag, offered a skeptical glance. âItâs just a market,â he said, though the sight of a child chasing a stray balloon stirred a flicker of something he couldnât nameâperhaps a memory of simpler nights, before debt became his compass. âLetâs make this quick.â
Hanni, as was her custom, paid his grumbling no mind. She followed him through the throng, filming snippets of hawkers calling out wares and couples sharing sticky rice cakes. At the vendorâs stall, a wiry man with a gap-toothed grin accepted the fish cakes with a nod. âYouâre a lifesaver,â he said, then spotted Hanniâs camera. âFilming something special, eh? Want a story for your reel?â
Hanniâs smile was a beacon. âAlways,â she said, and within moments, the vendor was regaling her with tales of midnight markets pastâloves kindled over skewers, fortunes won and lost under these very lanterns. Y/N, standing to the side, watched her work, her questions coaxing light from the manâs weathered face. Her gift, he realized, was not merely in seeing stories but in making others feel seenâa talent as disarming as it was dangerous to his carefully guarded heart.
The delivery complete, Hanni tugged Y/N into the marketâs flow, insisting they explore. âYou canât just leave,â she said, her tone teasing but firm. âThis is research! Besides, you need some fun.â She led him to a stall selling grilled meat skewers, the air thick with savory smoke, and purchased two with a flourish. âEat,â she commanded, handing him one. âYou canât live on tteokbokki alone.â
Y/N took the skewer, his lips twitching despite himself. âI manage,â he said, but the first bite, warm and smoky, coaxed a rare grin. Hanni, delighted, dragged him to a street gameâa dartboard promising cheap prizes for a steady hand. âBet you canât win,â she challenged, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Never one to back down from a dare, Y/N stepped up, his aim precise despite the crowdâs jostle. Three darts later, heâd won a small keychainâa plastic star that glowed faintly under the lanterns. Hanni clapped, her laughter bright as the marketâs lights. âYouâre a sharpshooter!â she said. âGive it to me as a souvenir.â
Y/N hesitated, then, with a glance to ensure she wasnât watching, slipped the star into her bag instead. The act felt foolish, almost tender, and he buried it beneath a cough. âLetâs go,â he muttered, but Hanniâs next question stopped him cold.
âWhat do you want, Y/N?â she asked, her camera lowered, her voice cutting through the marketâs din. âBeyond the debt, I mean. Whatâs your dream?â
The question landed like a stone in still water. Y/Nâs mind flickered to half-forgotten hopesâa life where nights were his own, where music or travel or something undefined might fill the spaces debt had claimed. âI donât know,â he said, his voice rougher than intended. âI donât think about it.â
Hanniâs gaze held his, soft but unyielding. âYou should,â she said. âYouâre more than your deliveries.â She turned away, filming a juggler tossing flaming torches, and Y/N watched her, the star in her bag a secret he wasnât ready to name.
As they returned to the scooter, the marketâs glow fading behind them, Y/N felt the night shift slightly, as if Seoul itself were nudging him toward a path he had long avoidedâone where dreams, and perhaps Hanni, might find a place.
---
If the midnight market had lured Y/N into a fleeting dance with joy, the long road to Seoulâs outskirts reminded him that such moments were but brief detours from his burdens. The cityâs neon heart faded behind him, giving way to a sprawl of warehouses and silent lots, where the night felt vast and unyielding. Y/Nâs scooter hummed beneath him, a steadfast companion, but the weight of Hanniâs presenceâher laughter still echoing from the marketâs glowâpressed against him as surely as the delivery bag at his side. Her camera, now a familiar shadow, captured the world he had long chosen to ignore, and he found himself wondering, with uneasy frequency, what it saw in him.
Their destination was a lone warehouse, where a security guard awaited a late-night meal of bibimbap and iced tea. The road stretched before them, winding and desolate, its silence broken only by the occasional rumble of a passing truck. Hanni, perched behind him, was quieter now, her earlier exuberance tempered by the nightâs shift. âThis feels like another world,â she murmured, her voice soft against the wind. âSo empty, but kind of beautiful, donât you think?â
Y/N glanced at the darkened landscape, its outlines blurred by the scooterâs headlight. âItâs just quiet,â he said, though her words stirred a faint recognition of the beauty she sawâperhaps in the stillness, perhaps in her. He shook the thought away, focusing on the delivery. âWeâre almost there.â
The warehouse loomed, a hulking silhouette against the moonless sky. The security guard, a man with weathered hands and eyes that carried the weight of years, accepted the meal with a nod. Hanni, ever the seeker of stories, stepped forward, her camera ready but her demeanor gentle. âMay I ask what keeps you up this late?â she said. âIâm filming a documentary about the nightâs people.â
The guard hesitated, then spoke, his voice low and halting. âMy daughter,â he said. âSheâs grown now, but we donât talk. I work nights to send her money, hoping sheâll forgive me someday.â His words hung heavy, a confession born of solitude, and Hanniâs camera captured it with care, her questions coaxing out a tale of regret and quiet hope.
Y/N, standing by the scooter, felt the guardâs story pierce something within him. His own fatherâs absence, the debt that chained him, his motherâs unspoken worriesâall rose unbidden, a tide he had long kept at bay. Hanniâs empathy, her ability to draw out such truths, no longer seemed intrusive but vital, a light cast on shadows he had avoided. He watched her thank the guard, her smile a balm, and felt a shiftâher curiosity was not merely meddling but a kind of courage he lacked.
As they prepared to leave, Hanniâs voice broke the silence. âThat was heavy,â she said, her tone softer than usual. âBut itâs real. Thatâs why I do thisâto hold onto what people feel.â She glanced at him, her eyes searching. âYou felt it too, didnât you?â
Y/Nâs jaw tightened, but he nodded, a small concession. âYeah,â he said. âItâs⊠a lot.â He didnât elaborate, but her gaze held his, as if she understood the weight of what he left unsaid.
They rode back toward the city, the road stretching endlessly before them. Hanni, perhaps sensing his mood, spoke again, her voice barely audible over the engine. âIâm scared my filmâs a mess,â she admitted. âAll these storiesâtheyâre beautiful, but what if I canât make them fit together? What if Iâm just⊠lost?â
Y/Nâs chest tightened at her vulnerability, so like his own unspoken fears. âYouâre not lost,â he said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. âYou see things. You make them matter. Thatâs more than most.â He paused, then added, quieter, âI donât know what Iâd be without the debt. Itâs all Iâve got to hold onto.â
Hanniâs hand, resting lightly on his waist, tightened briefly, a silent gesture of support. Before he could process it, his phone buzzedâa call from his motherâs neighbor. âItâs your mom,â the voice said, urgent. âSheâs not feeling well. You should come to the hospital.â
The world tilted. Y/Nâs breath caught, and he pulled the scooter to the roadside, his hands trembling as he ended the call. Hanni, sensing the shift, touched his arm. âWhatâs wrong?â she asked, her voice steady despite the worry in her eyes.
âMy mom,â he said, the words rough. âSheâs sick. I need to go.â He started the engine, but Hanniâs hand lingered, a quiet anchor in the storm of his fear.
âIâm coming with you,â she said, and for once, Y/N didnât argue. The road ahead was long, but with Hanni behind him, it felt less daunting, as if the night, in its infinite expanse, had made room for them both.
---
Y/Nâs scooter hummed beneath him, a steadfast companion, but the weight of Hanniâs presenceâher laughter still echoing from the marketâs glowâpressed against him as surely as the delivery bag at his side. Her camera, now a familiar shadow, captured the world he had long chosen to ignore, and he found himself wondering, with uneasy frequency, what it saw in him.
Their destination was a lone warehouse, where a security guard awaited a late-night meal of bibimbap and iced tea. The road stretched before them, winding and desolate, its silence broken only by the occasional rumble of a passing truck. Hanni, perched behind him, was quieter now, her earlier exuberance tempered by the nightâs shift. âThis feels like another world,â she murmured, her voice soft against the wind. âSo empty, but kind of beautiful, donât you think?â
Y/N glanced at the darkened landscape, its outlines blurred by the scooterâs headlight. âItâs just quiet,â he said, though her words stirred a faint recognition of the beauty she sawâperhaps in the stillness, perhaps in her. He shook the thought away, focusing on the delivery. âWeâre almost there.â
The warehouse loomed, a hulking silhouette against the moonless sky. The security guard, a man with weathered hands and eyes that carried the weight of years, accepted the meal with a nod. Hanni, ever the seeker of stories, stepped forward, her camera ready but her demeanor gentle. âMay I ask what keeps you up this late?â she said. âIâm filming a documentary about the nightâs people.â
The guard hesitated, then spoke, his voice low and halting. âMy daughter,â he said. âSheâs grown now, but we donât talk. I work nights to send her money, hoping sheâll forgive me someday.â His words hung heavy, a confession born of solitude, and Hanniâs camera captured it with care, her questions coaxing out a tale of regret and quiet hope.
Y/N, standing by the scooter, felt the guardâs story pierce something within him. His own fatherâs absence, the debt that chained him, his motherâs unspoken worriesâall rose unbidden, a tide he had long kept at bay. Hanniâs empathy, her ability to draw out such truths, no longer seemed intrusive but vital, a light cast on shadows he had avoided. He watched her thank the guard, her smile a balm, and felt a shiftâher curiosity was not merely meddling but a kind of courage he lacked.
As they prepared to leave, Hanniâs voice broke the silence. âThat was heavy,â she said, her tone softer than usual. âBut itâs real. Thatâs why I do thisâto hold onto what people feel.â She glanced at him, her eyes searching. âYou felt it too, didnât you?â
Y/Nâs jaw tightened, but he nodded, a small concession. âYeah,â he said. âItâs⊠a lot.â He didnât elaborate, but her gaze held his, as if she understood the weight of what he left unsaid.
They rode back toward the city, the road stretching endlessly before them. Hanni, perhaps sensing his mood, spoke again, her voice barely audible over the engine. âIâm scared my filmâs a mess,â she admitted. âAll these storiesâtheyâre beautiful, but what if I canât make them fit together? What if Iâm just⊠lost?â
Y/Nâs chest tightened at her vulnerability, so like his own unspoken fears. âYouâre not lost,â he said, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. âYou see things. You make them matter. Thatâs more than most.â He paused, then added, quieter, âI donât know what Iâd be without the debt. Itâs all Iâve got to hold onto.â
Hanniâs hand, resting lightly on his waist, tightened briefly, a silent gesture of support. Before he could process it, his phone buzzedâa call from his motherâs neighbor. âItâs your mom,â the voice said, urgent. âSheâs not feeling well. You should come to the hospital.â
The world tilted. Y/Nâs breath caught, and he pulled the scooter to the roadside, his hands trembling as he ended the call. Hanni, sensing the shift, touched his arm. âWhatâs wrong?â she asked, her voice steady despite the worry in her eyes.
âMy mom,â he said, the words rough. âSheâs sick. I need to go.â He started the engine, but Hanniâs hand lingered, a quiet anchor in the storm of his fear.
âIâm coming with you,â she said, and for once, Y/N didnât argue. The road ahead was long, but with Hanni behind him, it felt less daunting, as if the night, in its infinite expanse, had made room for them both.
---
As the long road from the warehouse blurred into a frantic race toward the hospital, Y/Nâs mind became a whirlwind of fears he had long suppressed, the cityâs outskirts giving way to the familiar glow of Seoulâs core. The scooter cut through the night like a blade, its engine a roar that drowned out all but the pounding of his heart. Hanniâs grip on his waist was steady, a silent vow of companionship amid the storm of his worry, her presence a tether in the chaos that had erupted from a single phone call. What had begun as a night of quiet revelations now teetered on the edge of crisis, and Y/N, for all his guarded resolve, found himself grateful for her unyielding resolve to stay.
They arrived at the hospital just past 2 AM, its sterile facade a stark contrast to the marketâs warmth or the warehouseâs solitude. Y/N parked haphazardly, his helmet discarded with trembling hands, and strode toward the entrance, Hanni matching his pace without a word. The lobby was a hush of fluorescent lights and weary faces, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and unspoken anxieties. At the reception desk, Y/Nâs voice cracked as he asked for his mother, the words tumbling out in a rush that betrayed his composure.
âSheâs stable,â the nurse said, her tone practiced but kind. âA flare-up from her old conditionâexhaustion, mostly. Weâre monitoring her. You can see her now.â
Relief washed over Y/N like a wave, but it was laced with guiltâthe debt, his endless nights, the sacrifices he had mirrored in her. He turned to Hanni, who stood a step back, her camera slung over her shoulder but untouched. âYou donât have to stay,â he said, his voice rough with emotion he couldnât quite mask. âThis isnât your story.â
Hanniâs eyes met his, steady and unflinching. âItâs not about the story,â she said softly. âItâs about you. Iâm here.â She placed a hand on his arm, a gesture simple yet profound, and Y/N felt the last of his resistance crumble. Without her camera, she was just Hanniâthe woman whose curiosity had peeled away his layers, revealing a vulnerability he hadnât known he could share.
They entered the room together, where his mother lay pale against the sheets, an IV drip casting shadows on her face. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, weak but warm. âY/N,â she murmured, reaching out. âYou shouldnât have come so late. You need rest.â
He took her hand, his throat tight. âIâm fine, Mom. What about you?â He sat beside her, the weight of years pressing downâthe business failure, the debts, the nights heâd spent away to spare her worry. Hanni lingered by the door, giving them space, but her presence was a quiet comfort.
As his mother spoke of the pain that had struck suddenly, Y/Nâs composure fractured. âItâs my fault,â he burst out, his voice low and ragged. âIf I worked harder, paid it off fasterâyou wouldnât be like this.â The words spilled like the rain from nights before, raw and unfiltered.
His mother squeezed his hand. âNo, son. Youâve done enough. More than enough.â Her gaze shifted to Hanni, curiosity flickering. âAnd whoâs this?â
Hanni stepped forward, her smile gentle. âIâm Hanni, a friend. Iâm making a film, but tonight, Iâm just here for him.â
The simplicity of her words eased something in Y/N, and as his mother rested, they stepped into the hallway, the hospitalâs hum a distant backdrop. âThank you,â he said, leaning against the wall, exhaustion etching his features. âI didnât mean to drag you into this.â
Hanni shook her head, her eyes soft. âYou didnât drag me. I chose to come.â She hesitated, then shared a piece of her own pastâa family struggle with illness, the fear that had fueled her drive to capture stories, to make sense of pain. âWe all carry things,â she said. âBut we donât have to carry them alone.â
Y/Nâs gaze lingered on her, the vulnerability of the moment stripping away pretense. In the sterile light, he saw her not as the intrusive filmmaker but as a kindred spirit, her warmth a counter to his chill. Impulsively, he reached out, his hand brushing hers, and she didnât pull away. They stood there, fingers intertwined, a fragile bridge in the nightâs uncertainty.
Later, in the parking lot, they shared a coffee from a vending machine, the steam rising like a sigh. Y/N let his head rest against the wall, Hanniâs shoulder close enough to lean on if he dared. âYou make this easier,â he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled, leaning into him slightly. âGood. Because Iâm not going anywhere.â The city slumbered around them, but in that quiet space, something shiftedâa promise, unspoken but felt, that the nights ahead might hold more than solitude.
â
Y/N emerged into the dawnâs hesitant light with a resolve to reclaim some measure of control. His motherâs condition, though stable, had etched a stark reminder of timeâs fragility, prompting him to pause his relentless shifts after one final delivery. Seoul, awakening in hues of soft gray and amber, seemed to mirror his tentative hope, its streets less a labyrinth of burdens and more a canvas for possibility. Hanni, who had remained through the weary hours, insisted on accompanying him, her presence now a comfort rather than a curiosity, her camera a silent witness to their unspoken shift.
The delivery led them to a quiet hanok village nestled in the cityâs embrace, where traditional rooftops curved like gentle waves under the early morning sky. The orderâa box of herbal teasâwas for a reclusive artist whose home, hidden behind a wooden gate, exuded the quiet artistry of forgotten eras. Y/N navigated the narrow paths with ease, the air crisp with the scent of dew and distant blossoms, Hanni trailing close, her steps light but purposeful. The intimacy of the hospital lingered between them, a thread pulling tighter with each glance.
The artist, a woman with ink-stained fingers and eyes that held the depth of unsung poems, accepted the teas with a nod. Hanni, nearing the completion of her documentary, approached with her camera. âIâm capturing stories of the night,â she said, her voice warm. âMay I film yours? What beauty do you find in these quiet hours?â
The artist paused, then spoke of fleeting momentsâthe play of moonlight on paper, the whispers of inspiration that came unbidden, the solace in creation amid isolation. Hanni filmed with reverence, her questions drawing out a narrative of beauty born from solitude, a theme that resonated with Y/N as he watched from the threshold. He saw in the artistâs words a reflection of his own lifeâguarded, self-containedâyet Hanniâs gaze, soft and admiring as she worked, stirred a realization: he no longer wished for such isolation.
