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homelessmeowmeow · 24 days ago

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𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦.

|| ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ: 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥; 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

|| ᴡᴄ: 𝟷𝟾.𝟽𝚔 (𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚜)

|| ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘟 𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨

|| ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺; 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴-𝘵𝘰-𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴-𝘵𝘰-𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴; 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴; 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘵; 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩-𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱; 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘤 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦.

—

monday morning starts the way it always does.

you blink awake to the gentle press of sunlight on your cheek. it peeks through the blinds in quiet, golden stripes, pooling on the floor beside your bed like something spilled.

you stretch, slow and stiff, one arm reaching toward the ceiling, the other curling protectively back over your chest. your sheets fall away without ceremony and you rise to start your day. you dress with muscle memory more than intention: favorite sweatshirt. soft jeans. the necklace you never take off.

in the kitchen, the tile is cold under your bare feet as you move to plug in the coffee pot. the cord sticks a little– same as always. you nudge it into place and press the button without looking. no measuring, no adjusting. you’ve done this a hundred times before.

somewhere in the background, your phone buzzes. you don’t check it right away.

you stare at the countertop instead. not lost in thought, exactly– more like you’re feeling the way the quiet sits around you, seeps into you. the silence isn’t heavy. it’s just… present. like a guest who never quite leaves.

it’s been this way for a long time. too long. you hug your arms around yourself as the coffee drips into the mug steadily.

your phone buzzes again.

you glance toward the sound but don’t move to grab it just yet. the coffee’s still pouring behind you, slow and fragrant. you sigh into the air and wait for the moment to pass.

another buzz.

you finally reach for it, thumb dragging lazily across the screen. a text sits there, waiting– a group chat, a name you know well enough from your ethics class. a casual invite:

felix: hey! a couple of us are forming a study group for midterms. first meet-up on the quad today around 1? very low-key. lmk if you’re free :)

you stare at it for a long second.

it’s harmless; purely friendly. not a big deal.

but your fingers hover anyway, unsure.

you type out a no—“sorry i can’t, my schedule is packed”—then delete it.

you start again. “maybe next week?” nope. delete.

your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s dread or… something smaller. lighter. like the flutter of something you don’t trust anymore.

you: “sure, i’ll be there :)”

you send it before you can change your mind again.

and then you immediately want to take it back. you’re not looking for anything. it’s just a study group. you’re not hoping for—

(yes, you are.)

you scold yourself for wondering if someone cute will be there, wondering if you should dress a little nicer today. pushing down the foolish hopes that, even for a second, someone might see your heart. that someone out there might want it.

you grab your mug and turn off the coffee pot, dumping a little too much sugar into the cup.

–

you leave a little early today.

not on purpose, really. just… early enough to walk slow. you give yourself time to enjoy the weather. the coffee cup warms your hands as you step outside, door clicking gently shut behind you.

the sprawling campus stretches ahead, familiar and golden. the early fall sun has a way of softening everything: buildings you’ve walked past for years, old bricks and ivy-framed windows, trees just starting to burn red around the edges. the breeze tousles your hair like it knows you. gentle, playful. kind.

your shoes shuffle across sidewalks you could trace in your sleep. you wave at a few familiar faces– people from past classes, old group projects. it’s nice, in a distant sort of way. the kinds of easy small smiles that keep you tethered to the world around you.

you’re in a genuinely good mood today; there’s something about the barely-there chill in the autumn air that makes you feel a little lighter. you hum a bit to yourself. sip your coffee. smile without thinking as you walk steadily.

and then—

your arm swings as you walk, fingertips brushing empty air.

it’s small. a blink of a moment.

but it’s there.

just a flicker of a thought: no one’s there to reach back.

you press your fingers into your palm, subtly. quietly. like you’re pretending someone’s hand is there, after all. like you’re pretending the loneliness doesn’t bother you anymore.

you keep walking.

–

your class passes in a gentle blur.

the lecture is fine– theories scrawled across the board, your professor’s voice a steady drone that hums like background music– but your mind drifts.

you sit near the window, elbow propped on the desk, cheek resting against your palm. your pen taps absentmindedly against your notebook, bouncing lightly on the margin of a half-started page. the ink smudges where you’ve been doodling.

outside, the trees sway just slightly. the midday sunlight catches on the leaves like gold thread. there’s something beautiful about the way the world keeps turning without waiting for anyone– coffee cups in passing hands, laughter echoing faintly through open windows, someone skateboarding by with a scarf trailing behind them like a ribbon.

you let yourself daydream. only for a moment.

not about anything in particular. softness, maybe. a warm laugh beside you. hands laced together under a shared blanket. the quiet weight of someone’s shoulder against yours; someone to soak up the silence with you. someone who stays.

then you catch yourself.

you blink once, twice, then shake your head and glance back at the front of the room.

you’re not hoping. you’re not doing that again.

still, a little smile lingers on your lips as you pack up your bag after class, tucking your notebook away carefully like the daydream might still be pressed between the pages.

–

the walk across campus to the quad feels lighter than usual, the sun casting long, soft shadows across the grass. blankets spread like patchwork quilts, books splayed open, voices low but full of urgency– deadlines looming, caffeine fueling focus. it’s a humdrum little festival of college life.

you spot felix before you get close: sprawled out on the grass with knees pulled up, headphones dangling around his neck like a trophy. his grin is infectious; a wide, easy smile that makes the world seem less heavy for a moment. he catches your eye, hand reaching out in the kind of wave that says you belong here without needing words.

“you actually came,” he teases as you settle beside him, the grass cool beneath your legs.

you shrug, a smile tugging at your lips. “you promised low-key.”

felix snorts, nudging your shoulder with an affectionate jab. “yeah, yeah, ‘low-key.’ famous last words.”

he gestures to the others gathered: a couple of familiar faces from your classes, some new ones you don’t recognize, and then…

someone you’ve definitely never met before.

because you’d remember it if you did.

he’s standing half-turned from the group, his hand moving steadily as he jots notes in a well-worn notebook. his hoodie sleeve is pulled over one wrist, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the cover as if the rhythm helps him think. brown strands of hair fall just enough for the curls to catch the sunlight, and when he looks up, his round eyes gleam like a kind of quiet fire you don’t see coming.

felix catches your gaze and grins knowingly. “that’s han. new-ish to the program, but he’s got this… this golden retriever vibe. you know? friendly, loyal, kind of makes everyone around him feel like they matter.”

before you can respond, han’s head turns, and his eyes find yours. he steps toward you with an easy confidence that feels warm, not overwhelming. he gestures to the space next to you, where felix is already scooting over to make room.

“hey,” he says, voice low but steady, like he’s sharing something just between the two of you, “mind if i sit by you? i forgot my sunglasses, and you’re in the shade.”

your heart stutters– brief and startled– but you manage to nod, cheeks warm.

“sure,” you say softly.

and just like that, he’s beside you. the quiet between you isn’t awkward; it hums with something unspoken, like the space is holding its breath, waiting.

he grins at you with a friendly twinkle in his eye, holding out his hand. “i’m han.”

you take his hand and offer a smile back, mouth moving before your mind: “i know.”

han pauses for a second, and you instantly move to do damage control, “not– not like that, i mean… felix told me your name, just now. that’s all.” you recover.

han laughs, a warm, rich sound, and your embarrassment melts away as quick as it came.

“glad my reputation precedes me, then. what’s your name?”

your smile widens before you can help yourself. “i’m y/n.”

he shakes your hand a beat longer than necessary before dropping it. “nice to meet you. so, you’re in ethics too, right?”

“yeah,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “ethics is... kind of a headache, but i guess that’s the point.”

han chuckles softly. “sometimes i feel like these discussions tell us more about ourselves than the cases.”

you nod, “i know, right?”

he leans back on his hands, eyes bright with the blooming conversation. “what’s your take on the train problem? i know it’s a classic, but it always sparks debate.”

you laugh, tapping your pencil against your knee. “oh, the train problem. save the few, sacrifice the many? or the other way around? i never know which answer makes me sound like a monster.”

han grins, a slow smile spreading. “yeah, no right answer, just a zillion shades of gray.”

you feel a flicker of ease settling between you. it feels like the start of something simple, but promising.

and that alone should be sending alarm bells ringing in your head.

you glance down at your notebook, jotting down answers to questions on theory and politicisms. a quiet sigh escapes without meaning to.

han’s eyes flick up to you, soft and steady. “long day?”

you shrug, voice low. “just feels like there’s always something, you know? deadlines, expectations. doesn’t help that my professor runs a tight ship… it’s just a lot sometimes.”

han nods, shifting a little closer but not crowding you. “yeah, i think you’d have to be crazy not to feel like that. college isn’t exactly a walk in the park.” he validates you flawlessly, like it takes nothing to agree with you, to understand the weight.

you meet his gaze, surprised by the simplicity of the words. for a moment, it feels like the ghost of a fist around your heart lightens, just the tiniest bit.

you drift into comfortable silence as the group finds its footing, everyone flipping to a chapter in the textbook to read over before discussion.

pages rustle. pencils tap. someone nearby cracks open a granola bar with a crinkle that sounds criminally loud in the otherwise calm space.

han leans a little closer to you, squinting at the text. “wait… does this say utilitarianism argues for the ‘greatest good’ or ‘greatest food’?” he blinks, then laughs at himself. “okay, yeah. wow. i think my brain’s starting to short-circuit.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “depends, are we sacrificing passengers or handing out snacks?”

“train snacks,” he says solemnly. “it’s a lesser-known branch of ethical theory.”

you shake your head, smiling down at your page. “careful. blink twice and i might just believe you.”

there’s a beat— soft and unspoken— where his eyes linger on you like he’s seeing something more. like he sees right through you, down to your bleeding heart.

you meet his gaze, wondering if he truly sees so much of you already. wondering what you’re gonna do about it if he does.

then someone sneezes aggressively two blankets over, and the spell breaks. you both glance away, smiling quietly.

but the warmth lingers.

and the warning signals in your mind begin going off.

–

as the group flips pages and settles into rhythm, the conversation slowly shifts: textbooks give way to weekend chatter, young adult laughter woven between underlines and margin notes.

someone across the blanket– a guy from your stats lecture who you think is named chris– leans back on his elbows. “hey, by the way, i’m throwing a small thing on friday. just a chill get-together, rooftop vibes, music, drinks. you guys should come.”

a few heads nod. someone else chimes in about bringing chips. felix perks up immediately: “i’m so in. i’ll even bring that dumb bluetooth disco light.”

“god, not the disco light,” someone groans, grinning.

you smile, polite and soft. a laugh almost makes it out. but inside?

your chest tightens— just barely.

your first thought isn’t that sounds fun.

it’s i’d feel so alone in a room full of people who have someone waiting on them.

you glance at your notebook like it’s suddenly very interesting; let the conversation blur at the edges.

they’re still talking, still laughing. and maybe part of you wants to say yes. maybe part of you wants to show up in a good outfit and pretend the ache in your chest doesn’t follow you everywhere.

but that’s the problem, isn’t it?

it always follows.

you tug your sleeve down over your hand, fingers curling into your palm like they’re holding something they can’t quite name. something that leaves you feeling hollow.

felix nudges your knee. “you in?”

you lift your head, smile like it’s easy, like you don’t live inside your head. “we’ll see,” you say in a tone much lighter than you feel. “depends on how buried in midterms i am by then.”

he rolls his eyes playfully. “lame excuse, but okay.”

han doesn’t say anything, just nods. but when your eyes flick to his, he’s already looking at you.

not pushing. not prying. just… there.

like he noticed the way your smile didn’t quite reach.

you let your eyes dip back down to your textbook as chatter swirls around you, study guides filling with answers and notebooks capturing thoughts and revelations.

before you know it, you’ve been out on the quad for over an hour; some of the people in the group rise and make hasty goodbyes, rushing off to their last class.

the sun’s dipped lower by the time the rest of group starts packing up— books shut with soft thuds, empty coffee cups get tossed in a nearby bin, the buzz of campus life shifting into the late afternoon hum.

chris claps his hands once. “alright, phones out. no excuses, you’re all coming friday.”

groans and laughs ripple through the group, but everyone humors him. phones pass around like trading cards, names and numbers typed with quick thumbs. someone accidentally calls someone else. there’s a chorus of “whoops” and “sorry, that was me.”

you offer your phone up when it’s your turn. fingers moving automatically, even as your brain quietly whispers, you won’t actually go.

you add the person to your left. then someone named seungmin. then, without meaning to hesitate—

han.

he takes your phone with a soft smile, his touch light against yours as he taps in his number.