As they left the hanok, the villageâs serenity enveloping them, Y/N felt the weight of unspoken feelings press upon him. Hanni, tucking her camera away, seemed distant, her usual vibrancy muted by the documentaryâs impending end. âThat was lovely,â she said, but her tone carried a note of finality. âOne more piece, and itâs done.â
Y/Nâs steps slowed, the pathâs stones crunching underfoot. He had fallen for herâthe way she uncovered light in darkness, her unwavering empathy, the spark she ignited in his weary world. Yet fear held him back; what right had he to claim her, burdened as he was? âHanni,â he began, his voice halting, âabout last nightâŠâ
She turned, her eyes meeting his with a mix of hope and hesitation. âY/N, Iâve been thinking too,â she said, stepping closer. âThese nights with youâtheyâve changed me. I care about you, more than the film, more than the stories. But if you want space, after all thisâŠâ
The words tumbled from him then, raw and unpolished. âI donât want space,â he said, his hand reaching for hers. âI want you. But Iâm scaredâIâve got nothing to offer but debt and late nights.â
Hanniâs smile broke through, tender and true. âYou offer yourself,â she said, her fingers intertwining with his. âThatâs enough.â She pulled a handwritten note from her pocketâthe premiere detailsâand pressed it into his palm, her touch lingering. âCome watch it with me. Weâll figure the rest out, delivery by delivery.â
In the quiet of the hanok village, under a sky awakening to day, Y/N felt the first stirrings of a future unburdened by solitude. The night had ended, but their story, it seemed, was just beginning.
The city, ever alive under its neon veil, seemed to conspire in celebration as Y/N approached the venue, the handwritten note from Hanni tucked in his pocket like a talisman. Her documentary, After Midnight, was to premiere tonight, a tapestry of nocturnal stories woven from their shared nights. Y/N, whose life had been defined by deliveries and debts, felt an unfamiliar tremor of anticipationânot for the film, but for the woman who had made him see the beauty in his own shadowed hours.
The theater, a narrow building wedged between a ramen shop and a vinyl store, buzzed with the eclectic energy of night owls and artists. Fairy lights draped the entrance, and a chalkboard sign proclaimed, âAfter Midnight: Stories of Seoulâs Sleepless.â Y/N hesitated at the threshold, his delivery jacket swapped for a clean shirt, his nerves betraying a man unaccustomed to such gatherings. The weight of his motherâs recovery, now steady, and the looming debt lingered, but Hanniâs note had promised more than a screeningâit had promised a beginning.
Inside, the crowd was a mosaic of facesâsome familiar from their deliveries, others strangers bound by the cityâs nocturnal pulse. Y/N scanned the room, his heart quickening when he spotted Hanni near the front, her dark hair catching the stage lights. She wore a simple dress, her camera absent, her smile nervous but radiant as she greeted guests. When her eyes found his, they softened, and she crossed the room with a grace that made the clamor fade.
âYou came,â she said, her voice warm with relief. âI wasnât sure you would.â
Y/Nâs lips twitched into a half-smile. âTold you I would,â he said, his hand brushing the note in his pocket. âWouldnât miss it.â Her nearness, the memory of her hand in his under the hanokâs dawn, stirred a courage he hadnât known he possessed.
The lights dimmed, and the crowd settled as the film began. After Midnight unfolded on the screenâa montage of Seoulâs sleepless souls, their stories told with Hanniâs gentle precision. The elderly woman with her midnight kimbap, the office workerâs lost dreams, the security guardâs quiet hopeâall wove together, a love letter to the cityâs forgotten hours. Y/N watched, his breath catching at a fleeting shot of himself, blurred but unmistakable, shielding Hanni from a bicycle. The frame lingered on his silhouette, a quiet tribute to his steadfast presence, and the audienceâs murmur of appreciation felt like an acknowledgment of his unseen strength.
As the credits rolled, the crowd erupted in applause, and Hanni took the stage, her eyes shining. âThis film is for everyone who keeps the night alive,â she said, her voice steady despite her nerves. âAnd for one person who showed me its heart.â Her gaze found Y/Nâs, and the room seemed to shrink to just the two of them.
After the screening, they slipped into a crowded alley outside, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope across their faces. The air was thick with the scent of street food and the hum of post-premiere chatter, but Y/N saw only Hanni, her expression a mix of pride and vulnerability. âWhat did you think?â she asked, her voice soft.
âIt was you,â Y/N said, his words simple but heavy. âAll those storiesâtheyâre alive because of you.â He paused, his heart racing as he stepped closer, the weight of his fears falling away. Then, spotting her Polaroid camera slung over her shoulder, he reached for it, a sudden impulse overtaking him. âHold still,â he said, his voice teasing but tender. âFor once, let someone capture you.â
Hanni blinked, surprised, then laughed, her cheeks flushing under the neon glow. She struck a playful pose, her smile radiant, and Y/N snapped the photo, the Polaroid whirring as it produced the image. He held it up, watching her likeness emergeâeyes bright, spirit unguarded. âPerfect,â he murmured, slipping the photo into her hand, his fingers lingering against hers. âKeep this. Itâs you, the way I see you.â
Hanniâs eyes glistened, the photo clutched close. âY/N,â she whispered, stepping into his space, âIâve been falling for you since that first tteokbokki guess. I love you.â She rose on her toes, and their lips met in a kiss that felt like the city itselfâvibrant, chaotic, and utterly right. The alleyâs noise faded, leaving only the warmth of her breath, the press of her hand against his.
As they pulled apart, Hanni laughed, a sound brighter than the lights above. âSo, delivery knight,â she teased, âwhere to next?â
Y/N smiled, a true smile that felt like freedom. âAnywhere,â he said, taking her hand. âAs long as itâs with you.â
The city hummed around them, its nights no longer a burden but a promise, each delivery a step toward a shared future under Seoulâs endless stars.
â
Shot Clock (P. Sohyun X M! Reader)
a hot-headed filipino streetballer and a cold, calculated korean captain clash on and off the court, but when a high-stakes bet threatens everything, their game turns into something dangerously close to love.
w.c: 18.6k
genre: fluff
a/n: this was requested by @theeeeerealllll, a wonderful reader of mine. honestly, i was really pumped writing this one as itâs my first in a while after months of not writing, and somehow it ended up being my longest oneshot yet. i didnât expect it to go this far, but after weeks of chipping away at it, here we are. iâve also been meaning to get into tripleS for a bit now, so this request couldnât have come at a better time. anyway, iâll stop yapping and let yall dive in. as always, hope you enjoy itâand iâll see yall in the next one!
The air in Seoul didnât hug you. It slapped. Dry, sharp, and cold in a way that sank into your bones instead of your skin. Y/N stepped off the shuttle, one foot on the pavement, the other still somewhere back in Manila.
He squints against the pale light, the skyline of Dong Seoul University rising ahead, glass towers and iron gates, all gleaming like they were scrubbed by angels. Elite doesnât even cover it. Itâs a world that screams you donât belong. He wore his blue hair like a flagâunruly, electric, unapologetic. Students in crisp DSU jackets glance his way, their eyes lingering on his faded sneakers, the patched duffel slung over his shoulder. He flashes a grinâhalf cocky, half armorâand keeps walking.
He gripped the frayed strap of his duffel bag and adjusted it on his shoulder. The bag had a hand-stitched patch sewn near the zipper, letters faded to near nothing:
âBarangay 143 Champs â18â
Below it, a faded Nike swoosh, half-peeled from years of Manila sun.
He could still see it: dusk in the barangay, him dodging a defender twice his size, the ball arcing clean through the hoop as his cousin hollered, âThatâs my boy!â That grainy clip, shot on a shaky phone, had blown up online, landing him a spot on Dong Seoul Universityâs co-ed basketball team. Coach Kim had seen something in him: raw, unpolished, but real. Now, Y/N was here, a streetballer with quick feet and a chip on his shoulder, ready to prove he belonged.
The campus is a sensory assault. Korean chatter hums around him, fast and slippery, words he canât grab onto. Signs in hangeul line the tiled walkways, their bold strokes mocking his ignorance. A âNo Loiteringâ poster glares from a lamppost, and he snorts.
The campus looked like a rendered simulationâevery sidewalk was geometric, every dorm window reflected the same pale light. There were no stray dogs, no kids playing tumbang preso barefoot near the gate, no blaring jeepney horns. Just... symmetry and chill.Â
His fingers graze the woven bracelet on his wrist, its frayed threads a gift from his grandmother. Itâs the only thing here that feels like home. Y/N exhaled, muttering under his breath.
âTangina⊠this place is like a museum.â
He slipped his phone from his hoodie pocket, screen cracked, two bars of signal. A single name sat pinned at the top of his contacts: Lola. He pressed call.
It only rang once.
âAnak! Did you eat?â her voice came through, crackly but warm, like a worn-out vinyl playing the same lullaby it always had.
âNot yet,â Y/N grinned. âStill trying to figure out if I landed in the right country.â
âYou brought the rosary?â
âWrapped around my socks.â
âGood. Thatâll keep your feet light. Donât forget to stretch.â
âYou sound like Coach Tony.â
âCoach Tony didnât raise you.â
He let out a quiet chuckle. The familiar Manila noise buzzed faintly in the backgroundâvendors shouting, roosters, the low hum of tricycles zipping down narrow streets. It made his chest ache and warm at once.
âYou better eat, ha? Donât starve yourself. You play better full.â
âI will, Lola. Promise.â
âAnd Y/N?â
âYeah?â
âLagi mong dala âyang puso mo, anak.â (Always carry your heart with you, my child.)
He closed his eyes for a beat. Then ended the call.
A breeze whipped through the quad and reminded him: Seoul wasnât going to wait for him to catch up.
---
The memory hits like a fast break. Eleven-year-old Y/N, barefoot, dances across a cracked barangay court in Manila, the sun torching his skin. His shirt clings, soaked with sweat, as he grips a duct-taped basketball, its seams splitting like an overripe mango. The hoopâa coconut board nailed to a splintered poleâsways in the humid breeze. Neighbors crowd the sidelines, perched on rusted gates or leaning against sari-sari store walls, their cheers a chaotic symphony of jeers and hollers. Every miss gets a laugh; every make gets a roar.
A lanky teen opponent looms over him, all elbows and trash talk. âMaliit ka pa, bata! Go home!â (You're still too small kid, Go Home!) he sneers in Tagalog, smirking through crooked teeth. Y/Nâs eyes glint, undaunted. He jukes left, fakes right, spins past in a blur of wiry limbs. The ball arcs high, kisses the coconut board with a dull thwackâswish. The crowd erupts, aunties waving their fans, kids jumping on crates. Y/N grins, blood trickling from a busted lip. He doesnât wipe it away. The sting feels like victory.
The memory dissolves, and Y/Nâs back in the present, stepping out of the dorm elevator. Polished walls reflect his blue hair, his mismatched hoodie, his scuffed sneakers. The silence is deafening, no echo of Manilaâs chaos. He adjusts his duffel, the bracelet tight against his wrist. The past and present are worlds apart, and heâs standing in the gap.
---
Dong Seoul Universityâs indoor gym didnât smell like basketball. Not the kind he knew.
The DSU gym doors swing open, and Y/N stops dead, breath catching. The court gleams under LED lights, hardwood so pristine it looks like itâs never bled sweat. High-tech hoops gleam, their nets crisp and white. Digital scoreboards blink zeroes. The airâs too clean, too cold, like a hospital room. It echoed too cleanly. No thump of sandals on concrete. No bark of a neighborâs dog running into the court mid-play. No smoke curling from a nearby tindahan.
It was all sterile perfectionâand he hated it.
Y/N stepped onto the hardwood, looking up at the banners hanging like royalty overhead. His footsteps tapped too sharply. The squeak of rubber soles echoed back at him like it didnât want him there.
He muttered in Tagalog, half to himself, half to the court:
âWalang kaluluwa...â (No soul.)
He crouched, placed a hand on the floor. Smooth as ice. No scuffs, no cracks. Just the kind of pristine surface that felt like it would reject him on principle.
The rest of the team was already there, going through warmups with robotic precisionâpassing drills, layup lines, zero wasted movement. The kind of basketball that looked good on diagrams.
Y/N pulled out his own ball. Not regulation, not new. It had Manila streets embedded in its grip. Dirt from four barangays. Rubber scuffed thin. He bounces the ball once, testing it. The reboundâs too perfect, no wobble, no fight. He started dribbling low, working into a slow rhythmâbounce-cross, behind-the-back, spin-step. No formation. Just instinct.
A few players glanced his way.
âHe brought his own ball?â
âCheck the hair, bro. He came to be seen.â
Y/N ignored them, switched to one-foot floatersâstreetball mechanics. Ugly to some. Survival to him.
 âKeep talking, bro. Wait till Iâm on the court.â He drops into a stretch, knees bent, arms loose, his body swaying like heâs about to break ankles on a barangay court. Letâs see what you got.
Coach Kimâs voice cuts through the gym like a whistle, barking orders in rapid Korean. âLine three! Blocking drill! Move!â The words hit Y/N like a dodgeball, fast and unintelligible. He freezes, scanning the court, trying to decode the chaos. Players hustle into position, their movements a blur. A stocky teammate hisses, âNewbie, move!â and jabs a finger toward a line. Y/N bolts, but heâs off, dodging to the wrong side. A shoulder bumps himâlight, but pointedâsending him stumbling over a cone.
âMy bad, bro,â he calls in English, hands raised, his grin half-apology, half-defiance. The team exchanges looks, eyebrows raised. The buzzcut guy smirks, leaning toward his friend. âTourist.â
Y/Nâs jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists. He mutters in Tagalog, âSige lang. Isang laro lang, tapos tahimik kayong lahat.â Go ahead. One game, and youâll all shut up. He shakes it off, lining up again, eyes sharp. The courtâs a battlefield, and heâs not here to lose.
Then the door swung open again, and for a split second, time bent.
Park Sohyun walked in like she didnât have to announce herself, because the room did it for her.
Every player snapped into alignment. Even Coach Kim stopped talking mid-sentence. She wore a black DSU hoodie, sleeves rolled up. Her expression was unreadable, calm but cold, like someone who'd already measured the room and found it lacking.
She looked⊠untouchable.
âWhoâs that?â Y/N asked, his voice low but not soft.
One of the guys in line beside him, a stocky shooting guard, didnât even glance over.
âThatâs Park Sohyun.â
âIs she the coachâs assistant?â
âNo. Sheâs the captain.â
âThat girl?â
âThat assassin.â
Y/N turned back to her. She was stretching now. Not the performative kind, no bouncing or over-the-top arm flails. Just a quiet roll of her shoulder, a twist of her torso, like someone tuning a machine.
Their eyes met for half a second. That was all.
Sohyunâs eyes flick toward Y/N, catching his blue hair, his mismatched gear, the bandage on his knuckle. Her gaze is a scalpel, cool, assessing, slicing him open in a second.
And then she dismissed him.
Just turned away and kept stretching.
Y/N blinked, grinned to himself.
âNice to meet you too.â
---
Coach Kim claps, sharp and final. âThree-on-three! Letâs go!â
They paired him against her. Because of course they did.
3-on-3. Open-court scrimmage. Sohyunâs team in white. Y/Nâs in black.
The whistle blew and tension thickened. From the first pass, it was clearâthey werenât just different players. They were different philosophies.
Sohyun played like geometry. She flowed through sharp angles, her body always in the right place, her passes never flashy but always fatal. She ran the floor like a conductor, snapping out commands in quick Korean phrases, and her teammates moved like they were tethered to her.
Y/N? He moved like a song with a skipping beat. Dribbling low, changing pace without warning, slipping through gaps that hadnât existed a second ago. His footwork was ugly on purposeâstaggered steps, delayed crosses, jump stops no one expected.
It wasnât clean. But it worked.
He snags a rebound, spins past a defender, and lofts a floater off the glassâhigh arc, pure streetball. It drops, and the gym hums, a few players nudging each other. âLucky shot,â someone mutters.Â
Y/N catches Sohyunâs eye across the court. Her lips are a flat line, but her gaze narrows, annoyed, like his chaos is a personal insult. He winks, just to mess with her.
She responds with a play so sharp it cuts. She fakes a drive, pulls back, and drains another jumper, her hair snapping as she lands. The bench claps, disciplined. Y/N laughs under his breath, shaking his head. Alright, Captain. Letâs dance.
The first time he drove past Sohyun on a fake-out spin and hit a one-handed scoop that arced just over her outstretched hand, the bench gasped. The ball hit the backboard, then rolled in off the rim.
Y/N landed on one knee and grinned at her over his shoulder.
She didnât flinch. Just backpedaled to receive the inbound, stone-faced.
Next possession.
He tried againâthis time more direct. Hard dribble left. Sohyun anticipated the lane.
Y/N turned on a dimeâmisstep. His heel slipped on a slick patch of sweat near the free-throw line.
His balance blew out from under him.
Impact.
They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Bodies collided, not gracefullyâhard. His chest crashed into hers. She hit the floor with a grunt, and his elbow grazed her ribs, before it thunked off the polished wood with a dull, echoing smack.
Y/N groaned.
And realized, too lateâŠhe was on top of her.
Dead silence.
Her hairl fans out across the hardwood, black strands stark against the shine. His heart jackhammers, not just from the play. Her warmth seeps through his thin shirt, and for a moment, the world narrows to the press of her body, the sharp scent of her sweat and something faintly floral.
Every sneaker squeak in the gym paused. Someone dropped a water bottle. A freshman audibly whispered, âOh, shit.â
Sohyun stared up at him, eyes wide. Not with surprise. With fury.Â
Then came the voice. Cold and razor-sharp.
â믞ìčëì.â (You crazy bastard.)
The Korean hits Y/N like a jab, unfamiliar but unmistakable in its venom.Â
He blinks, scrambling to his knees, his grin reflexive, shaky. â...Was that a thank you?â His voice is light, teasing, but his face burns, embarrassment creeping up his neck. He didnât mean to crash into herâswear to God. But the way sheâs glaring, he might as well have planned it.
Wrong answer.
Sohyun shoved him offânot playfully. Full arm to the chest, legs kicking, getting him off her like a wasp.
Y/N scrambled up, palms out. âI slipped. I swear to God. That wasnâtââ
She didnât respond. Didnât look at him again.
She picked up the ball, tossed it to the bench, and walked off the court.Â
The airâs thick, every eye on Y/N. The buzzcut guy from earlier smirks, muttering to his teammate, âRookieâs got a death wish.â
Coach Kim didnât even blow the whistle. He just sighed and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, â...Here we go again.â
---
The gym emptied in waves. Players filing out in pairs, joking, stretching, grabbing protein bars from their bags. Coach left early. Sohyun vanished the second the scrimmage ended.
Y/N stayed behind.
His ass hurt. His pride, too.
By now the gym is a ghost town, half the lights dimmed, casting long shadows across the hardwood. Y/Nâs alone, barefoot, the cool floor a faint echo of Manilaâs concrete. He spins the ball on his finger, a lazy whirl, the hum of it steadying his pulse. His ribs still throb, but heâs not here to nurse bruises. Heâs here to move. He dribbles low, weaving imaginary defenders, then lofts a street-style floater,high arc, kissing the glass. Swish. The net ripples, the sound sharp in the quiet.
After a solid minute of hooping, He sat cross-legged near the center circle, hoodie tossed beside him, spinning the ball lazily on one finger. The lights above buzzed softly, an almost peaceful hum if you ignored how much of a disaster the day had been.
He stared up at the ceiling.
âFirst scrimmage,â he muttered. âCrush a screen. Spin past defenders. Then go full WWE on the team captain.â
He spun the ball again. Let it drop. Caught it.
âSolid debut.â
Footsteps.
He turned.
Sohyun.
She had her bag on her shoulder, loose hair strands clinging to her cheeks from sweat. Her face was unreadable, but she was walking past him, not toward him.
He called out.
âHey.â
She slowed. Just slightly.
âSorry 'bout earlier,â he said, keeping it casual. âI slipped. Swear to God.â
She barely glances at him, her expression cold as the court. She didnât reply and instead took three steps away, and thenââLearn the plays.â Her voice is clipped, each word a deliberate cut.
He blinked. âThat your way of saying you forgive me?â
Still walking.
He steps closer, the ball tucked under his arm, his grin widening to hide the sting. âYou could say âthank youâ for the entertainment. I mean, I did make the bench gasp.â
She stopped.
Turned.
Took two steps back toward him. Her eyes werenât cold. They werenât angry, either.
They were cutting. Exact.
âYouâre not here to entertain,â she says, her voice low, deliberate. âYouâre here to earn.â
He closes the gap, just a step, his sneakers silent on the hardwood. âIâll earn it when you stop looking at me like Iâm some tourist.â
A pause.
Longer than he expected.
Then her gaze sharpens. âThen stop acting like one.â She holds his stare, and for a moment, the gym shrinks to just them, the hum of the lights, the faint lo-fi beat leaking from her earbud, the heat of her defiance. Her lips part, like she might say more, but she turns instead, walking away, her steps steady, unyielding.
Y/N watches her go, his breath escaping in a slow huff. He looked at the door she disappeared through. Then at the court. Then said, to no one in particular:
âOkay, That was kinda hot.â
---
Weeks had passed since heâd crashed into Sohyun like a runaway train, and he was starting to feel the rhythm of Dong Seoulâs co-ed team. Seoulâs neon glow seeped through the gymâs windows, a far cry from the cracked concrete courts of his Philippine barrio, where games were all sweat, shouts, and streetlights. Heâd gotten better at catching the teamâs Koreanâstill a bit slippery with slang, but he could hold his own now, piecing together plays and banter without tripping too hard.
The morning light pours through the high gym windows, slicing through the faint haze of dust motes like a spotlight on a stage. The court gleams, freshly waxed, its hardwood so pristine it reflects Y/Nâs silhouette as he steps across the baseline. Itâs too clean, too perfect, a far cry from the courts he had ever played on. He shifts his weight, his worn sneakers squeaking, a loud protest in the quiet.
Coach Kimâs voice broke the silence before Y/N had both feet past the line.
âY/N. Park Sohyun.â
Y/Nâs step stuttered, his duffel half-slung over his shoulder. Sohyun, already mid-stretch on the sideline, doesnât flinch. Strands of her hair swings as she straightens, her DSU hoodie pristine, her calves taut as she balances on one leg.
âYou two,â Coach said, pacing in front of the assembled team, âare now married. Until further notice.â
A ripple of laughter rolls through the team. Y/Nâs grin twitches, but Sohyunâs face is stone, her jaw a tight line. She doesnât blink, doesnât acknowledge the chuckles.
Coach ignored the laughter. âHe learns the system, or he doesnât play. And youââ he looked at Sohyun, ââmake sure he does.â
Sohyun looked like she was chewing glass. Her jaw ticks, a single pulse of tension. She nods, sharp and silent, but her fingers curl into her palms as her knuckles whitened.
Y/N raised his hand halfway, like a student in a class he didnât sign up for. âJust to clarify, are we talking married-married, or like..training montage married?â
The teamâs laughter spikes, but Coachâs glare shuts it down. He doesnât answer, just blows his whistle, a shrill command that echoes off the rafters. Y/N drops his hand, muttering, âCool. No pressure.â
Sohyun was already walking toward the half-court line. She didnât wait to see if he followed, yet her posture was a silent order to do so. Y/N jogs after her, his sneakers scuffing the floor
She barked something fast and clipped in Korean. Something about spacing. Y/N caught maybe one wordâ"geori," which he was pretty sure meant âdistance.âÂ
âYeah, that makes sense,â he muttered, catching up to her. âWeâve got emotional distance. Thatâs healthy.â
She doesnât respond, just points at his feet. Another burst of Koreanâsomething-something stuff "pivot,â he thinks, catching the wordâs shape. Y/N raised his hands. âLook, can I get that in subtitles?â
She sighed through her nose, stepped forward, and grabbed his ankleânot rough, but firm. She shifts his foot outward, her touch quick but deliberate, then pushes his shoulder to adjust his stance. Her fingers linger for a half-second, cool against his sweat-damp shirt, and his pulse skips, caught off guard.
He blinks, his grin reflexive. âYou know we just met, right?â
Her eyes flick up, cool and unamused, but she doesnât answer. She repositions his other foot, steps back, and gestures for the drill to start. Y/N sighs, rolling his shoulders.
âRight. Romance is dead.â
The whistle blows again, and the court comes alive, players darting, balls bouncing, sneakers screeching. Y/N follows Sohyunâs lead, but itâs like trying to read a book in a language he barely knows. Her commands are sharp, her movements a blueprint he canât follow. Heâs a beat behind, his instincts screaming to break free, to dance through the play like he did back home. But her eyes are on him, and theyâre not forgiving.
They moved into a give-and-go drill. Sohyun set it up precisely. Markers. Angles. Elbows tucked. Every cut measured in math.Â
Y/N, though, plays like a melody with no sheet music, all instinct and improvisation. He fakes left, spins right, and throws a no-look pass behind his back, the ball arcing high, a streetball flourish that feels like home.
It landed, technically. is teammate fumbles the catch, the rhythm off, the play stuttering. Sohyun snags the ball mid-bounce, her grip tight, and whips it back at him, hard enough to sting his palm. The slap of leather echoes, and the team pauses, heads turning.
âDonât freestyle,â she snaps, her voice low but cutting, each word a deliberate strike. Her eyes are fire, not ice now, burning with frustration.
Y/N shakes out his hand, the sting lingering. âBut it worked.â
âYou broke spacing.â She steps closer, her sneakers silent, her posture rigid. âYou threw off the play.â
âYou break joy,â he shoots back.
She rolled her eyes and gestured sharply to reset the drill. âDo it again.â
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, but he resets, mirroring her stance this time. He keeps it clean, following her lead. The ball moves smoothly now, her pass to him precise, his return steady. Itâs not his game, but itâs hers.
The drill ends, and she brushes past him, her shoulder grazing his. He catches a whiff of her scent, something faintly floral, and the sharp tang of determination. Under his breath, he mutters, âMasungit.â (Grumpy.)
She stops mid-stride, her hair snapping as she turns. âWhat did you just say?â Her voice is sharp, but thereâs a curiosity in her eyes, as if sheâs caught him at something.
He leans back, his grin slow and deliberate. âIt means⊠beautiful.â
She stared, unimpressed. âLiar.â
He shrugs, his grin widening. âNot wrong.â
She doesnât smile, but her lips twitch, the barest hint of something softer. She turns away, her steps brisk, but she doesnât rush. Y/N watches her go, his pulse loud in his ears.Â
Masungit, but cute.
---
The water break is a reprieve, the gymâs energy simmering down to a low hum. Y/N collapses against the padded wall near the exit, his back sliding down until heâs sitting, legs sprawled. His water bottleâs lukewarm, the plastic creaking as he chugs half of it, sweat trickling down his jaw
Sohyun sat across from him, stretching her calves with surgical precision. Her sweatbandâs perfectly aligned, her eyes fixed on some invisible point, her water bottle resting beside her like a prop. She looks like sheâs ready for a photoshoot instead of a practice.
Y/N watches her, his head tilted, the bottle dangling from his fingers. Sheâs a blueprint, every line drawn with care. Heâs graffiti, wild and unscripted.
âYou play like someoneâs grading you,â he says, his voice carrying across the space, light but pointed. She blinks, her stretch pausing mid-motion. âExcuse me?â
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, the bottle swinging between his fingers. âYou play like someoneâs gonna mark you wrong if your elbowâs off by two degrees. Like thereâs a rubric taped to the hoop.â
She sets her water bottle down, deliberate, the plastic barely making a sound. âYou play like you think rules are suggestions.â
He laughs, low and genuine, the sound bouncing off the padded wall. âI grew up playing with a rim tied to a mango tree, okay? No refs, no lines. Just gravel crunching under your feet, tricycle horns blaring, dogs running through the play like theyâre part of the team.â He leans back, his eyes distant, a soft smile tugging at his lips. âI learned moves watching low-res YouTube vids on borrowed WiFi. Got dunked on by guys in slippersâslippers, pare. Played in the rain, slipped a lot, got up more.â
He pauses, his fingers brushing the woven bracelet on his wrist, the threads worn but strong. âIt wasnât clean. It wasnât pretty. But it was ours. That courtâŠâ He hesitates, his voice softening. âThat court saved me.â
Sohyunâs posture shifts, just a fraction. Her shoulders relax, her hands stilling on her knees. She doesnât speak for a moment, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. âIt sounds like chaos,â she says finally, her voice quieter, no edge this time.
He grins, but itâs softer, less bravado. âIt was beautiful chaos.âÂ
---
The gymâs energy has bled out, the teamâs fire reduced to a flicker as drills wind down. Most players shuffle toward the sidelines, their sneakers dragging, their focus already on the showers or the campus cafeteria. Coach Kim has vanished into his office, the door half-open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling out. The assistant coach, a wiry guy with glasses, hovers near the baseline, scrolled on a clipboard, and overall just pretends to be busy.
The final set is free throws, a quiet test of will. Y/N stands at the line, the ball heavy in his hands, his muscles burning from hours of drills. His legs ache, a dull throb that pulses from his calves to his thighs. Y/N wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, he fabric damp and clinging to his skin. His shots felt off, not by much, just a hair too much push, a fraction too much spin, too much noise in his head.
He takes a breath, bends his knees, and shoots. The ball arcs, too flat, and clangs off the rim, the sound sharp and accusing. He grimaces, snagging the rebound. Tries again. Another miss, this one grazing the backboard before bouncing away. The third shotâs no betterâŠrim, out. He curses under his breath, a low âPucha,â his Tagalog slipping out like a reflex. The net stays still, mocking him.
Sohyun watches from a few feet away, her arms crossed. Sheâs a statue, unyielding, but her gaze is locked on him, dissecting every move. âYou breathe wrong,â she says, her voice flat.
Y/N rolls his eyes, spinning the ball in his hands. âGee, thanks, Captain. Want to critique my heartbeat while youâre at it?â His toneâs light, teasing, but thereâs a flicker of frustration in his chest. Heâs not used to missing, not like this.
She doesnât flinch, her expression unchanging. âNo. You breathe wrong.â She steps closer, her sneakers silent on the hardwood. âInhale on the bend. Exhale on the rise. Like this.â
Before he can quip back, she takes the ball from his hands and steps to the line, her movements fluid. She bends her knees, inhales softly, her chest rising just enough to notice. Her exhale is a quiet hiss as she shoots, the ball arcing high, a perfect parabola that kisses the net with a soft swish. The sound is clean, final, like the netâs bowing to her.
She grabs the rebound, tosses it back to him, her eyes steady. âTry it.â
Y/N hesitates, his grin fading. Her voice isnât warm, but itâs not cruel eitherâjust matter-of-fact, like sheâs stating the law of gravity. He takes the ball, his fingers curling around the leather.Â
He steps to the line, feeling her eyes on him, not judging but waiting. He bends his knees, inhales deep, the air sharp in his lungs. Exhale, slow and controlled, as he rises, the ball leaving his fingers in a smooth arc.
Swish.
He blinks, his breath catching. The net ripples, the sound echoing in the quiet gym. He turns to her, his grin creeping back, softer this time, less bravado. âOkay, that⊠worked.â
Sohyun nods once, a single dip of her chin, like sheâs checking a box. âAgain.â
He resets, the ball feeling lighter now, his body falling into her rhythm. Inhale on the bend, exhale on the rise. The next shot drops clean, the net snapping. The third follows, just as smooth. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. âYouâre a wizard or something.â
She doesnât respond, just steps back, her arms crossing again. But thereâs a shift in the air. No words, but something subtle passed. An acknowledgment.Â
She turned away without saying anything. Y/N watches her go, the ball still in his hands, his pulse loud in his ears. He doesnât need her to say anything. The netâs still singing, and thatâs enough.
The gym, after hours, felt like an entirely different place. Empty bleachers, low lighting, and the ghost of sneakers squeaking in the air.
Y/N stayed behind, hoodie shed, his bare shoulders slick with sweat as he runs floaters from the elbowâleft side, right side, left again. The ball arcs high, kissing the glass before dropping through, each swish a small victory.
Heâs on his fourth set, his breath steady but his shoulder aching, when a voice cuts through the quiet. âYou live here?â
He spins, the ball tucked under his arm, his grin flashing before he can stop it. Sohyun stands at the door, her parka zipped to her chin, her hair damp from a quick rinse, curling slightly at the ends. Her arms are folded, her posture relaxed but guarded.
âYou stalking me, Captain?â he calls back, his voice bouncing off the walls, playful but testing. He dribbles once, twice, the sound sharp in the stillness.