“don’t worry,” he says gently, eyes twinkling, “no spam texts. maybe one meme a week, tops.

you laugh under your breath, a real one this time, even if it fades too fast. “deal.”

chris points at all of you with faux authority. “friday. rooftop. be there or be square. or be both. like, a cube. i don’t know.”

someone groans. someone else chuckles. the group starts to scatter.

you linger just a second longer, tucking your notebook under your arm.

“see you around?” han asks, backpack slung over one shoulder now.

you meet his gaze, steady and warm.

“yeah,” you say, something like hope flickering in your chest before you can stomp it down. “see you.”

he gives a small wave, nothing grand. just two fingers, a gentle goodbye. then he turns, falling into stride with a few of the others, laughter trailing behind him as they walk.

you watch them go. and then you start walking too.

your route home is familiar; sidewalks cracked in the same places, lampposts flickering on one by one. the quiet settles over you again, that same hush from the morning, only heavier now.

not sad, exactly. just there. always close.

you press your fingers into your palm again, like maybe if you hold yourself tight enough, the ache won’t get in.

but it already has.

–

a few days pass, and the ache stays quiet. not gone; just… softer. a hum that lives under your skin instead of one that rings in your ear.

you’ve been busy– genuinely. a thousand papers to write, even more chapters to skim, your brain working just hard enough to distract your heart. and for the most part, it’s been enough.

today, you end up at the campus coffee shop; not because you’re desperate for a change of scenery, but because it’s nice to hear other people living around you while you work. the buzz of espresso machines and whispered conversations is a comfort. it fills the space a little, gives you the illusion of connection without asking anything from you.

you settle into a seat by the window, a little table tucked near the back under the sun. the light is warm here and the corner is quiet. your drink steams gently beside your laptop, and the cinnamon scone you grabbed on impulse is already half gone before you even open your document.

you like studying like this: the quiet hum of it, the chatter and music and whir of coffee machines. the drone of noise that makes you feel like you’re part of the setting.

your cursor blinks on the essay in front of you, the page staring back as you roll the next few sentences around in your head. you scroll back up to reread your last paragraph, trying to figure out what you meant to say about moral frameworks before your brain gave up.

you don’t hear him until he’s already close.

“hey, y/n,” han jisung says, voice gentle. “small world, huh?”

you blink up in surprise.

he’s standing just beside your table, one hand hooked on the strap of his backpack, the other holding a lopsided to-go cup with his name scrawled in marker on the side. he’s in another hoodie today– blue this time, sleeves long over his wrists– and his hair looks softer than usual, like he must’ve ran his hand through it on the walk over.

you blink again, slower this time.

“hi han,” you say, startled into honesty.

he smiles. not too wide. not too careful. just… warm.

“mind if i sit?” he nods to the chair across from you. “i’ve got a pile of ethics notes and zero motivation. figured maybe if i churn through them near someone responsible-looking, i’d feel ashamed enough to actually start.”

you hesitate, but only for a second before you nudge your bag off the opposite chair.

“of course you can sit.”

he grins again, softer this time. like he’s grateful you said yes.

“thanks.”

he settles in without fanfare, pulling out a notebook and a tangle of highlighters that he immediately begins sorting like it's an act of ritual. a pink cap flies off and rolls across the table; you catch it without thinking and hand it back.

“nice reflexes,” he jokes, mock-impressed.

“i live on the edge,” you tease back before you can help yourself.

his laugh is low and genuine. you don’t realize how much you like the sound of it until it fades.

a few minutes pass like that; not awkward, not at all. just… easy. companionable silence, broken only by the keys tapping away on both your computers.

his pen scratches softly across the page. your mouse clicks sporadically. you both sip at your drinks, not quite in rhythm, but not far off.

you catch him glancing at your screen once, curious but not nosy.

“heavy stuff?” he asks.

you shrug. “only if you consider the ethics of consequentialism light reading.”

he makes a face. “ugh, nevermind. too big for my brain to handle today.”

you smile, eyes flicking back to your screen. “what about you?”

“revising an old paper,” he mutters. “trying to make my argument sound smarter than i actually am.”

you chuckle lightly, “fake it till you make it, yeah?”

he shoots you a playful grin. “exactly.”

the silence that follows isn’t really silence. it’s filled with small sounds: the clink of your spoon against your cup. the brush of his sleeve as he shifts in his chair. the lo-fi playlist crackling from the speakers overhead.

your knee bumps his under the table by accident.

you freeze.

so does he.

and then– he just shifts slightly. not away, but not any closer, either. just… making space. no comment, no reaction. no big deal.

he lets you breathe.

you glance up once. his head is bent over his notebook again, curls falling low across his brow like an afterthought.

you exhale quietly and return to your screen.

another few minutes pass. someone behind the counter drops something metallic; it clatters, loud and unexpected. both of you flinch at the same time. when you glance up, jisung’s looking at you with a tiny smirk.

“maybe we’re both running on too little sleep,” he says.

you laugh softly, shoulders easing. “that, or too much caffeine.”

he hums in agreement. and then– he says it, without fanfare. just an offhand truth that makes you feel understood without trying:

“i like working near people,” he says. “makes it feel less isolated, y’know? like even if you’re not talking, you’re not… alone.”

you blink.

it’s not a loaded statement; he doesn’t really linger on it. doesn’t look up like he expects you to answer.

but the words settle in your chest like something warm. like a weight you didn’t know you were carrying has shifted, just slightly.

“yeah,” you say quietly, after a beat. “i get that.”

you don’t say more. you don’t have to.

you both go back to your respective tasks, and an hour slips by without either of you noticing.

you get work done. so does he. there are breaks for small talk, mutual gripes about your professors, and one shared look of horror when you both realize you’ve been reading the same confusing case study in opposite ways.

it’s not the most productive you’ve ever been; but it might be the most at ease you’ve felt all week.

when jisung finally checks his phone, he groans.