She steps onto the court, her sneakers silent, and picks up a stray ball from the rack. She starts shooting, her form flawless, smooth, silent rhythm, each shot cleaner than the last. Five in a row, the net barely moving.Â
Y/N stood off to the side, watching. Not staring. Watching. The way you do when someone moves like theyâre dancing with gravity. Heâs seen good shooters before, Kuya Tim could sink shots blindfolded, but Sohyunâs different. Sheâs not just playing; sheâs solving the court, every shot an answer to a question no one else can hear.
âYou always this intense?â he asked.
She shoots again. Swish. âYou always this sloppy?â she replies, her tone dry but not cutting, her eyes flicking to his untied laces, his loose stance.
He laughs, soft and genuine, the sound filling the empty gym. âTouchĂ©.â He steps forward, tucking his ball under one arm, and passes it to her, a gentle toss. Their fingers brush as she catches it, the contact brief but electric, like a spark in the dark.Â
She didnât move.
Neither did he.
A pause. The air between them static. Like a slow-burning fuse.
He leaned in. Just a little. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a test. A question waiting for an answer.
The courtâs quiet, the only sound their breaths, his a little ragged, hers steady but quickening. Her eyes hold his, unreadable but alive, like sheâs weighing him, deciding whether to let him in. The moment stretches, a slow-burning fuseâŠ
Her phone buzzes, a sharp vibration that slices through the silence. She blinks, startled, and steps back. She pulls the phone from her parka, glances at the screen, her expression shuttering. Y/N clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. âSo, uh⊠that was⊠almost.â
She grabs her bag from the bench, slinging it over her shoulder. âLearn the plays,â she says, her voice flat but softer than before. She turns, her steps brisk, the door creaking as she pushes through.
Y/N watches her go, the gym swallowing the sound of her departure. He spins the ball on his finger, slow and steady, his lips curving into a soft, certain smile. âSwear she almost smiled,â he murmurs, the words for himself, the court, the night. He shoots one more floater, the ball arcing high, kissing the glass.
Swish.
---
The Dong Seoul University gym had never been this loud.
The stands were packed from the front row bleachers to the upper decks, vibrating with school chants and camera flashes. Vinyl banners swayed above the court, Dong Seoulâs crisp navy-and-gold clashing with Daehan Universityâs aggressive red-and-black. Local scouts lined the walls with clipboards in hand, murmuring player names into their phones. Student media paced near the baseline, mics in hand, hunting for reactions. Every bounce of the ball felt like a spotlight.
Y/N stood near the baseline, headphones on, bouncing his own rhythm into the polished floor. His electric blue hair gleamed under the fluorescents like he was dipped in rebellion. He shot casually, loose and fluid. His eyes, though, keep drifting sideways, past the crowd, past the banners.
To her.
Sohyun.
Across the court, she warmed up with mechanical precisionâfree throws, mid-range, corner threes. Elbow tucked. Wrist snapped. Feet aligned. Every motion was clean, automatic. Surgical. She doesnât look at the crowd, doesnât acknowledge the scouts or the cameras. She didnât look at him.
But she knew he was looking.
But Y/N knows she feels it, the weight of eyes, the hum of expectation. And he knows she knows heâs watching. Her shoulders stiffen, just a fraction, when his gaze lingers too long. He smirks, tossing up a lazy shot that kisses the glass and drops through. Swish. Heâs not trying to impress her. Not exactly. But heâs not not trying either.
Whispers ripple behind the press row, sharp and curious. âThatâs him? The Filipino transfer?â a voice mutters, low but clear.
âWith Park Sohyun? No way heâs her type,â another replies, a snicker threading through the words.
Y/Nâs grin doesnât falter, but his fingers tighten on the ball, his next shot a little harder, the rebound snapping off the rim with a clang. Heâs used to the whispers, back in Manila until he broke ankles and sank shots. But here, in this polished arena, the words feel sharper, like theyâre trying to carve him out of the picture.
The double doors at the far end burst open, and the air shifts, the crowdâs noise spiking into something electric. Daehan Universityâs squad strides in, their red-and-black jerseys sharp as a warning. They move like a K-drama boy bandâtall, sharp-jawed, swaggers synchronized, their steps echoing with purpose. But one of them doesnât need the theatrics. He didnât walk, he prowled.
Jang Taewook.
Captain. MVP. Seoulâs basketball prince. His sleeveless jersey shows off arms carved from hours in the gym, his jaw clenched just enough to hint at arrogance. His dark hair is swept back, his eyes scanning the court like a predator claiming territory. And when he stepped onto the court, the crowd noise didnât rise, it shifted. Focused. Like he was gravity.
Y/Nâs eyes narrow, his dribble slowing. He catches Sohyun mid-motion, bending for her water bottle, her hand freezing as her gaze flicks to Taewook. Just for a second. A breath. Her face doesnât change, but her fingers tighten on the bottle, the plastic crinkling. Y/N sees it, the pause, the tension, the history written in that fleeting moment. His grin fades, his pulse kicking up.Â
Who the hell is this guy?
---
It started casual. Courtside. Daehanâs squad running warm-up drills, DSU huddled near the scorerâs table, Coach Kim barking last-minute adjustments. Y/N towels off, the sweat-soaked cloth dragging across his neck, his blue hair sticking to his forehead. Heâs trying to focus, but his eyes keep drifting to Sohyun, whoâs reviewing plays with a teammate, her voice low and steady. Sheâs all business, but thereâs a tightness in her shoulders, a shadow in her posture.
Taewook doesnât bother with drills. He walks, deliberate, straight to her, his sneakers silent but his presence loud. He stops just close enough to make it personal, his height looming, a smile plastered across his face.
âStill cold, Sohyun?â His voice is smooth, slithering, like it knows exactly where to cut. Itâs loud enough for the nearby players to glance over, their warm-ups faltering.
Sohyun doesnât blink, her stance unyielding. âStill compensating with words?â she fires back, her tone even but laced with venom, like sheâs spitting ice that burns.
He laughed. Not with joyâjust enough teeth to remind everyone whoâd worn the crown. Y/N, toweling off a few feet away, feels the air shift, his fingers pausing on the cloth. He doesnât know the history, but he can feel the weight of something old and something messy.
Taewookâs gaze slides to him, slow and deliberate, like heâs sizing up a pest. âAh,â he says, his voice carrying across the court, loud enough to make the media kids perk up. âSo this is the upgrade. Neon hair. DIY accent. Imported.â
Y/N stepped forward, slow and unbothered, like he was chewing gum and about to spit it on Taewookâs shoes. âYou want a selfie, or you just mad no oneâs looking at you anymore?â Y/N says, his voice light but sharp, the kind of tone he used back in Manila when someone tried to talk over the game.
The gym hums, a few players pausing, their eyes darting between them. Taewookâs jaw tightens, just a flicker, but his smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. âCute,â he says, stepping closer, his height a deliberate challenge. âLetâs see if youâre still grinning when youâre back on whatever island you crawled from.â
Sohyun stayed still. But her eyes flicked to Y/N for a second too long. Something unreadable passed between them. Not thanks. Not yet. But something. She turns back to Taewook, her voice low, almost dangerous. âWarm up, Taewook. Or are you too busy talking?â
Taewookâs smile falters, just for a heartbeat. He laughs again, softer, and saunters back to his team, but the airâs charged now, the court a stage for something bigger than basketball. Y/N watches him go, his pulse loud in his ears, then glances at Sohyun. Sheâs already turning away, her focus back on her clipboard, but he catches the slightest tremor in her hand as she adjusts her earbud.
History, he thinks. And itâs not done.
The scrimmage is a war, with every possession a battle. Daehanâs up by two at halftime, Taewook orchestrating plays being the primary factor. Y/Nâs holding his own, his crossovers and floaters drawing murmurs from the crowd, but heâs a half-step behind DSUâs system, his instincts clashing with Sohyunâs calculated plays.
The halftime buzzer echoes, a sharp cry that cuts through the gymâs roar. The crowd swells as cheer squads storm the court, their pom-poms flashing, their chants a rhythmic pulse. Y/N slumps onto the bench, his hoodie damp with sweat, his water bottle cold against his lips. Heâs catching his breath when a commotion erupts at center court, the noise shifting from cheers to a curious hush.
Taewook had a mic.
And a plan.
Heâs standing at the half-court circle, his jersey untucked, his grin wide and dangerous. The live broadcast camera pans to him, its red light blinking, the jumbotron flashing his face across the gym. The crowd quiets, leaning forward, phones raised to capture whateverâs coming. Even Coach Kim freezes mid-sentence, his clipboard halfway to his mouth, as a media handler scrambles toward him.
Taewook doesnât wait for permission. He never does. âLetâs make this fun,â he says, his voice rolling over the loudspeaker like a dare, smooth and confident, like heâs already won. He points across the court, straight at Sohyun, whoâs standing near the scorerâs table, her water bottle halfway to her lips.
âIf we win the championshipâŠâ He pauses, letting the words hang, his grin sharpening. âShe dates me. Again. One month. Public.â
The gym explodes. Gasps. Audible. A cheerleader in the front row drops her pom-pom, the plastic rattling on the hardwood. The livestream chat on the jumbotron glitches, messages flying too fast to read: No way! Is this real? Sohyunâs ex?! Sohyunâs face doesnât move, but her bottle crinkles in her grip, her knuckles whitening. She mouths, âWhat the hell?â her lips barely parting, her eyes blazing.
Y/Nâs stomach twists, a mix of anger and something he canât name. He glances at her, but sheâs locked on Taewook, her expression a storm barely contained. The crowdâs noise is deafening, but itâs her silence thatâs louder.
Taewookâs not done. He turns, slow and dramatic, his eyes locking on Y/N. âAnd Manila Boy here?â His voice drips with mockery, the nickname a blade. âHe goes back home. No DSU. No team. No drama.â
The gym detonates again, half the crowd cheering, half screaming, the energy chaotic and raw. The scouts scribble faster, the media kids shove their mics toward the bench, and the livestream chat spirals into a frenzy. Coach Kim lunges toward the court, his face red, but a media handler grabs his arm, muttering something about sponsors. Y/N feels the weight of every eye in the gym, the air thick with expectation, judgment, and something uglier.
He stands, slow and deliberate, his hands loose at his sides.He tilts his head, not angry, not yetâjust insulted, like Taewookâs words are a bad shot heâs about to swat away. The courtâs a battlefield now, and heâs not backing down. He steps forward.
Y/N doesnât speak, not yet. The micâs still in Taewookâs hand, the jumbotron still flashing his smug grin, but Y/Nâs presence shifts the air. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, but thereâs a fire in his eyes, a quiet defiance that says heâs played on courts rougher than this, faced taunts sharper than Taewookâs. He thinks of his Lolaâs voice: Lagi mong dala 'yang puso mo, anak. Always carry your heart.
He glances at Sohyun, just for a second. Sheâs still frozen, her bottle crumpled in her hand, her eyes flicking between Taewook and him. He doesnât know their history, not really, but he sure can feel it and shit is not sweet.
Y/N steps closer to the half-court line, his sneakers silent now, his hands still at his sides. The crowdâs noise fades to a low hum, every eye on him.
Y/N steps closer to the half-court line, his sneakers silent now, his hands still at his sides. The crowdâs noise fades to a low hum, every eye on him. He doesnât need a mic. His voice carries, low and steady, with the kind of confidence that comes from bleeding for every inch of ground you claim.
âBig talk for a guy who needs a mic to feel tall,â he says, his tone light but sharp, like a crossover that leaves you stumbling. âYou want to bet on the championship? Fine. But Iâm not playing for your drama. Iâm playing for the game.â
Y/N doesnât move, his gaze steady, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. Heâs not here to loseânot to Taewook, not to anyone.
âButââ
âRun that back,â Y/N says, his voice low but cutting, carrying over the loudspeaker without effort. âJust so I heard right.â
He glances at Sohyun, standing near the scorerâs table, her water bottle crumpled in her grip, her eyes a storm of fire and ice. He scans the crowdâscouts scribbling, media kids shoving mics forward, students leaning over the rails, phones raised. Then his gaze snaps back to Taewook, whoâs still grinning, his red-and-black jersey a taunt.
âIf you win,â Y/N says, slow, deliberate, âsheâs a prize. I disappear.â He pauses, letting the words hang, the gym holding its breath. âBut if we win?â
He turns fully to Taewook now, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. âYou go dark. Delete the DMs. Zip the mouth. Vanish from her life. Forever.â
The crowd erupts, a tidal wave of cheers, gasps, and screams. Sohyunâs mouth parts, just a fraction, her eyes wideningâshe didnât see that coming, didnât expect him to flip the script. Taewookâs smile falters, his jaw twitching, the mic in his hand suddenly heavy.
âBig talk,â Taewook says, his voice smooth but strained, like heâs forcing the swagger. He steps closer, his height a challenge, his eyes glinting with something darker than confidence.
Y/N shrugs, his grin lazy but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. âNah. Big bet.â He tilts his head, his blue hair catching the light. âYou in?â
Taewookâs eyes narrow, his smile tightening, but he canât back downânot with the cameras rolling, not with the crowd chanting his name. âDeal,â he says, the word clipped, final.
The roar spikes, but before it can settle, Sohyun steps forward, her sneakers silent but her presence a thunderclap. âYou donât speak for me,â she says, her voice low, sharp, cutting through the noise like a knife. Her eyes are on Y/N now, not Taewook, and theyâre blazing, not with gratitude, but with fury, or maybe something messier.
Y/N doesnât flinch. He turns to her, his gaze soft but direct, like heâs seeing through her walls. âThen say you want him to.â
The gym holds its breath, the crowdâs noise fading to a low hum. Sohyunâs jaw tightens, her fingers curling into fists, but she doesnât speak. Her silence is louder than any words, a confession she canât voice. Y/N nods once, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile. âDidnât think so.â
The crowd explodes again, the noise a living thing, but Y/N doesnât bask in it. He walks back to the bench, his shoulders loose, his grin gone. He feels Sohyunâs eyes on him, feels the weight of what heâs done.
Y/N steps back, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood, his eyes flicking to Taewook one last time. âSee you at finals,â he says, his voice calm but heavy, like a promise carved in stone. He walks back to the bench, his shoulders loose, his grin gone. He feels Sohyunâs eyes on him, feels the weight of what heâs done.
---
The locker hallway smells like sweat, bleach, and something heavier, something unspoken that lingers in the air. Itâs narrow, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting jagged shadows on the tiled walls. Y/Nâs just pulled on his hoodie, the fabric sticking to his damp skin, when a hand grabs his arm, yanking him into a cramped space beside the water cooler. The metal hums faintly, cold against his back as he stumbles, catching himself against the wall.
Sohyunâs standing there, her eyes blazing, her hair loose, strands framing her face like a stormâs aftermath. âWho the hell do you think you are?â she hisses, her voice low, sharp, like sheâs cutting him open to see whatâs inside.
He blinks, his heart thudding from the suddenness of her grip. âThe guy who just made sure he canât touch you again,â he says, his tone light but edged.
Her jaw clenches, her fingers still on his arm, not letting go. âYou donât get to gamble me.â Her voice tremored slightly, a crack in her armor. Her eyes search his, furious but conflicted, like sheâs fighting a war she didnât sign up for.
âThen say I was wrong,â he says, softer now, his gaze steady. He steps closer, not enough to crowd her but enough to make the air between them hum. âSay you want him back. Say youâre okay with his games.â
Her lips part, but no words come. Her hand drops from his arm, her fingers curling into a fist. The silence is thick, charged, the hum of the water cooler the only sound. Y/N leans back, giving her space, but his voice doesnât waver. âYou didnât like what he said. Neither did I. So I did what you never let anyone doâŠI fought for you.â
Her eyes flash, fury cooling into something worseâconflict, raw and unguarded. âYou think I need you to fight for me?â she snaps. Sheâs not sure who sheâs angrier at, him, Taewook, or herself.
âNo,â he says, his voice low, honest, cutting through her defenses. âBut I wanted to.â
The words hang there, heavy, real. Her breath catches, her eyes locked on his, and for a moment, the hallway shrinks to just them.
Silence.
âDid you really like him?â Y/N asks, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, like heâs afraid of the answer but needs to know.
âNo,â she says, the word sharp, final, but it costs her something to say it.
âDid you like me standing up to him?â He steps closer, just a fraction, his grin gone, his gaze direct.
She opened her mouth, but she doesnât answer. Her eyes search his, conflicted, like sheâs weighing the cost of admitting anything. Then she turns, her sneakers silent on the tiles, and walks off.
Y/N watches her go, leaning back against the wall, the cool metal grounding him. His lips curve into a smile.
But it didnât quite reached his eyes.
She didnât say no.
---
The sun slowly sets, as the gym became a ghost town, the emergency lights casting a dim, flickering glow across the hardwood. One overhead bulb sputters near the far end, its hum a quiet heartbeat in the dark. Y/N stands at the free-throw line, alone, his hoodie shed, his tank top clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. The airâs heavy, smelling of polish and rubber, but itâs not sterile anymoreâitâs his now, claimed by every shot he takes.
He dribbles once, twice, the ballâs rhythm steadying his pulse. He bends his knees, inhales deep, exhales slowâSohyunâs advice from yesterday playing in his head. The ball arcs, but itâs off, grazing the rim and bouncing away. He grabs the rebound, tries again. Another miss, the clang sharp in the silence. His hands are steady, but his mindâs a messâTaewookâs voice, Sohyunâs silence, the crowdâs roar all swirling like a storm.
Third shot. He closes his eyes for a second, picturing the barangay court in Manilaâgravel underfoot, coconut hoop swaying, neighbors cheering. Bilog ang bola, pero puso ang direksyon. The ballâs round, but your heart decides the direction. He opens his eyes, bends, inhales, exhales. The ball arcs high, kisses the glass, and drops through.
Swish.
He lets out a breath, shaky, more vulnerable than he wants to admit. He stares at the rim, the net still rippling, and mutters, âYou better be worth it.â Heâs not sure who heâs talking toâSohyun, the game, or himself. Maybe all three.
He shoots again, and again, the rhythm building, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood. Each shot is a fight, a defiance against the noise in his head. He thinks of Sohyunâs eyes in the hallway, the way they held his, the way she didnât say no. He thinks of Taewookâs smirk, the way it twisted when Y/N took the mic. He thinks of Manila, of Lolaâs voice, of the court that saved him. The pressureâs mounting, but so is his fire.
The gym door creaks, and he pauses, the ball under his arm. He expects a janitor, but itâs herâSohyun, her hair loose, her eyes catching the dim light. She doesnât speak, just picks up a ball from the rack and starts shooting, her form flawless, her rhythm a quiet song. Y/N watches, his pulse loud in his ears, and for the first time, the court feels like itâs theirs.
Y/N doesnât break the silence, not yet. He dribbles low, his sneakers finding the hardwoodâs rhythm, his shots falling into sync with hers. She shoots from the cornerâswish. He answers with a floaterâswish. Itâs not a competition, not exactly, but itâs a conversation, the ball their words, the net their agreement. Her movements are precise, calculated, but thereâs a looseness to them now, a hint of something freer, like sheâs letting the court breathe.
He catches her eye mid-shot, and she doesnât look away. Her lips donât smile, but her gaze softens, just a fraction, like sheâs seeing himânot the tourist, not the hotshot, but the kid who fought for her when she didnât ask. He tosses her the ball, a gentle arc, and she catches it, her fingers steady. âYou donât sleep, do you?â she says, her voice low, almost teasing, but thereâs a warmth there, new and fragile.
He grins, spinning his ball on his finger. âNot when thereâs a court calling. You here to babysit me again, Captain?â
She shoots, the ball dropping clean. âIâm here to win,â she says, but her eyes linger on him, and the words feel like they mean more than the game.
He steps closer, his grin softening. âGood. âCause Iâm not going anywhere.â
The gym hums, the flickering light their only witness. The courtâs theirs now, and the rhythm theyâre building feels like the start of something neither of them can name.
---
The gym lights flicker to life, sluggish and reluctant, like eyelids dragged open before dawn. The air is crisp, carrying the sharp tang of floor polish and the faint echo of last nightâs sweat. Itâs 6 a.m., too early for the campus to stir, but Coach Kimâs whistle doesnât care about sleep cycles.
Y/N dragged his feet across the polished floor, hoodie half-zipped, headphones still around his neck. He spotted Sohyun already warming up, her arms slicing clean through the air with jump shots so precise they might have been pre-rendered.
Coach Kim barked from the baseline. âY/N! Donât forget, if you donât move like the team moves, you donât play. Not scrimmages, not showcase, not jack.â
Y/N nods once, his eyes bleary, his grin absent. Heâs too tired to quip, but the words sting, a reminder of how far he is from fitting in.
Coachâs gaze shifts, landing on Sohyun, whoâs already warming up at the far end, her arms slicing through the air with jump shots so precise they couldâve been programmed.
Park,â Coach says, his smirk sharp enough to draw blood. âRetrain him.â
Sohyunâs head snaps up, her shot pausing mid-motion, the ball frozen in her hands. âAgain?â Her voice is low and visibly annoyedÂ
Coachâs smirk widens, his clipboard tucked under his arm like a weapon. âUntil he stops looking like a street magician.â
Y/N mock-salutes, his grin flickering but not fully igniting. âCanât wait, Captain.â His voice is light, but his eyes are heavy, catching the way Sohyunâs jaw ticks, her fingers tightening on the ball.
She rolls her eyes, a quick flash of exasperation, but she doesnât argueânot with Coachâs gaze still boring into her. The whistle blows again, a shrill order that sets the court in motion. Y/N and Sohyun move to the half-court line, their steps stiff, their postures radiating mutual irritation.
They hate this.
Until, maybe, they donât.
The gym is a closed session, no crowd, no teammates, just the echo of sneakers and breath bouncing off the walls. The airâs heavy with the scent of rubber and sweat, the hardwood gleaming under the flickering lights like itâs daring them to break it. Y/N and Sohyun are alone, the court their battleground, Coach Kimâs orders a chain binding them together.
Sohyun moves like a drill sergeant, breaking every play into steps as precise as a blueprint. âPivot here,â she says, pointing to a spot on the floor, her voice clipped, authoritative. âRoll there. Pass on the third bounce.â She demonstrates, her movements a masterclass in control.
Y/N tries. Honestly. He mirrors her stance, his sneakers squeaking as he pivots, but his instincts keep kicking in, like a song he canât stop humming. He fakes left, spins right, and throws a behind-the-back pass, the ball arcing high in a streetball flourish that feels like home. It lands, technically, but itâs off-rhythm, the play stuttering as Sohyun catches it mid-bounce, her grip tight, her eyes narrowing.
She doesnât return it. Just stands there, the ball cradled against her hip, her stare pinning him like a specimen. âYou freelance too much,â she says, her voice low, cutting, like sheâs diagnosing a disease.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, defiant but playful. âYou breathe too little.â
Her eyes narrow further, a spark of irritation, or maybe something else flaring in them. He grins wider, undeterred. âMasungit,â he mutters under his breath, the Tagalog slipping out like a secret.
This time, she doesnât let it slide. She chucks the ball at his chest, hard enough to sting, the leather slapping his ribs. He catches it, barely, his grin faltering for a split second. âYou donât take anything seriously,â she says,
He blinks, his hands steady on the ball, his gaze softening. âThatâs not true,â he says, quieter now, the words carrying a weight she didnât expect. He steps forward, his sneakers silent, and moves into her pattern, mimicking her pivot, her roll, her pass. Itâs not perfectâhis shoulders are too loose, his rhythm still a beat offâbut itâs closer, deliberate, like heâs trying to speak her language.
They run the drill again, cleaner this time. He follows her lead, tucking his elbows, keeping his cuts tight. The ball moves smoothly, her pass snapping to him, his return steady. Itâs not his game, not the wild, improvisational dance of Manilaâs courts, but itâs hers, and for the first time, he feels the rhythm of it, like a song heâs learning to hum.
She steps back, her arms crossing, her eyes assessing. âBetter,â she says, her voice flat but not cold, like sheâs acknowledging a fact she canât ignore.
He grins, wiping sweat from his brow. âHigh praise, Captain.â His toneâs teasing, but his eyes are earnest, searching hers for something, anything that says she sees him.
She doesnât respond, just gestures to reset the drill, but her postureâs less rigid. They move again, and the court feels alive, their steps a tentative duet.
The drill breaks, and they collapse against the padded wall near the baseline, their water bottles sweating in their hands, the plastic cool against their palms. The gymâs quiet now, the only sounds the hum of the lights and the faint drip of a leaky faucet in the corner. Y/N leans his head back, his blue hair sticking to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His shoulder aches, his legs burn, but thereâs a calm settling in, like the courtâs finally starting to feel like his.
Sohyun sits beside him, her knees pulled up, her bottle resting on one thigh. Sheâs still, her eyes fixed on the court, âWhy do you play like that?â she asks, her voice quiet, breaking the silence like a pebble dropped in a still pond.
Y/N glances sideways, caught off guard. Her eyes are on him now, not sharp but curious, like sheâs seeing him for the first time. He rolls his bottle between his palms, the plastic crinkling, and lets out a soft laugh, no sarcasm this time. âBecause structure never really⊠fit.â
She doesnât reply, just watches him, her gaze steady but not pressing. So he keeps going, his voice softer, his words spilling like theyâve been waiting too long. âI didnât have a coach. Not really. Just older kids, kuya, ate, whoâd show up at the barangay court with a ball and too much attitude. We played on cracked asphalt, a broken backboard, trash cans for cones. Weâd tape our shoes till the soles gave up. That was normal.âÂ
He pauses, his fingers brushing the woven bracelet on his wrist, the threads worn but strong. âMy kuya, Timâhe was supposed to go pro. He was insane, like, stupid good. Could dunk so hard the rim shook. Then his knee popped. Done. Just like that.â His voice catches, just a fraction, and he clears his throat, his eyes distant. âSo I started playing twice as hard. For both of us.â
He looks at the court, the hardwood gleaming under the lights. âI never had a system. Just the ball and whoever tried to take it. Thatâs what kept me goingâkeeps me going. The gameâs not about rules. Itâs about heart.â
The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Sohyun doesnât nod, doesnât smile, but her shoulders relax, the tension in them easing like a knot slowly unraveling. Her fingers loosen on her bottle, her eyes still on him, like sheâs piecing together a puzzle she didnât know she was solving.
He glances at her, his grin soft, almost shy. âWhat about you? Why do you play like youâre solving math?â
She doesnât answer right away, her gaze drifting to the court.
When she speaks, her voice is low, measured, but thereâs a crack in it, like sheâs letting him see something sheâs kept locked away. âItâs how I was taught. Control. Precision. You donât win by hoping. You win by knowing.â
Y/N nods, not pushing, but his eyes donât leave her. She feels it, and for the first time, she doesnât look away.
The campus is quiet as they walk away from the gym to take a short walk, their sneakers dragging on the concrete path, the sky bleeding soft gold over the rooftops. The airâs cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and city smog, a stark contrast to the gymâs heavy warmth. Y/Nâs hoodie is slung over his shoulder, his tank top damp, his blue hair catching the dawn light like a beacon. Sohyun walks beside him, her parka unzipped, her hands in her pockets, her steps measured but not as rigid as before.
âMy dad was a coach,â she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet, her eyes fixed straight ahead. âNational team.â
Y/N looks over, surprised. She rarely starts conversations, and her words feel like a door creaking open, just a crack. He lets out a low whistle, his grin playful but soft. âDamn. That explains the Terminator energy.â
Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but itâs gone as fast as it comes. âHe had drills for me when I was six,â she says, her voice quieter now, like sheâs pulling the words from a place she doesnât visit often. âFootwork. Passing. Shooting form. Every day, before school, after school. If I messed up, it wasnât just a mistake. It meant I didnât listen. That I couldnât be trusted. That I wasnâtâŠâ She pauses, her breath catching, her eyes still on the horizon. âWorth betting on.â
Y/N stops walking, his sneakers scuffing to a halt. The words hit him like a loose ball he didnât see coming. He looks at her, his grin gone, his eyes searching her profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek. She keeps walking, her steps steady, like sheâs afraid stopping will make the words too real.
He catches up, slower this time, his hands in his pockets, mirroring her. âSounds lonely,â he says, his voice low, honest, no trace of his usual bravado.
She doesnât answer, but she doesnât walk away either. Her shoulder brushes his as they move, a fleeting contact that feels like a confession. The campus is waking up now, students trickling out of dorms, the hum of morning traffic in the distance. But for a moment, itâs just them, the sky gold and soft, the path stretching out like a promise theyâre not ready to make.
They walk in silence for a while, the concrete path winding past lecture halls and cherry blossom trees just starting to bud. Y/N feels the weight of her words, the way they echo his ownâdifferent courts, different rules, but the same need to prove something. He thinks of Manila, of Kuya Timâs laugh, of the barangay court where he learned to fight for every shot. He thinks of Sohyunâs eyes in the gym, the way they softened when he spoke of his brother, the way they held his when she didnât answer.
He glances at her, âYou know,â he says, his voice light but deliberate, âIâm not trying to mess up your system. I just⊠play how I feel.â
She looks at him, her eyes assessing but not cold. âAnd howâs that working out for you?â Her toneâs dry, but thereâs a spark in it, like sheâs testing him, maybe teasing.
He grins, his shoulder bumping hers, just enough to make her pause. âGetting there,â he says. âYouâre helping. Even if you hate it.â
She rolls her eyes, but itâs softer, less cutting. âI donât hate it,â she says, and the words are quiet, almost lost in the morning air. She keeps walking, her steps a little lighter, like it has found a new rhythm.
Y/N watches her, his grin softening into something real. The courtâs waiting, the finals looming, Taewookâs shadow hanging over them. But right now, itâs just the two of them, walking side by side, their steps starting to sync. He feels it, the start of something, not just on the court but off it, a rhythm theyâre building together.
---
The gym is a different world at dusk, the air soft and golden, the high windows spilling light that makes the backboards glow like theyâre lit from within.
Y/Nâs hoodie is slung over the bench, his tank top clinging to his sweat-damp skin, his electric blue hair catching the light like a neon flare. Heâs teaching Sohyun a no-look pass, his wrist twisting mid-motion, the ball arcing behind his back with a streetball flourish that feels like Manila.
Sohyun scoffs, her arms crossed, her DSU jersey slightly wrinkled, a rare imperfection. âThatâs stupid,â she says, her voice dry but with a spark of curiosity.
He grins, undeterred, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood as he resets. âYeah, but kinda hot, right?â He tosses the ball to her, light but deliberate, daring her to try.
She catches it, her fingers steady, her eyes narrowing. She steps to the side, mimics his stance, her knees bending, her wrist twisting. The ball sails behind her, nailed it,
Y/N claps once, loud, the sound echoing in the quiet gym. âDamn, Captain! You nailed it!â
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but her eyes soften, the usual steel giving way to something warmer. âYou love being right,â she says.
He catches it, his grin widening, his heart thudding a little too fast. âI love you being surprised.â The words slip out, playful but heavy, and for a moment, the air shifts, charged with something new.
They laughâactually laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls, hers sharp and fleeting, his low and warm. Itâs a sound neither of them expected, like a song they didnât know they could sing together. He steps forward, closer than he means to, and brushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing her skin, soft and deliberate. The contact is brief, but itâs electric, his pulse spiking. âYou always this perfect?â he asks, his voice low, half-teasing, half-serious.
She tilts her chin, her eyes meeting his, a challenge in them but no ice. âYou always this fake confident?â Her toneâs dry, but thereâs a spark in it, like sheâs playing his game and liking it.
He leans closer, just a breath between them, his grin softening. âNah. Just good at hiding when Iâm shaking.â His voice is quieter now, honest, and he feels itâthe vulnerability, the risk, the way his heartâs out there, unguarded.
Their fingers brush during the next pass, the ball slipping between them, and neither pulls away. Her hand lingers, her skin warm against his, and the gym shrinks to just themâthe golden light, the hum of their breaths. The moment stretches, fragile and alive, a question neither of them asks aloud.
Then the lights snap off, plunging the gym into shadow. The janitorâs voice cuts through, gruff and distant. âStill here?â
They jump apart, like kids caught sneaking out, their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Y/Nâs heart races, his grin sheepish. âNope!â he calls, his voice louder than it needs to be. âTotally leaving!â
Sohyun grabs her bag, her movements quick but not rushed, her face unreadable but her cheeks faintly flushed. They head for the door, not looking at each other, but their shadows fall close on the court, overlapping just enough to mean something. The air outside is cool, the campus quiet, but Y/N feels the warmth of that moment lingering, like a shot thatâs still ringing in the net.
---
Y/N lies on his dorm bunk, one leg swinging off the side, his phone glowing in the dark like a beacon. The room is small, the linoleum floor cold under his bare feet, the walls bare except for the faded photo of his barangay teammates propped on the desk.
His body aches from practice, but itâs his mind thatâs restless, replaying that moment in the gymâthe brush of Sohyunâs hair, the warmth of her fingers, the way her laugh made his stomach absolutely flip.
He opens his phone, the screen casting a blue glow across his face. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, words forming and dissolving like smoke.