“i gotta head to my next class,” he says, sliding his papers back into his bag messily enough to make you cringe. “which is unfortunate, because i was finally reaching peak productivity.”

“pretty tragic,” you murmur, making him crack a lazy smile.

he zips his bag, then pauses.

“thanks for letting me crash your table,” he says, like it genuinely mattered to him. “you make this place feel… less like a fishbowl.”

you raise a brow. “a fishbowl?”

“yeah,” he says, grinning. “you ever sit in a public place and feel like everyone’s watching you pretend to be productive?”

you snort. “constantly.”

he straightens up, tosses his cup in the nearby bin. “well, with you here, i got some real work done. so thanks.”

your stomach twists, just slightly. not in fear this time. but you don’t want it to be hope, either.

“see you around?” he asks, backpack slung over one shoulder.

you nod, heart thudding gently. “yeah,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “see you.”

he gives you a two-finger salute and turns on his heel, not looking back when he walks away.

but this time, you catch yourself smiling after he’s gone.

you stare at your screen for a long moment, hands still wrapped around your now-cold coffee cup.

you realize you accidentally kept his pink highlighter. your fingers curl around it before slipping it into your bag, and you pull out your phone and shoot him a text before you can second-guess yourself, saving his contact from the study group text chain.

it’s just a marker, after all.

you: hey han, it’s y/n, you left one of your highlighters at the coffee shop. i’ll give it back next time i see you??

you hit send despite the way you bite your lip uncertainly. your phone buzzes before you have the chance to pocket it:

han jisung: ah, i knew i forgot something!! just keep it for now, i’m sure i’ll see you around soon :)

–

friday night rolls around, bringing with it the party chris all but threatened you to go to– but you almost don’t show.

you tell yourself your hesitation is because of midterms. or because your headache’s hovering right behind your temples. or because you won’t know most of the people there, and pretending to be comfortable in a crowd always drains you.

but the truth is more simple, and somehow much worse:

you don’t like how hope feels in your chest. like it’s trying too hard to bloom somewhere it shouldn’t.

and you know you’ll look for him.

even if you tell yourself you won’t.

but still… you go.

you wear your favorite jeans and a shirt that makes you feel steady in your own skin. you put on lip balm with the faintest shimmer, letting your hair hang loose around your shoulders.

and when you get to chris’s building a few blocks from campus, you take a deep breath before climbing the last stair up to the rooftop.

and you tell yourself— it’s just for a few hours. just to say hi.

just be normal.

the rooftop is buzzing when you step out.

music pounds from a bluetooth speaker near the door— something bass-heavy, something danceable. led lights have been strung in chaotic loops across the perimeter, blinking mismatched colors into the dark in sync to the songs. someone’s set out snacks on the rail near one side: bags of chips, soda bottles, a very ambitious fruit tray already starting to wilt in the night air. there’s alcohol, too– lots of it– but you’re not really the drinking type.

you hover near the entrance, sipping from the water bottle you brought.

you hang to the side, a bit lonely, a bit smiley; no one’s rude, no one ignores you. a few familiar faces nod hello—felix takes a breather from where he’s fake-djing on his phone to come give you a friendly hug—but you still feel a little like static. like you’re here, but not in it. not that you need to be… but you knew it’d feel like this.

so you do what any true introvert would: you start counting songs in your head, telling yourself you’ll leave by the fourth one.

you’re on song two when you hear his voice.

“you made it.”

you look up.

jisung is already heading toward you. he’s backlit by the string lights, curls a little wind-tousled, hoodie sleeves– green today– pushed up like he couldn’t decide if he was warm or cold.

he’s smiling. not wide, not expectant, just… like he’s truly glad you’re here.

your breath catches just a little.

“i wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says, stopping just a little out of reach; not too close. not assuming.

you shrug, “i figured i could spare a couple hours. midterm prep break and all that.”

“brave of you,” he says teasingly, “trusting your brain to come back after this level of chaos. mine definitely won’t be.”

you laugh softly. “i’m not totally convinced mine will.”

he nods toward the middle of the roof, where a small crowd has started moving with the music. “there’s dancing, if you’re feeling brave.”

you glance over, then back to him with a dry look. “absolutely not.”

his mouth quirks. “figured. had to ask, though, just in case you were secretly a party girl.”

you roll your eyes, “not even close.”

“good,” he says, just a little too quickly. then he adds, more under his breath, “i wouldn’t have survived the betrayal.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “what, you don’t dance either?”

he lifts a shoulder. “only in grocery store aisles. and only if the playlist’s good.”

you can’t help the easy banter that falls. “let me guess, a little one-two step in the produce aisle? shimmying in the checkout line?”

his smile softens into something wry. “more like… breakdancing while waiting for something sweet to go on sale.”

you laugh again— low and surprised at how natural it comes— and when you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you like that sound was the highlight of his night.

“you wanna sit?” he asks, nodding toward the edge of the rooftop, where a few chairs and crates have been dragged into a loose semi-circle. “less noise over there, probably more sky.”

you hesitate. he catches it and adds, casually, “no pressure. i can bring the sky to you.”

a small grin breaks, and you’re already moving. “you’re so weird.”

he follows with a shrug. “i’ve been told it’s my best quality.”

you settle into a seat near the ledge, legs crossed, water bottle clasped in your hands. the breeze up here is stronger than you expected—your sleeves stretch over your knuckles without thinking.

you toy with the hem on your wrists, fingers brushing against one another around the bottle. it’s grounding; comforting. you know exactly what the weight of your own hands feels like.

jisung sits beside you; not touching, not crowding. just there.

you both stare out over the campus skyline. dorm lights flicker on and off like constellations. laughter echoes across the roof from the group behind you, but it feels far away now, more muffled.

“not your scene either, huh?” you murmur, catching the way he looks back at the noise.

he shakes his head. “not even a little.”

“why’d you come?”

he shrugs, then takes a sip from his own bottle– soda, by the look of it. “dunno, really. chris is a friend of mine, so i’m here often anyways. maybe i was getting a little too cooped up in my dorm.”

you nod. “yeah, i get that way too if i stay inside too long.”

silence falls again– the comfortable kind, but it doesn’t have time to settle over you.

“besides,” he says after a beat, “i was hoping you’d come.”

you freeze.

his tone doesn’t change; you don’t detect much weight behind it– no implications, nothing dangerous. he’s not trying anything.

he’s just telling the truth. and somehow… that feels a little scarier.

you glance at him sideways. “why?”

he looks down, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “i’d consider us friends at this point, since we keep bumping into each other. plus i like talking to you.”

you sit with that for a second, let his boyish grin say the rest.

and then you surprise yourself.

“me too,” you say quietly.

he raises a brow. “you what? think we’re friends, or like talking to me?” he teases you.

you laugh softly and curl your hand tighter around your drink. “both, you clown.”

he chucks, the sound sweet and satisfied, and looks up at the sky again as if the stars might come out behind the clouds.

for the next stretch of time, you don’t talk much; just making passing comments about classes, friends, life, occasional gripes about the playlist– someone’s clearly in their 2010s party hits mood tonight. jisung mimics a bad dance move for you. you roll your eyes, but you’re laughing breathlessly anyway by the time he finishes the awful routine.

someone sets off a sparkler near the corner, and the light flares against the night for just a second— too bright, too fast.

and you wonder, distantly, if that’s what this is: this fluttering, warm feeling you’ve had since you met han jisung.

something small. something bright. something just beginning.

your smile falls just a little when you wonder whether it, too, will burn too bright. too fast. something you won’t be able to hold without burning yourself.

when your social battery runs out, jisung doesn’t offer to walk you home. he doesn’t ask for anything more than the conversation you shared, the smiles you gave.

he just nudges your shoulder gently and says, “glad you came.”

you nod, heart warm in your chest. something fizzy and dense is lodging there, something terrifying and easy all at once. but you’re pushing it away for now, brushing it off with the wave you give han as you leave the party.

“me, too.”

he gives his signature two-finger salute and starts to turn away. then he pauses.

“hey,” he adds, half over his shoulder. “text me if you get home late. just so i know the wind didn’t blow you away.”

you roll your eyes again, but your lips curve anyway. “okay. deal.”

when you step off the rooftop and back onto the stairs, you realize something:

you don’t feel like static anymore. you feel… seen, or close to it.

and something akin to panic and relief swells in your throat– tangling together until you can’t tell what’s what anymore.

–

you quickly discover that despite his softness, han jisung can be loud.

not in the voice-cracking, attention-hogging kind of way— more like he’s silly, clumsy, inevitably present. he fills the quiet spaces in your life like sunlight through curtains, warm and a little noisy and utterly unignorable. he hums when he writes notes at your kitchen table. makes sound effects when he scrolls through the memes you’ve started sending back and forth at ungodly hours of the night. narrates his own actions under his breath, often in a terrible british accent and to no one in particular.

he says your name like it’s a reaction, not a formality; you say it’s annoying, but he grins every time.

you don’t know exactly when it happened. maybe it started with the pink highlighter, or chris’s party, or the quiet understanding that bloomed on the quad; but somehow— sometime between mid september and now— han jisung has become a fixture in your life.

you’ll glance up on your walk back from a lecture and he’s already halfway across the block, waving with both arms like he’s flagging down a helicopter.

he stops by the vending machine near your lecture hall with alarming regularity; you’ve never seen someone look so serious while choosing between sour gummies and chocolate-covered pretzels. he always shares half of whatever he chooses with you, and you’ve learned it’s useless to turn him down.

he starts sending you music, too– not sappy songs or trending tiktok artists. not even curated playlists. just… links with captions. “lo-fi beats that help me not throw my laptop,” you think was the name of the first one. “you might vibe.”

and you do. you start a playlist of your own and loop it when you study together: sometimes in the library, sometimes at his dorm, sometimes in yours.

he shows up with your favorite candy bar the third time he steals your ramen. you call him dramatic and make empty threats to lock your pantry, but he always makes up for it. always proves he won’t take without giving.

he always asks if you’ve eaten– not like he’s checking off a list, but like he cares. and he always takes it in stride when you call him overbearing or grandmotherly.

sometimes he waits outside your exam room without texting first, backpack slouched at his feet, phone in hand. “figured you might want to yell about freud the minute you got out,” he’ll shrug– and god, you always do.

you’re not used to this.

to the safety he brings, the unassuming charm, the staying.

you’re used to having friends, sure– but people sticking around for the non-glamorous parts? the part where you’re tired, or snappy, or quiet for no reason at all? you’re used to carrying it yourself. it’s not that heavy anymore, and you didn’t know anyone else would want to help you hold it.

but jisung doesn’t flinch.

he just learns your rhythms, your life, your story; memorizes the way you tick like only a true friend can. stays steady through all of it.

now it’s december, and your living room is a warm little cave of soft lamp light and scattered notebooks. the shitty dorm room heater clicks rhythmically in the background. your legs are folded up on your chair, a pencil tapping lightly against your lip as you squint at your textbook, prepping for finals.

jisung sits across from you, red hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, one leg bouncing anxiously under the table. his highlighter squeaks every few seconds as he underlines something in neon yellow. he’s muttering, too, a half-chant of key terms under his breath.

you don’t know what he’s saying exactly; but it’s familiar now. it’s a new kind of routine that keeps all the ache you’ve learned to live with at an arm’s length– not gone, but muted, like the dial turns down when he’s around.

“what’s the one about moral relativism again?” he asks suddenly, blinking like he just woke up from a long nap.

you yawn, checking your own notes. “it’s the one where you can’t say someone’s wrong just because their culture sees it differently.”

“right,” he says. “you’d think that’d be an easy one, but my brain keeps turning it into moral realism, which is the total opposite, and now i have no idea what’s real anymore.”

you glance up. “you’re spiraling.”

“correct.” he flips his notes dramatically. “i’m doomed. there’s no way i’m remembering all this for friday.”

you throw a gummy bear at him; he tries to catch it in his mouth and fails, and the gummy bounces off his chin before it rolls on the floor under your chair.

a silence falls— not awkward, not empty. just full of the night’s quiet weight. you reach for your tea as jisung fiddles with his pen cap, both of you locked in notes and review sheets and flashcards.

he stands up suddenly, pushing his chair back enough that you’re sure the dorm below you hears the squeak, and marches into your kitchen like a man on a mission. you hardly look up from the screen of your laptop.