âDid you feel it too?â
He deletes it, his heart thudding. Too much, too soon.
âThanks for not killing me today.â
He erases that one too, his grin flickering. Too flippant.
nice shot earlier. bet you practiced.
He hesitates, his thumb lingering. Itâs simple, light, but itâs himâplayful but real. He hits send, the swoosh of the message a quiet thrill. He stares at the screen, his pulse loud in the dark, waiting for the dots that mean sheâs typing.
Bzzz.
The reply comes faster than he expects.Â
it was the shoes.
He laughs, soft and genuine, the sound filling the small room. He can picture herâsitting on her own bed,typing with that same precision she brings to the court. He wants to reply, to keep the conversation going, to see how far this thread will stretch. But he doesnât. He sets the phone on his chest, the screen dimming, and falls asleep with it still in his hand, a faint smile on his lips.
â
The next practice is electric, the gym buzzing with the usual chaos, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, Coach Kimâs whistle shrieking like a hawk. The teamâs in full swing, running pick-and-rolls, their movements sharper now, the finals looming like a storm on the horizon. Y/Nâs in the thick of it, looking like a blur as he weaves through defenders, his crossovers cleaner but still laced with streetball flair. Heâs starting to sync with the teamâs rhythm, his passes finding their mark, his shots falling more often than not.
Sohyunâs running point, her commands sharp, her eyes scanning the court like a general. She calls a play, her voice cutting through the noise, and fires a no-look pass to Y/N, the ball snapping through the air like itâs on a string. He catches it mid-stride, spins past Buzzcut, and finishes with a floater that kisses the glass and drops through. Swish. The net ripples, and the bench murmurs, heads nodding.
Sohyun nods, just once, her eyes meeting his for a split second. Itâs not a smile, but itâs close, acknowledgment, respect, maybe something more. Y/N grins, wiping sweat from his brow, and jogs back to reset.
The bench starts whispering, their voices low but sharp, like theyâre dissecting a play. âThey got a thing?â one player mutters, nudging his teammate.
âShe never looks at anyone like that,â another says, his eyes flicking between Y/N and Sohyun. âNot even Taewook.â
Y/N catches the words, his grin flickering, but he doesnât react. He feels their eyes, thoughâthe team, the assistant coach, even Coach Kim, whoâs watching from the sideline, his clipboard still but his pen scribbling something quick. Kimâs face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers, like heâs seeing something heâs been waiting for
Sohyun calls another play, her voice steady, but Y/N notices the way her body sways a little looser. Sheâs still the captain, still the machine, but thereâs a warmth in her movements now, a crack in the ice. The team sees it too, and the whispers grow, a quiet current under the gymâs noise. Y/N catches the ball again, his heart thudding, not just from the game. Theyâre noticing. And for once, he doesnât mind.
Practice ends, and the gym clears out, the team trickling away to showers and dorms. The airâs heavy with the scent of sweat and polish, the court silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Y/N lingers, his bag slung over his shoulder, his sneakers untied, his tank top sticking to his skin. Heâs about to leave when he spots her: Sohyun, under the bleachers, sitting on a folded mat, lacing her shoes with deliberate care.
He hesitates, then walks over, his steps quiet on the hardwood. He sits beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence but not so close as to crowd her. The bleachers cast jagged shadows over them, the light dim and flickering, like theyâre hiding in a pocket of the world.
Neither speaks for a while, the silence comfortable but heavy, like itâs waiting for something to break it. Y/N rolls his water bottle between his palms, the plastic crinkling, his bracelet catching the faint light. Sohyun ties her final knot, her fingers steady, but she doesnât stand, doesnât move.
âYou didnât have to stand up to him,â she says finally, her voice quiet, almost lost in the shadows. Her eyes stay on her shoes, like the words are too heavy to say while looking at him.
Y/N leans back, his shoulder brushing the bleacherâs edge, his grin soft but absent. âYou didnât have to stay,â he says, his voice low, matching hers, like theyâre sharing a secret.
She pauses, her fingers stilling on her laces, her breath catching. âWhy?â she asks, the word barely audible, but it carries everythingâher doubt, her fear, her need to understand.
He looks at her, his eyes steady, no trace of his usual bravado. âI donât know,â he says, honest, raw, like heâs peeling back a layer he didnât know he had. âBut Iâm not walking away from it now.â
She doesnât say anything, doesnât move, but her eyes lift, meeting his in the dim light. The silence stretches, but itâs not emptyâitâs full of things unsaid, things felt, things neither of them is ready to name. They stay there, in the shadows, just a little too close to not mean something.
He looks at Sohyun, her profile sharp in the dim light. He wants to ask about her father, about the drills at six, about what makes her play like sheâs solving the world. But he doesnât. Not yet.
Instead, he nudges her shoulder, light, playful. âYou know, youâre not as scary as you think you are,â he says, his voice teasing but soft, like heâs tossing a ball and hoping sheâll catch it.
She glances at him, her lips twitching, not quite a smile but close. âAnd youâre not as tough as you pretend to be,â she says, her tone dry but warm, like sheâs playing his game and winning.
He laughs, low and genuine, the sound filling the shadows. âFair,â he says, leaning back, his hands behind his head. âBut Iâm growing on you, right?â
She doesnât answer, just stands, her sneakers silent on the mat. But she doesnât walk away, and when she glances back at him, her eyes hold his for a moment too long. âKeep up,â she says, her voice quiet but carrying a challenge, a promise.
He grins, standing to follow her, his heart thudding, not just from the game. The finals are coming, Taewookâs bet looming, but right now, itâs just them, the court, and the quiet thing growing between them. Itâs not practice anymore. Itâs something else, something worth fighting for.
---
Finals Day: One Shot Left
The arena didnât buzzâit roared.
The stands are a tidal wave of bodies, packed to the rafters, vibrating with chants, cheers, and the staccato flash of phone cameras. Championship banners hang like ghosts overhead, their faded navy-and-gold edges whispering of past glories, daring the present to measure up. The court gleams under blinding fluorescents, its hardwood too pristine, like itâs daring anyone to scuff it. Dong Seoulâs navy-and-gold jerseys shine like armor, while Daehanâs crimson players prowl in warm-up, their movements sharp and predatory.
Y/N sits at the edge of the bench, his earbuds in, a faint pulse of a hiphop track from his playlist. His fingers drum against his knee, a restless rhythm that betrays the calm in his eyes. Heâs here and heâs ready.
His gaze drifts across the court, past the scouts scribbling on clipboards, past the media kids thrusting mics at anyone who moves.Â
To her.
Sohyun sat cross-legged on the bench a few meters away, wrapping tape around her fingers with the same precision she used on the court. Her eyes are narrowed, locked on the hardwood like sheâs mapping every inch, She doesnât look at the crowd, doesnât flinch at the noise, but Y/N knows she feels it, the pressure, the eyes of everyone waiting for her to falter.
No mistakes. Not today, she thinks, her internal voice sharp, unyielding, a blade honed by years of drills and her fatherâs voice echoing in her head. She adjusts her tape, her fingers steady but her heart racing, a quiet storm beneath her calm.
Y/Nâs own thoughts hum, a different rhythm. Sheâs watching. Donât fumble now. He pulls his earbuds out, the music fading, and tucks them into his hoodie pocket.Â
Coach Kim claps loudly, his hands like thunder, calling the team into a circle. His eyes are fire, his clipboard a prop he doesnât need. âThis is your court,â he growls, his voice rough, commanding. âNot theirs. Play like it. Own it.â
The team nods, their chant rising, a unified shout that shakes the bench. Y/N joins in, but his eyes stay on Sohyun, whoâs standing now, her posture rigid, her focus a wall. She doesnât look back. Not yet. But he feels it, the thread between them, taut and alive, pulling them toward the same fight.
The tip-off is a war cry, the ball launching skyward as the arena erupts. Daehanâs press comes down like a storm, relentless and suffocating, their crimson jerseys a blur of aggression. Taewook moves like a blade, cutting through DSUâs offense with practiced spite, his eyes glinting with something darker than competition. Elbows fly, bodies collide, the refsâ whistles barely audible over the crowdâs screams, a chaotic symphony of anticipation and adrenaline.
Y/N plays like a live wire, his speed a spark that ignites the court. He slips screens with dizzying ease, stealing passes mid-air, his spin moves leaving Daehan defenders lunging at shadows. His no-look assist in the first quarterâa flick of the wrist that sends the ball soaring to a teammate under the rimâdrops jaws in the second row, the crowd roaring as the shot drops.
Sohyun, though, is the anchor. Where Y/N flies, she stalks, her movements pure calculatedâangles, lines, precision. Each possession is a puzzle she solves in real-time: an elbow jumper that kisses the net, a step-through layup that splits a double team, a bounce pass so clean itâs like sheâs threading a needle. Her eyes scan the court, calculating, unyielding, but thereâs a fire in her now, a spark Y/N recognizes from their late-night practices.
Their tension becomes momentum, a magnetic pull that makes the court hum. Midway through the second quarter, Sohyun sets a hard screen, her shoulder a wall, her eyes flicking to Y/N. He ghost-cuts behind, slipping past Taewookâs reach, and she fires the ball over her shoulder, a no-look pass that lands in his hands like it was meant to be there. He doesnât hesitate, slinging it back as she sprints to the three-point line. Her feet plant, her wrist snaps, and the ball arcs high, dropping clean through the net. Swish.
The gym loses its mind, the crowd surging to their feet, banners waving, the jumbotron flashing the replay. Y/N grins, his heart pounding, and throws a quick salute to Sohyun, who doesnât smile but nods, her eyes alive with something fierce. Taewook stares across the court, his jaw locked, his crimson jersey a stark contrast to the navy-and-gold sea around him. His mask is still in place, but itâs cracking, his eyes burning with something thatâs not just competition.
The halftime buzzer sounds, sharp and final. The scoreboard glows: Dong Seoul 42, Daehan 45. The teams head for the lockers, the crowdâs roar fading to a restless hum. Y/N feels the weight of the game, the bet, the eyes on him. But more than that, he feels herâthe rhythm theyâre building, the fight theyâre sharing. Itâs not just practice anymore. Itâs something bigger.
The locker room pulses with fatigue and frustration, the air thick with the smell of sweat and Bengay. The team sprawls across benches, water bottles dripping, towels draped over shoulders. Y/N sits in a corner, wincing as he peels off his sock, his ankle swollen, a red bruise blooming just beneath the bone. He tries to hide the limp, flexing his foot to test it, but the pain bites, sharp and insistent. He mutters a quiet âMotherfuckerâ under his breath.
Sohyun sees it before he can cover it up. Sheâs across the room, her own tape fresh on her fingers. She corners him by the lockers, her hand blocking his escape, her eyes sharp and unyielding. âYouâre hurt,â she says, her voice low, matter-of-fact, but thereâs a current beneath it was concern, and something else.
He leans back against the locker, his grin reflexive but shaky. âIâm fine,â he says, his tone light but defensive, like heâs trying to convince himself as much as her.
She steps closer, her sneakers silent on the tiled floor, her posture a wall. âStop pretending. You play like this, youâll make it worse.â
His grin fades, his eyes narrowing, the pain in his ankle mirrored by a sharper ache in his chest. âThen say it,â he says, his voice sharp now, a challenge. âSay you donât want me out there.â
Her gaze doesnât waver, but her voice drops, softer, almost vulnerable. âI want you out there.â She pauses, her breath catching, her eyes searching his. âBut not if it breaks you.â
The words hit him like a loose ball he didnât see coming. He stares at her, his heartbeat louder than the halftime whistle.
Sohyun crouches, pulling a roll of athletic tape from the med kit, and sits him down on the bench, her movements deliberate but gentle. She takes his ankle in both hands, her fingers cool against his skin, and starts wrapping, her touch precise, practiced, like sheâs done this a thousand times.
Y/N watches her, his breath uneven, his pulse thudding in his ears. âYou donât have toââ he starts, his voice low, almost a whisper.
She wraps the tape tight, her fingers moving with the same precision she brings to the court, but thereâs a softness in her touch, a care she doesnât voice. When she finishes, she doesnât pull back, not right away. Her hands linger, her eyes lifting to meet his, their faces close now, too close.
Sohyun whispers, more breath than voice, âI trust you.â The words are raw, unguarded, like sheâs handing him something fragile.
Her eyes flicker, not away but into his, like sheâs seeing something she didnât expect. The moment stretches, heavy, alive, a fuse burning down. He leans in, just a fraction, his voice a half-joke, half-plea. âThen kiss me.â
Her breath catches, her eyes widening, but she doesnât pull back. The air cracklesâŠand thenâŠ
She does it.
Not soft, not careful, but fierce, like timeâs run out and sheâs stealing it back. Her lips press against his, urgent, hungry, like sheâs pouring everything she canât say into the moment. His hands find her waist, tentative at first, then steady, pulling her closer, the tape roll forgotten on the bench.
A bang on the locker room door shatters the moment. âTwo minutes!â Coach Kimâs voice booms, rough and impatient.
They break apart, gasping, their breaths mingling in the air. Sohyun stands quickly, her cheeks flushed, her posture snapping back to captain-mode. âNow go earn it,â she says, her voice steady but softer, like sheâs still holding onto the moment.
Y/N grins, his heart racing, his ankle still throbbing but his fire burning brighter. He stands, testing the tape, and nods. âLetâs do this.â
They come back different, the court feeling smaller, more theirs. Y/Nâs movements are sharper, his swagger tempered with purpose. Heâs not trying to dazzle anymoreâjust execute, his passes landing exactly where they should, his shots clean and deliberate. His ankle aches, but the tape holds, and Sohyunâs touch lingers in his mind, steadying him like a rhythm he canât shake.
Sohyunâs different too. Her plays, once rigid, start to bendâshe pump-fakes when sheâd usually pass, takes risks that feel like his influence. Her eyes scan quicker, her movements looser, like sheâs letting the court breathe. She smilesâjust barelyâafter a give-and-go with Y/N, the ball snapping between them like a shared pulse.
Midway through the third quarter, Daehan traps Y/N near the sideline, two defenders closing fast, their crimson jerseys a wall. He pivots, his sneakers squeaking, his body low, and flicks a high lob over their heads, the ball arcing like a prayer. Sohyunâs there, catching it mid-stride, her eyes locked on the rim. She doesnât hesitate, doesnât calculateâshe leaps, her body stretching, and dunks, her hands slamming the ball through the hoop with a force that shakes the backboard.
The Dong Seoul bench erupts, players leaping to their feet, the crowd surging, banners waving. The jumbotron flashes the replay, the arena roaring like a living thing. Itâs her first dunk in a live game, a moment no one saw coming, least of all Taewook, whose mask cracks across the court, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tight. Y/N throws his arms up, shouting, âThatâs my captain!â his grin wide and wild, his heart pounding with pride.
Sohyun lands, her sneakers hitting the hardwood, her breath heavy but her eyes alive. She glances at Y/N, not smiling but nodding, a silent weâre doing this. The scoreâs tightâDong Seoul 58, Daehan 60âbut the momentumâs shifting, the court bending to their rhythm. Taewook calls a play, his voice sharp, but thereâs a tremor in it, like he feels the ground slipping.
Y/N catches Sohyunâs eye as they reset, and for the first time, theyâre not just playing togetherâtheyâre playing as one, their movements a duet, their hearts in motion. The finals arenât just a game anymore. Theyâre a fight, a promise, a shot they canât miss.
The fourth quarter looms, the scoreboard a ticking bomb, but Y/N feels alive, the court a canvas where he and Sohyun are painting something new. He feels it now, beating in sync with Sohyunâs, their passes a conversation, their plays a confession.
Sohyun calls a play, her voice steady but laced with fire, and Y/N moves, slipping a screen, catching her pass, and driving to the rim. Taewookâs there, his arm raised, his eyes burning with spite, but Y/N spins, his body a blur, and lays it up, the ball kissing the glass and dropping through. The crowd roars, the bench screams, and Sohyunâs there, clapping once, sharp, her eyes meeting his with something fierceâpride, trust, maybe more.
The clock ticks down, the score tied, the arena a pressure cooker. Y/N feels the weight of the bet, Taewookâs shadow, the eyes of the crowd, but more than that, he feels herâthe way sheâs fighting beside him, the way she kissed him like time was running out. Theyâre not just playing for the championship. Theyâre playing for each other, for the rhythm theyâve built, for the heart that decides the direction.
---
One minute. Tied at 71. The clock ticks like a heartbeat, each second a hammer against the hardwood. Dong Seoulâs navy-and-gold jerseys are soaked, Daehanâs crimson a relentless tide, and the court feels like a battlefield, every inch fought for, every possession a war.