“what’re you looking for?” you mumble, typing into a blank key on a worksheet.

you hear him shuffling around until he finds whatever he was hunting for.

some distant part of your brain registers him padding back over to the table as he says, “my reading glasses, i knew i brought them with me. the words are starting to blur together in my textbook.”

you’re mid-spell check when you feel him behind you, hands on the back of your chair as he leans forward. you go completely still.

“whatcha workin’ on, y/nnie?” he asks casually, letting his head rest on your shoulder.

you think you short-circuit.

his breath floats by your ear, body heat radiating all around you like a blanket. his arms don’t touch you, but it feels like he’s got them wrapped around you just the same; his chin isn’t heavy on your shoulder, just… there, like he knows how to exist in your bubble without popping it.

you forget to breathe for a second, until your lungs are screaming at you to inhale and jisung is scanning your screen like this is normal.

maybe it is normal for him, for others; you wouldn’t know.

you haven’t let anyone get close enough for a while now to know.

“i’m, uh…” you start, distracted by how fluffy his hair looks in your periphery and the thought that it would be so easy to run your fingers through it, “review?” you end up squeaking out.

he chuckles and pulls back to a stand, rounding the table back to his own chair like nothing happened.

“not to be mean or anything, but i’m so glad we don’t have the same professor,” he says lightly. “i think i’d die if i had to do that much homework for one semester.”

you think you’re the one dying.

he goes about his own review like the sky didn’t shift overhead, like the lights didn’t burn brighter and the floor didn’t sway wildly underfoot.

and maybe… maybe it didn’t for him.

maybe you’ve gone so long without it, so long alone, that a simple touch feels like everything, even when it means nothing.

or maybe you’re doing what you swore you wouldn’t:

hoping. reading into things. wishing and wanting so long and hard that you mistake the mundane for the magical, that you latch onto all the small things and give them weight they simply aren’t meant to carry.

so you bite the inside of your cheek, curl your free hand into the fabric of your sleeve, and let it be.

let it melt away, let whatever meaning you thought you found in the fleeting touch slip into the comfort of a night spent over notebooks with a friend who’s proven that he’s safe.

“you’re lucky,” you find the voice to tease him back, “you wouldn’t make it two minutes with my professor.”

he gives you a cheeky grin and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “that’s what i’m saying.”

you flick a crumpled sheet of paper at his head and he collapses into a fit of laughter, dragging you along with him until your notes are forgotten and your bellies ache.

and for once, it’s safe to be exactly as you are.

warm. silly. tired– all of it.

with him; your friend.

–

friday comes in a whirlwind of last-minute notes, number two pencils, and protein-packed breakfasts; but when it’s all said and done, you and han are laughing on the steps to the building you won’t have to see again next semester, and you have the light kind of feeling that always comes after acing a test.

han is sure he failed, and you’re sure he didn’t. you’re arguing over the semantics of some of the exam questions when you reach his dorm building, and you prepare to wish him goodbye for the holidays.

you come to a stop outside his building and wait for him to go in.

instead, he turns to you with his hands in the pocket of his winter coat, scarf looped loosely around his neck. his nose is turning pink from the cold. “whatcha doing, y/n?”

you stare confusedly. “i thought… aren’t you, like, leaving for break?” you stumble, tilting your head until your beanie threatens to fall off.

han grins like a little kid and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “nope, my folks are going on some big trip that lasts into the start of next semester, so i’m sitting my happy ass right here for the holidays.” he says, and the thought that you won’t be alone this christmas washes over you in a wave of knee-weakening relief.

relief, and something stronger, less shallow– something that tastes hesitant. something like hope.

you smile, real and unguarded, a delighted laugh leaving you. “no way, i’m staying on campus for break, too!” you tell him with glee, “now i have someone to force to watch home alone and the great british bake-off with me this year.”

he laughs, but doesn’t say anything– and the floating feeling in your chest yanks back hard, like a string pulled taut before a deadweight drops. you trail off, “unless… do you have plans with chris and felix already?”

you’re about to continue, to wrap your arms around yourself and say something past the lump in your throat about how that’s cool and dandy, when han sees the way you deflate and grabs your gloved wrist without a second thought.

“y/nnie, not only do i happen to be a baking show superfan,” he reassures you effortlessly as your brain sparks and sputters at the warmth bleeding through the fabric of your glove, “but i also need someone to build a snowman with me, one bigger than this campus has ever seen. i’m talking school-paper kinda big. you in?”

you nod dumbly.

he’s holding your hand.

well– not really; but the grip he has on your wrist is as good as any. it makes your head muddy and your cheeks flush, makes your eyes search his.

you don’t remember the last time anyone held any part of you like this except yourself.

you’re still reeling when he lets go and fistbumps your outstretched hand with a chuckle, brain still spooling like a loading screen buffer as your legs propel you forward next to him in the direction of your dorm.

his voice is still floating in, but it sounds like everything is underwater; he says something about cookies and cocoa, about having campus to yourselves to wreak havoc and sleep in as late as you want, but you’re only half-listening.

your wrist still tingles with warmth.

and try as you might, you can’t bury the feeling next to all the others you’ve put to rest in the graveyard of your too-soft heart’s foolish hopes.

but when you walk back into the safety net of your own dorm room, fairy lights twinkling and heat cranked up high, you breathe a little easier.

maybe it isn’t the heat at all.

maybe… it’s him.

–

later that night, you’re curled into the corner of your dorm couch, mug warm between your palms, fairy lights casting the walls in a sleepy gold haze. the cocoa from a mix you both snagged from the near-empty dining hall is already cooling, a film of marshmallow froth clinging to the rim. your legs are half-tucked under a fuzzy throw blanket, shoulders slack for the first time in weeks.

it’s holiday heaven: cocoa, warm blankets, and “frosty the snowman” playing as snow falls in steady flakes outside, making the dorm feel like your own little slice of winter magic.

han, as per usual, is in the middle of doing something that borders on unhinged.

“i’m just saying,” he announces from the center of the room in front of the tv, “if a literal snowman came to life, the first thing that would happen is full-body panic. not a musical number.”

he throws his arms up. “like— okay, picture this: frosty’s eyes open, right? and suddenly it’s ‘oh god i have consciousness, but no internal organs, and i’m actively melting.’ that’s realistic.” he starts wobbling in slow, exaggerated horror, voice wavering dramatically as he slumps to the floor like a deflating blow-up toy.

he mimes what his version of the christmas cartoon would look like as theatrically as any oscar nominee. “help meeeeee, karen, i can feel my soul evaporating through my noseee—”

you nearly spit cocoa all over yourself.

“jisung, please—” you start cackling, the laughs leaving you sounding more and more feral by the minute.

he flops onto his back with a wheeze. “frosty dies a slow death every time the sun comes out and no one talks about it. tragic.”

you’re doubled over, half-hiding your face in your blanket, shoulders shaking from laughter. he’s giggling too, still sprawled on your carpet like a crime scene, until he drags himself upright and plops onto the couch beside you.

he doesn’t make a show of it— doesn’t inch too close, doesn’t throw an arm around your shoulders like he’s earned the right– just leans back, hands braced behind his head, and settles into the cushion with a sigh.

you glance over as the laughter dies down. he meets your eye, tilts his head innocently.

“should i rewind the last five minutes?” he asks like nothing happened. like he didn’t just act out the most horror-film rendition of a lovable cartoon you’ve ever seen.

you nod, lips quirking. “i can’t believe you just disrespected a children’s christmas special like that.”

“you’re welcome,” he says proudly, sipping his cocoa like a man with no convictions.

frosty dances on screen when you rewind a few scenes; you watch him come alive again, wobble through town on snowy legs, joyfully unaware of his mortality. you try to pay close attention, sipping occasionally from your now-cold cocoa.

but even as you watch, you think about melting. about second chances. about how warm jisung is even when he’s not touching you at all; like there’s snow around your heart, and he’s determined to thaw it.

the movie goes quiet for a minute. so does the world.

he doesn’t look away from the screen when he mumbles casually, “so what do you normally do for the holidays? when you’re not here at school?”

your stomach tightens, just a little. you stare into your mug.

there are easy answers— jokes, deflections, the kind of casual brush-off that won’t shift the weight of the room— but his voice was soft when he asked. soft enough to feel like a hand reaching out, a small-but-growing voice telling you it might be okay to unburden yourself; just to him, just for a little. just for a moment.

you curl your fingers tighter around the mug, thumbs brushing over your knuckles in a longstanding habit you haven’t had the gall to start breaking.

“…i mostly just hang out,” you say after a beat, aiming for light but honest. “not a lot of traditions in my family to carry with me to school. not many people around to do them with, really.”

you don’t say lonely. you don’t have to.

“but it’s okay,” you add on, “sometimes the quiet isn’t so bad.”

han doesn’t ask anything else. doesn’t pry, doesn’t offer pity or compensate with a joke.

he just takes a slow sip of his drink and hums, “my christmases are always too loud. too bright. too many cousins, too many board games, too much sugar. it’s a whole thing.”

you smile at that, soft and wistful. “that sounds nice.”

“sometimes,” he shrugs. “sometimes it’s pretty overwhelming.”

you glance over. he’s still watching the movie, but his voice is pointed now, like he means every word more than he’s letting on.

“but i think you’d like it,” he says next, more quietly. “maybe next year.”

your breath catches; your palms clutch your mug a little tighter.

then, with a grin, he elbows you lightly. “unless you revoke my friendship for being a frosty truther.”

you snort into your empty cup. “you’re on thin ice, han.”

he gasps. “oh my god, did you just make a snow pun? i knew there was hope for you!”

you giggle, and the weight in your chest lessens. not gone. not erased.

just… lighter.

like this— this tiny moment between mugs and movies and quiet, reciprocal understanding, rich with the promise of new traditions with a friend who might not leave— is enough.

and maybe it is.

you settle back into the couch, turning the volume up.

–

the movie is nearing its end when you realize han has stopped reacting.

there’s no dramatic narration in your ear; no impassioned critique of rudimentary animation, no frosty slander or humming of the closing credits song.

just silence.

you glance to your right and— sure enough— he’s out cold.

his legs are curled loosely up on the couch, hand tightly gripping the throw blanket pooled across his lap. his head’s tilted against the armrest, one cheek smushed into the pillow in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. the collar of his sweatshirt has bunched up, and his hair’s all fluffy and mussed, curls sticking out like static clung to them on the way down.

you don’t move for a moment.

you just look at him. take a longer peek at this boy who burst into your life like a comet and somehow left softness in his wake instead of fire.

his face is peaceful, but there’s something else there too— something that snags in your chest like yarn on a hook.

he’s sleeping soundly, but something in his face looks a little… lonely.

not sad, not quite restless. just unguarded; in a way you haven’t seen before. like all the charm and noise and jokes have slipped away, and what’s left is someone who’s always been the life of the party, but maybe not the center of anyone’s quiet space.

someone who sets himself on fire if it means others get to bask in just a little bit of light.

you don’t touch him; you don’t drape a blanket over him or tuck his hair behind his ear, though you heavily consider readjusting his poor neck.

but you simply stay for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, like even his dreams are animated.

he didn’t plan this. didn’t fake-doze off to get closer or enact some ploy. he just… got tired, like anyone would after a day of snow. he fell asleep, plain and simple.

in your space. on your couch.

so… you let him.

you stand slowly, careful not to jostle the cushions, and tiptoe around to the light switch. you leave the tv on— just barely audible, just enough to fill the room with background hum— because you remember he said once that silence makes him overthink.

then you pad quietly into your room.

the sheets are warm when you slip under them, swaddled in your comfiest pajama pants. your toes are still a little cold, and your hoodie smells like cocoa and cinnamon and faintly of han. your heart is beating a little slower than usual, and the quiet of your dorm doesn’t feel quite so empty tonight.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel something bloom in your chest that’s not ache. not fear. not empty.

something whole and soft takes its place, even if only for the night:

content.

you think to yourself that this must be what people mean when they talk about christmas cheer.

you close your eyes, and for once, you’re not bracing for loneliness to find you in the dark.

because he’s here– your best friend is crashed on your couch, dreaming like it’s already christmas eve.

and for the night, you let him be.