The timeout huddle is a tight knot near the bench, the air heavy with the smell of desperation. Coach Kimâs clipboard is a blur of Xâs and Oâs, his voice rough as he sketches a safe play, motion screens to free Sohyun, a corner three for the shooter, a fallback rebound plan. His eyes are fire, his words sharp. âExecute, or weâre done.â
Sohyun stands at the edge of the huddle, her taped fingers flexing, hair strands clinging to her sweat-damp neck. Her eyes flick to Y/N, whoâs leaning in, his blue hair wild under the fluorescents, his ankle taped tight but his grin absent. His earbuds dangle from his hoodie pocket, the faint pulse of Filipino rap a ghost of his usual swagger. He shakes his head, slow, deliberate, his voice low but firm. âDonât run it.â
Her eyebrow arches, a challenge in her gaze. âYou sure?â Her tone is sharp, but thereâs a spark in it, like sheâs daring him to prove himself.
He breathes deep, his chest rising, his woven bracelet catching the light. âThis time,â he says, his eyes locked on hers, âtrust me.â
The huddle goes quiet, the teamâs eyes darting between them. Coach Kimâs gaze narrows, but he sees itâthe fire in Y/Nâs eyes, the steel in Sohyunâs nod. He doesnât argue. âWin it,â he says, his voice a growl, his clipboard dropping to his side.
The whistle blows, sharp and final, and the court comes alive. The crowd surges, banners waving, the jumbotron flashing the tied score. Daehan collapses on Sohyun the second the ballâs in play, a triple-team closing like a vice. She twists, her sneakers squeaking, her eyes scanning the court like a hawk. Sheâs a machine, calculating angles, but thereâs a spark in her now,
She finds him.
Across the arc, Y/N breaks free, slipping a screen with a ghost-cut that leaves his defender stumbling. Their eyes meetâno shout, no signal, just a look that carries everything. She whips the ball, a no-look pass that slices through the air like a blade. Y/N catches it mid-stride, one bounce, his body low, his ankle throbbing but holding. The rimâs in his sights, Taewook charging from the side, his crimson jersey a blur. Y/N doesnât hesitate. He rises, his wrist snapping, the ball arcing high, a prayer and a promise in one.
Time dilates, the arena holding its breath. The ball arcs like slow poetry, spinning through the golden light, the crowd frozen, every eye locked on its path. Taewook rushes toward the rim, his arms outstretched, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with desperation. Sohyun stands at midcourt, her breath caught, her taped fingers curled into fists. Y/N watches, his arms still raised from the release, his heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.
The ball kisses the glass, soft as a whisper, and drops through the net. Swish.
The buzzer sounds, a sharp cry that splits the silence.
The gym explodes, a tidal wave of screams, cheers, and stomping feet. The jumbotron flashes the score: Dong Seoul 74, Daehan 71. The crowd surges to their feet, navy-and-gold banners waving, the stands were a flood of LETâS GO and HE DID IT. The Dong Seoul bench erupts, players leaping, towels flying, Coach Kimâs clipboard hitting the floor as he pumps a fist.
Y/N stands at the arc, his chest heaving, his blue hair slick with sweat, his eyes wide but calm. He feels itâthe weight lifting, the court his now, the rhythm he and Sohyun built carrying them over the line. He turns, searching the chaos, and finds her, standing at midcourt, her eyes locked on his, unreadable but alive.
The Dong Seoul team mobs Y/N, their arms a tangle of navy-and-gold, nearly tackling him to the hardwood. Buzzcut slaps his back, shouting something incoherent, while another teammate tries to lift him, their laughter a chaotic symphony. The crowdâs still roaring, the jumbotron replaying the shot, the arena pulsing with life. Y/N pushes through them, his chest heaving, his ankle throbbing, his eyes scanning the court.
He sees her.
Sohyun stands at midcourt, her taped fingers flexing at her sides. Her eyes are locked on him, unreadable but burning, like sheâs holding a storm and a sunrise at once. The crowd fades, the noise a distant hum, the world shrinking to just themâthe hardwood, the golden light, the rhythm theyâve built.
He walks toward her, his sneakers scuffing, his breath uneven but steady. She doesnât move, doesnât look away, her posture still but not rigid, like sheâs waiting for something sheâs not ready to name. He stops in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of her presence, and cups her face with both hands, his fingers gentle but firm, his woven bracelet brushing her cheek.
She doesnât stop him.
He kisses her, real and messy, not soft but fierce, like heâs pouring everything into itâthe game, the bet, the late-night practices, the way she taped his ankle, the way she trusted him. The crowd loses it, screams spiking, phones flashing, the livestream chat a blur of OH MY GOD and THEYâRE KISSING. She kisses him back, her hands finding his shoulders, her lips pressing with the same urgency, like sheâs stealing time back from the clock.
They break apart, gasping, their foreheads touching for a heartbeat, their breaths mingling. The arenaâs chaos swirls around them, but itâs just them, the court their sanctuary, their rhythm unbroken. She smiled, one that reached her delicate eyes, soft yet fierce, and honestly it was all Y/N could ever ask for.
---
The arenaâs still buzzing, the crowd reluctant to leave, the air thick with victory and adrenaline. Taewook storms toward the exit, his crimson jersey soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something heavier than defeat. Reporters rush him, their mics thrusting forward, questions flyingââWhat happened out there?â âWhatâs next for Daehan?â He brushes past them, his shoulder clipping a camera, his silence louder than any answer.
Y/N walks past, his ankle taped but his stride steady. He pauses, his eyes catching Taewookâs, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. A sideline ref fumbles a mic, and Y/N picks it up, the metal cool in his hand. He doesnât smile, doesnât gloat, but his voice carries, low and steady, cutting through the arenaâs hum.
âTo everyone watching, betâs over,â he says, his words clear, final, the loudspeaker amplifying them to every corner. He turns slightly, his eyes locking on Taewookâs retreating figure. âNow disappear.â
The crowd roars, a mix of cheers and gasps. Taewook freezes for a heartbeat, his shoulders stiff, but he doesnât turn back. He pushes through the double doors, the creak swallowed by the crowdâs noise, his shadow gone.
Y/N hands the mic back to the ref, his grin soft but real, his heart still racing from the shot, the kiss, the fight. He glances at Sohyun, whoâs standing with the team, her arms crossed but her eyes on him, a faint nod signaling something unspokenârespect, trust, maybe more. The arenaâs still alive, but the battleâs won, and the court feels like theirs.
The team spills onto the court, their navy-and-gold jerseys a wave of celebration, but Y/N and Sohyun linger at the edge, the noise a backdrop to their quiet.
He looks at Sohyun, her eyes still carrying that storm and sunrise. Sheâs not the girl who scoffed at his no-look pass, not anymoreâsheâs the one who trusted his shot, who kissed him like time was running out, who fought beside him.
âYou gonna admit Iâm clutch now?â he says, his voice teasing but soft, his grin flickering.
She glances at him, her lips twitching, not quite a smile but close. âDonât push it,â she says, but her toneâs warm, her eyes holding his for a moment too long.
They walk off the court together, their steps synced, their shadows overlapping in the golden light.Â
---
The locker room is a chaotic symphony, vibrating with euphoria and the raw energy of victory. Steam curls from the open showers, thick and warm, mingling with the sharp scent of Bengay and sweat-soaked jerseys. Towels fly like confetti, players shouting over each other, their voices a jumble of laughter and adrenaline. Someoneâs hooked up a cracked Bluetooth speaker, blasting a K-pop track thatâs too loud, the bass rattling the metal lockers. Another player bangs a water bottle against a bench, keeping rhythm, his grin wide enough to split his face.
Y/N sits in the far corner, a towel draped over his head like a hood, not hiding but processing, the roar of the arena still echoing in his bones. His ankle throbs beneath the tape Sohyun wrapped, his shoulder aches from the gameâs collisions, and his chest feels too tight, his throat too dry for the victory whoops around him. The adrenaline hasnât worn off, but itâs settling, like dust after a storm, leaving him raw, exposed.
âBro!â Buzzcut yells, his voice cutting through the noise, his grin all teeth. âYou cooked him! Like, rotisserie level, man!â He slaps Y/Nâs shoulder, hard enough to make him wince, but Y/Nâs crooked grin tugs at his lips, reflexive, playful.
Another teammate, still peeling off his jersey, chimes in, âHeâs not going back anywhere. Weâre keeping him here forever.â The team laughs, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls, a chorus of belonging that warms Y/Nâs chest, even if heâs not sure he believes it yet.
He peels the towel away, his eyes scanning the room, past the chaos, past the steam. There. Sohyun sits on a bench across from him, alone, her posture still, deliberate. Sheâs peeling off her wrist wrap, her fingers moving methodically, like itâs just another Tuesday, like the championship win and that kiss on the court didnât just rewrite the air between them.
Their eyes meet.
And hold.
She smiled, again. Y/N feels his pulse kick up, the locker roomâs noise fading to a hum. Her eyes are a storm and a sunrise, and for the first time, he thinks she might see him the way he sees her. She doesnât look away, and neither does he.
Outside, the arenaâs emptying, the crowdâs roar reduced to a restless murmur as stragglers spill into the Seoul night. The parking lot is a maze of flashing cameras and neon signs, the air cool and sharp, carrying the faint hum of traffic and the buzz of post-game excitement. Reporters swarm near the exit, their mics thrusting forward like spears, their lights glaring against Taewookâs drawn face. His crimson jersey is soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something heavier than defeatâhumiliation, maybe, or the weight of a bet he never shouldâve made. He shoves through them with a raised forearm, his voice a low growl. âNo comment.â
Sohyun exits through a side door, she moves with purpose, her sneakers silent on the concrete, her eyes fixed ahead. Taewookâs standing near the exit, his back to her, his shoulders stiff as he brushes off another reporter. He turns slightly, catching her in his periphery, his lips parting like heâs about to say somethingâher name, maybe, or an apology, or another desperate jab.
She doesnât stop. Doesnât even slow. Her stride is steady, unyielding, like sheâs walking through a ghost. The reporters pause, sensing the tension, their cameras swiveling, but sheâs gone before they can catch her, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the lot.
Y/N steps out seconds later, his hoodie slung over his shoulder, his ankle still taped, his blue hair catching the neon glow. He catches the tail end of the momentâTaewookâs frozen stance, Sohyunâs retreating figure. His eyes flick between them, his grin absent, his posture relaxed but alert. He falls into step beside her, matching her pace, the space between them close but not touching.
âSo thatâs it?â he asks, his voice soft, not pushing, just curious, like heâs testing the air.
She doesnât look at him, her eyes on the path ahead, her parka swishing. âWhat would be the point of saying more?â Her toneâs flat, but thereâs an edge to it, like sheâs closing a door and locking it.
He kicks a loose pebble, the sound sharp in the quiet. âClosure?â he offers, his voice lighter, but thereâs a weight behind it, like heâs asking for her as much as for himself.
She glances at him, one eyebrow raised, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. âThe game ended,â she says, her voice steady, final. âThat was closure.â
Y/N nods, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He feels itâthe finality of her words, the way sheâs cut Taewook out like a bad play. He thinks of home, of the barangay court where fights ended with a handshake or a laugh, where closure was a shared soda and a promise to run it back. This is different, colder, but he gets it. He doesnât push, just walks beside her, their steps syncing in the cool night air.
The Seoul night buzzes softly, a low hum of distant traffic and the flicker of neon signs casting pink and blue glows across the sidewalks. The airâs crisp, smelling of city smog and faint pine from the campus trees, a stark contrast to the locker roomâs heat. Y/N and Sohyun walk side by side, their footsteps echoing in tandem, the space between them just shy of touching, like a wire stretched taut but not yet snapped.
Y/N kicks a loose pebble, the clatter breaking the silence. âSo,â he starts, his voice light but deliberate, âwe kissed. That happened.â
Sohyun exhales through her nose, a soft sound thatâs almost a laugh, her lips twitching. âIt did,â she says, her tone dry but warm, like sheâs playing his game but setting the rules.
He grins, his heart thudding a little too fast. âJust checking we werenât concussed or anything.â His voice is teasing, but his eyes are searching, watching her profileâthe sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek.
She chuckles, soft and fleeting, the sound like a crack in her armor. âNo concussion,â she says, her eyes still ahead, but her steps slow, like sheâs letting the moment linger.
He stops walking, his sneakers scuffing to a halt. She does too, turning to face him, her eyes catching the streetlightâs glow. âSo⊠what now?â he asks, his voice quieter, no bravado, just a question hanging in the air like a held breath.
She pauses, her gaze steady, her hands in her pockets. âWe practice again tomorrow,â she says, her tone matter-of-fact, but thereâs a softness in it, like sheâs leaving room for more.
He tilts his head, his grin soft but persistent. âThatâs not what I meant.â
A beat. The air hums, the neon signs flickering, the city a distant pulse. She looks at him, really looks, her eyes searching hisânot for flaws, but for truth. âDonât know,â she says finally, her voice low, honest, like sheâs admitting something to herself as much as to him. âHavenât planned that far ahead.â
He smiles, slow and real, his heart thudding but steady. âWant me to freestyle it?â he asks, his tone teasing but his eyes earnest, like heâs offering to take the lead if sheâll let him.
She turns to him fully now, her lips twitching, almost a smile. âGod, no,â she says, but her voice is warm, playful, like sheâs letting him in, just a little.
They laugh, the sound soft but shared, echoing in the quiet night. The streetlights cast their shadows long and close, overlapping on the concrete, and for a moment, itâs just themâthe city, the court, the rhythm theyâre still learning to play.
The emergency stairwell to the dorm rooftop is a narrow, echoing climb, the metal steps clanging under their sneakers, the air cool and damp with the scent of concrete and rust. Y/N leads the way, a pair of canned energy drinks rattling in his hands, the aluminum cold against his palms. Sohyun follows, The championshipâs adrenaline still lingers, but itâs softer now, settling into something new.
They push through the heavy door to the rooftop, the Seoul night opening up before themâa sprawl of twinkling lights, neon signs flickering in the distance, the low hum of traffic a quiet pulse. The air is thin, crisp, carrying the faint scent of city smog and distant pine. The weathered bench near the edge is their destination, its wood chipped and faded, the metal frame cold under the moonlight. They sit side by side, close but not touching, their breaths visible in the cool air, the silence stretching comfortably.
Y/N cracks his can, the sharp hiss cutting through the quiet. He takes a sip, the bitter fizz sparking on his tongue, and leans back, his shoulder brushing the benchâs edge. âYou scare the hell out of me,â he says, his voice low, half-teasing but heavy with truth, like heâs confessing something heâs held onto too long.
Sohyun looks over, her eyes catching the moonlight, her expression unreadable but soft, no trace of her usual steel. âYou confuse the hell out of me,â she says, her tone dry but warm, like sheâs playing his game.
He grins, his heart thudding, his fingers tightening on the can. âStill?â he asks, his voice lighter, but his eyes search hers, looking for the crack in her armor.
She nudges his foot with hers, a small, deliberate contact that sends a spark through him. âLess than before,â she says, her voice quieter, like sheâs admitting something to herself as much as to him.
She cracks her own can, the sound sharp, and takes a sip, her gaze drifting to the city skyline. âYou play like chaos,â she says, her voice steady but curious, like sheâs piecing him together. âBut when I watched you today, I realized⊠youâre not trying to break the system.â
He doesnât speak, just waits, his eyes on her profileâthe sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek. The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable, like theyâre both holding space for something real.
âYouâre trying to belong in one that never saw you coming,â she says, her voice soft, almost a whisper, like sheâs seen something in him he didnât know he was showing.
He turns, meeting her gaze, his breath catching. His voice is small, raw, like heâs peeling back a layer he didnât know he had. âDid I?â
She doesnât speak right away, her eyes holding his, steady and unguarded. Then she nods, just once, a small movement that feels like a victory bigger than the championship. The city hums below, the moonlight casting their shadows long and close, and for a moment, the rooftop feels like their court, their rules, their rhythm.
The air on the rooftop is thin and electric, the kind that makes your skin hum, the cityâs glow a soft halo around them. Sohyun shifts slightly, her knee brushing Y/Nâs, a fleeting contact that feels deliberate, like a pass she meant to throw. Her parka rustles, her earbud dangles, the lo-fi beat a faint pulse in the quiet. Y/Nâs can is cold in his hand, his bracelet catching the moonlight, his heart thudding but steady, like heâs waiting for the next play.
She looks at him, her eyes softer now, no trace of the captainâs steel, just a girl whoâs fought her way through a system and found something unexpected. âLast time,â she says, her voice low, certain, âI kissed you because I was scared.â
He stays still, his breath caught, his grin absent. He feels the weight of her words, the memory of that locker room kissâfierce, urgent, like time was running out. He doesnât speak, just watches her, his eyes searching for what comes next.
âThis time,â she says, her voice quieter, steadier, âIâm not.â
She leans in, slow and certain, her lips meeting his in a kiss thatâs not rushed, not desperate, but earned, deliberate, like a shot sheâs practiced a thousand times. Itâs soft at first, then deeper, her hand finding his jaw, his fingers brushing her wrist, the woven bracelet a quiet tether between them. The city fades, the hum of traffic and neon signs swallowed by the rhythm of their breaths, the warmth of her lips, the way she tastes like energy drink and victory.
They pull apart, their foreheads touching for a heartbeat, their breaths mingling in the cool air. Y/N chuckles, soft and genuine, his grin flickering. âI was gonna ask,â he says, his voice teasing but raw, âThanks for saving me the embarrassment.â
She smirks, her eyes sparkling under the moonlight. âYouâre still embarrassing,â she says, her tone dry but warm, like sheâs playing his game and winning.
He laughs, his heart thudding, his fingers still tangled with hers. âYou still love it,â he says, his voice lighter, but his eyes hold hers, searching for the truth.
She doesnât answer, just smirks again, her lips twitching, a maybe in her silence. They sit like thatâshoulders touching, fingers tangled, the city buzzing below, the moonlight casting their shadows as one. No words left to waste, just the quiet rhythm of something new, something real.
The next day, the gym is alive but lighter, the air free of the championshipâs weight. The team runs drills, their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, their laughter echoing off the walls. The fluorescents hum, the backboards gleam, and the scent of polish and sweat is familiar, comforting. Coach Kim leans against the bleachers, his arms folded, his clipboard tucked under his arm, a rare ease in his posture.
Y/N drives down the lane, his blue hair a blur, his ankle taped but steady. He fakes left, spins right, and lays it up, the ball kissing the glass and dropping through. Swish. The net ripples, and he grins, his swagger back but tempered, like heâs found the balance between chaos and control. Sohyun catches the rebound, her movements fluid. She tosses the ball back, lazy but precise, her eyes flicking to him with a spark of something playful.
Coach Kim blows his whistle, sharp but approving. âThat was clean,â he says, his voice gruff but warm, like heâs seeing something he didnât expect.
Sohyun smirks, her hands on her hips, her earbud dangling, leaking that familiar lo-fi beat. âSee? Heâs learning,â she says, her tone dry but teasing, like sheâs taking credit but sharing it too.
Y/N jogs over, grabbing a water bottle from the bench, his grin wide and real. âI already knew,â he says, his voice light but earnest, his eyes meeting hers. âJust needed the right teacher.â
She rolls her eyes, but her smile breaks through, small but bright, like a sunrise after a long night. âTry not to fall for me again mid-game,â she says, her tone playful but sharp, like sheâs daring him to keep up.
He laughs, his heart thudding, his bracelet catching the light. âNah,â he says, his voice teasing but soft, âthat was the best part.â
The team laughs, their voices a chorus of camaraderie, the gym alive with the rhythm of drills and banter. The ball bounces again, the court calling them back, but Y/N and Sohyun linger for a moment, their eyes locked, their smiles shared. The game isnât overânot the one on the court, not the one between them. But theyâve just started, and the rhythm theyâre building feels like a promise, a shot they wonât miss.
Wrong for the Right Reasons
a/n: this was a little something I wrote 2 months ago for a server prompt event and was too busy to upload. for those wondering what happened to me for the past months (tl;dr: I got a summer job ). so yeah, this is just sum light 2k oneshot nothin too much, but hope yall enjoy nonetheless ;)
The rain fell in rhythmic patterns against the window of the university library, creating a soothing backdrop to the quiet rustling of pages. Minji sat at her usual corner table, surrounded by textbooks and notes, her delicate fingers tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she focused on her economics assignment. The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminated her featuresâeyes that held both innocence and determination, a gentle smile that appeared whenever she solved a particularly difficult problem.
Across the room, Y/n watched her. He had been watching her for weeks now, memorizing her study schedule, her favorite spot in the library, the way she always ordered an iced Americano with one sugar. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, but desperation had a way of overriding moral compasses.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another message from the hospital.
Payment overdue: 30 days notice.
Y/n closed his eyes, trying to push away the image of his little sister lying in the hospital bed, tubes running from her fragile arms, her once vibrant face now hollow and pale. The rare immune disorder was treatable, but the treatment was expensiveâfar more expensive than his part-time barista job could cover, even with his parents' combined incomes.
When he reopened his eyes, they fell on Minji again. Kim Minji, daughter of one of the wealthiest tech executives in Seoul. Minji, who never flaunted her wealth but whose designer backpack probably cost more than three months of Y/n's rent. Minji, who volunteered at animal shelters on weekends and tutored struggling students for free.
Minji, whose father had denied his sister's application for the charitable medical fund his company advertised so proudly in their corporate materials.
"Just another case that doesn't meet our criteria," the email had said. As if his sister's life was just another checkbox on a form.
Y/n gathered his books and moved to the table beside Minji's. He had planned this carefullyâthe "accidental" meeting, the casual conversation about the economics class they shared, the gradual building of trust. He needed her to trust him. It was the only way his plan would work.
"Mind if I sit here?" he asked, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The lighting is better on this side."
Minji looked up, momentarily startled. Recognition flickered across her faceâthey had shared several classes together over the past year, though they'd never spoken directly. "Of course," she replied, moving some of her books to make space.
"I'm Y/n, by the way," he introduced himself, extending his hand.
"Minji," she replied, her handshake gentle but firm. "You're in Professor Park's Economics 301, right? Always sitting in the back row?"
He was surprised she had noticed him. "Guilty as charged. I can see the board better from there."
A small lie. He sat in the back because it was easier to slip out unnoticed when the hospital called.
"I've been struggling with today's assignment," he confessed, another calculated move. "The game theory applications are giving me a headache."
Minji's eyes lit up. "Really? That's actually my favorite part! Maybe I could help?"
And just like that, the door was open. Y/n felt the familiar twist of guilt in his stomach, but he pushed it aside. This wasn't about him, or even about Minji. This was about Sooyun, his sister, and the treatment that could save her life.
-
Over the next few weeks, Y/n's plan progressed smoothly. Coffee study sessions became lunch meetings, which evolved into dinners and weekend outings. Minji was everything he had heard about herâkind, intelligent, passionate about her studies and her causes. She spoke animatedly about the environmental organization she volunteered with, her eyes sparkling with conviction.
"My father never understood why I care so much about these things," she confided one evening as they walked through a park after dinner. "He thinks everything can be solved with money or technology."
Y/n's hand tightened around hers. "Some things can't be fixed with either," he said, thinking of Sooyun.
Minji looked at him curiously. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
For a moment, Y/n considered telling her everythingâabout Sooyun, about her father's company's rejection, about the mounting medical bills. But that would ruin everything he had worked for.
"Just philosophical musings," he said lightly. "All that game theory must be getting to me."
She laughed, the sound clear and bright in the evening air. "You're an enigma, Y/n. Sometimes I feel like I know you so well, and other times, it's like you're a million miles away."
If only she knew how right she was.
-
Three months into their relationship, Y/n was invited to the Kim family home for dinner. The mansion was exactly as imposing as he had imaginedâa modern architectural marvel of glass and steel perched on a hillside overlooking the city. Security cameras monitored every corner, and staff moved efficiently through the halls.
Mr. Kim was polite but reserved, studying Y/n with the calculating eyes of a businessman assessing risk. Mrs. Kim was warmer, asking him about his studies and his family with genuine interest.
"My parents own a small convenience store," Y/n explained, sticking to his prepared story. "They work very hard."
"Admirable," Mr. Kim commented. "Self-made success is the foundation of our economy."
Y/n bit back the retort that threatened to escape. Self-made was a myth when health crises could bankrupt families overnight, when charitable funds rejected deserving cases based on arbitrary criteria.
After dinner, Mr. Kim invited him to his home officeâa spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Seoul's glittering skyline.
"Minji seems quite taken with you," he remarked, pouring two glasses of expensive whiskey. "She doesn't usually bring friends home, let alone... whatever you are to her."
Y/n accepted the glass, feeling the weight of the crystal tumbler in his hand. "I care about her very much, sir."
"I'm sure you do." Mr. Kim's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You understand that I had you investigated, of course."
Y/n's heart stuttered. "Investigated?"
"Standard procedure. My daughter's safety is paramount." Mr. Kim sipped his whiskey. "Your background is impressively clean. Almost too clean, some might say."
Relief washed over Y/n. His falsified background had held up. "I'm a boring student, sir. Nothing more."
"Hmm." Mr. Kim studied him. "Well, Minji has always had good judgment. I trust her to make her own decisions."
Later that night, as Y/n left the mansion, he sent a text to his contact: Security uses keycard access. Home office on second floor, east wing. Password visible during entry.
The reply came quickly: Good work. Money transferred for next treatment installment.
Y/n pocketed his phone, bile rising in his throat. He told himself again that this was necessary, that Minji's father was the real villain hereâa man who hoarded wealth while denying essential medical care to people like Sooyun.
But as he thought of Minji's trusting smile, her genuine affection, the twist of guilt in his stomach sharpened into something more painful.
-
"You seem distracted lately," Minji observed one afternoon as they studied in her family's garden. Cherry blossoms drifted lazily around them, a pink confetti celebrating spring's arrival.
Y/n looked up from his laptop. He had been mapping the mansion's security patterns, noting the guard rotations and camera blind spots. "Just thinking about finals," he lied.
Minji moved closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Whatever's bothering you, we can figure it out together."
Y/n's heart ached at the sincerity in her voice. In another life, another circumstance, perhaps they could have met normally. Perhaps he could have been worthy of her trust.
"I know," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm just tired."
He was tiredâtired of the lies, tired of the guilt, tired of living two lives. But every time he considered confessing everything, he remembered Sooyun's brightening eyes when the new treatment began working, the color returning to her cheeks.
The upcoming data theft would give his contact access to the Kim Corporation's financial systemsâjust long enough to redirect funds to the medical center for Sooyun's final treatments. After that, he would disappear from Minji's life, leaving her to believe he was just another college boyfriend who couldn't commit.
It was the cleanest exit strategy he could devise. She would be hurt, but she would recover. She would never know the truth.
-
The night of the break-in arrived with an unexpected complication: Minji had surprised him with tickets to a concert they had both wanted to attend.
"It's tonight only," she said excitedly over the phone. "I know it's last minute, but my father's company is a sponsor, and they just released these VIP passes!"
Y/n closed his eyes, gripping his phone tightly. "Minji, I can't tonight. I have... a family commitment."
"Oh." Her disappointment was palpable even through the phone. "Is everything okay?"
No, nothing was okay. His sister's life hung in the balance. He was betraying the only person who had genuinely cared for him in years. He was violating every moral principle he had once held dear.
"Everything's fine," he assured her. "Just something I can't reschedule. I'm really sorry."
There was a pause. "You know, Y/n, sometimes I feel like there's a part of you that you never share with me. Like you're holding something back."
Her perceptiveness was both what he loved about her and what made his deception so difficult.
"It's nothing," he insisted. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."
After ending the call, he messaged his contact: Proceeding as planned. 11 PM.
The reply came immediately: Access must be tonight. Payment ready upon completion.
Y/n put on dark clothes and prepared the small technical devices he would need to compromise the mansion's security systems. His contact had connections with professional thieves who had provided both the tools and the training. All Y/n needed to do was get inside, access Mr. Kim's private computer, and install the remote access software.
What he didn't expect was to find Minji waiting outside his apartment building when he emerged.
"Minji?" he said, startled. "What are you doing here?"
She stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of concern and determination. "I was worried about you. You've been acting strange for weeks. I thought maybe if I came in person, you'd finally tell me what's going on."
Y/n's mind raced. He was dressed all in black, carrying a bag with suspicious equipment. There was no reasonable explanation.
"This isn't a good time," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Whatever you're thinking, whatever you're worried about, we can talk tomorrow."
"No," Minji said firmly. "We talk now. What are you hiding, Y/n? Why won't you let me help you?"
The pressure of months of deception, the stress of his sister's condition, the guilt of betraying Minjiâit all crashed over him in that moment.
"You can't help me," he said, his voice breaking. "No one can."
"Try me," she challenged, stepping closer. "Whatever it is, we can face it together."
And in that moment, looking into her earnest eyes, Y/n made a decision that would change everything.
"My sister is dying," he confessed, the words rushing out like water from a broken dam. "She needs an expensive treatment, and your father's company denied her application to the charitable fund."
Minji's eyes widened. "What? That can't be right. My father's foundation helps hundreds of patientsâ"
"Not my sister," Y/n interrupted. "Not Sooyun. They said her case 'didn't meet the criteria.' And now I'm doing something terrible to save her life."
Understanding dawned on Minji's face as she took in his attire, the bag in his hand, his desperate expression.
"You were going to break into our house," she whispered. "To steal from my father."
Y/n couldn't deny it. "I was going to install software to redirect funds. Just enough for Sooyun's treatment. I never wanted to hurt you, Minji. I never expected to..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
To fall in love with you.
Minji stepped back, hurt and betrayal flashing across her face. "Was any of it real? Us? Or was I just your ticket into my father's house?"
"It started that way," Y/n admitted, the truth pouring out now that the dam had broken. "But everything changed. You changed me, Minji. That's why I can't go through with it. I can't betray you like this."
Minji was quiet for a long moment, processing everything. Then she pulled out her phone.
"What are you doing?" Y/n asked, tension coiling in his stomach.
"I'm calling my father," she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. "Not to turn you in, but to demand an explanation. And to find another way to help your sister."
Y/n stared at her, bewildered. "After what I just told you? After what I was planning to do?"
Minji met his gaze, her expression a complex mixture of hurt, compassion, and resolve. "You were doing the wrong things for the right reason. I can understand that, even if I can't condone it. Now let me show you how to do the right things for the right reasons."
She held out her hand to him. "Your sister's medical files. Let me see them."
Hesitantly, Y/n pulled out his phone and showed her Sooyun's case.
Three hours later, they sat in Mr. Kim's home office, Sooyun's medical files spread across his desk. Minji had refused to take no for an answer, demanding her father review the case personally.
"This was an oversight," Mr. Kim finally admitted, looking genuinely troubled. "The algorithm we use to screen applications has flaws. This case should have been approved."
He looked at Y/n, his expression unreadable. "You could have approached me directly."
"Would you have listened?" Y/n asked, his voice quiet but firm. "To a college student with no connections? No influence?"
Mr. Kim had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Perhaps not."
"That's why the system is broken," Minji interjected. "And why it needs to change."
By morning, Sooyun's treatment was approved and scheduled, and Mr. Kim had initiated a review of all rejected applications from the past year.
As dawn broke over the city, Y/n and Minji stood on the balcony of the Kim mansion, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.
"I still can't believe you helped me," Y/n said softly. "After everything I confessed."
Minji turned to him, her eyes serious. "I believe people can change, Y/n. You were willing to sacrifice your freedom, your future, for your sister. That kind of love matters."
"And us?" he asked hesitantly. "What happens now?"
Minji's smile was small, but genuine. "Now we start over. No more secrets, no more lies. Just us, finding our way forward together."
She held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Kim Minji. Would you like to get coffee sometime?"
Y/n took her hand, feeling for the first time in months that he was finally doing the right thing for the right reason.
"I'm Park Y/n," he replied, "and I would like that very much."
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows behind them, Y/n understood that sometimes redemption didn't come from grand gestures or elaborate plans, but from the simple courage to tell the truth and the willingness to begin again.
And sometimes, that was enough.
have you ever considered writing about billlie? (i love your designs in the accompanying graphics btw it adds so much to the experience)
hello anon! first of all, thank you for appreciating the graphics I made, it means alot! And yes! I am considering writing about billie, if you have any specific member you'd like for me to write just tell me!
We need more hannii fics in this worlddd
frrr! ( i might write another one ;) ) though u should also watch out for my newjeans wattpad book!
You are prob one of the best x male reader out here (Iâm a girl lmao)
But Iâm so glad you donât over sexualize idols or do weird shi
really thank you for enjoying my works! although i'm just writing for m!readers right now, i might start writing gender neutral stuffs in the near future or if someone does request for one hehe.
Hi. Can you write a fluff story with Gaeul from IVE about the role-playing video game? The reader needs to save her inside the game. In the end, they both succeed in leaving the game's world.
hello! took a long time but here it is!