–

you wake to the faintest clatter from the other room.

at first, you think you’re dreaming— some lingering sound effect from last night’s movie bleeding into your REM cycle. but then there’s the unmistakable crinkle of plastic, a microwave door opening, followed by a very dramatic sigh.

you get up slowly, heart thumping.

when you peek around your bedroom door, the sight that greets you is somehow both unsurprising and absolutely absurd.

han jisung— hair even fluffier than last night, sweatshirt rumpled and socks mismatched— is standing in your kitchenette with a cup of instant ramen in one hand and a packet of seasoning in the other. he looks focused. determined. the kind of intense concentration reserved only for critical operations and late-stage winter break hunger.

you blink. “jisung. what the hell are you doing.”

he jumps, startled, and nearly drops the ramen. “oh my god, don’t sneak up on me like that! i’m operating heavy machinery.”

“you’re making ramen,” you deadpan. “at—” you glance at the clock, “—nine in the morning.”

“yeah, because i’m hungry,” he whines, ripping the packet open with his teeth. “and someone didn’t leave out any cinnamon rolls or waffles or breakfast burritos— y’know, like a good hostess would.”

you gape. “ramen is not a breakfast food!”

he shrugs, utterly unfazed. “i’ve eaten it for breakfast before. besides, the dining hall is cold and empty and i didn’t wanna go alone.”

you stare at him, dumbfounded.

he pouts. “don’t judge me, y/n. i’m a fragile man.”

you snort, arms folding across your chest. “clearly. you fell asleep on my couch and now you’re cooking noodles at sunrise.”

“it’s not sunrise.” he argues adamantly.

you gesture vaguely to the frosty light streaming through the window, “feels like it.”

he looks at you then— really looks— and his grin tugs a little softer at the edges. “good morning, y/nnie,” he says, growing sheepish.

you sigh but smile despite yourself, jarring your heart a little bit– you can’t recall the last time you woke up to something so endearing. “morning, dummy. now put the ramen up.”

he starts to protest, waving the cup around. “but—”

“i’m taking you to get real food.” you cut him off, already walking to the closet to grab your coat and scarf.

he stares. “you’d brave the arctic tundra for me?”

you glance sidelong at him, heart thrumming in your chest. “yeah, but only because i’m starving, too.” you bury the pulse of feeling with a joke, letting the moment wash away before it can really take hold.

he puts the ramen down with a dramatic sigh, like he’s giving up a child. “fine. but you better believe i’m getting pancakes stacked to the ceiling.”

and oh, you believe him.

you brave the snowy day side by side, walking through the winterstruck campus that looks like you’ve just been caught in a snowglobe.

the dining hall is nearly empty when you get there.

one student sits by the window, earbuds in and eyes closed. another is camped out near the coffee machines, bleary-eyed and half-awake. otherwise, it’s quiet; peaceful, in a weird sort of way. like the campus is still asleep, still holding its breath, blanketed in fresh snow and post-semester quiet.

you and han pile your trays high with pancakes, hash browns, eggs, fruit cups. he finds chocolate chips and dumps an offensive amount on his plate. you grab two cartons of chocolate milk and slide one across the table to him when you sit down.

he smiles at you, sleepy and soft and half-snuggled into his hoodie. “my hero.”

your heart skips– once, twice. ‘my hero’. he called you his– in a weird, cartoonish sort of way, but still. you short-circuit.

he goes on like nothing happened. “kinda weird, huh,” he says around a mouthful of syrupy pancake. “seeing it like this. all empty ‘n stuff.”

you nod, glancing out the big window by the far wall. snow glitters across the quad, undisturbed except for a few scattered footprints. “feels like we’re in a movie.”

he hums. “yeah... like, time’s still going, but we slipped out of it.”

you look at him then; look at his messy, ruffled hair and tired eyes, the way he holds his fork like a little kid and bounces his foot under the table without realizing.

he’s always talking. always making you laugh. but it’s in moments like this— quiet, sleepy, a little dazed— that you realize how steady he’s become. how much space he’s taken up in your life without demanding any of it. how right it feels to always have him near.

you sip your milk. “thanks for staying.”

he looks up, confused. “huh?”

you shrug, eyes back on your plate. your voice dips, softness hushing your tone like a secret. “just… thanks. for not going home. for being here.”

he doesn’t say anything right away. but when he does, his voice is low and laced with understanding.

“wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else, y/nnie.”

and somehow, the silence between you fills up with something lighter. something warm despite the frost lining every window.

–

the snow starts falling again midmorning in lazy, drifting flakes that turn heavier as noon stretches toward afternoon.

you’re both bundled to the ears in mismatched scarves and puffy coats, standing on the edge of the quad with gloves already dusted in white. the campus is nearly silent around you, blanketed in soft stillness and patches of untouched snow.

the biggest snowman you think you’ve ever helped build looms in front of you, so tall that han had to lift you to put the nose on. you turned redder than rudolph’s nose for the entire time his hands were around your waist; but somehow, you kept from melting into a pile of goo, and now you proudly stand back and admire your work.

jisung whistles lowly. “that’s what i’m talking about.”

you nudge his side like you’ve known him for years; like this isn’t your first winter with him. “not bad, huh?”

he elbows you back with a warm grin. “not bad at all.”

you snap a picture of the snowman and pocket your phone, wiggling your fingers in your gloves as you survey the campus. there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the quad, wrapping everything in white; the world looks too still, too untouched. like you and han are the last ones left.

“i feel like we’re breaking the law or something,” you whisper, looking around like someone might catch you two existing.

han grins, eyes squinting against the wind. “good. makes it more fun.”

you barely have time to respond, to ask what he means, before a snowball hits you square in the thigh.

you gasp. “you traitor!”

he’s already sprinting across the lawn, laughing his ass off.

you grab a fistful of snow and give chase to him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. he ducks behind a bench; you sneak around a tree. you pelt each other for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes.

he fake-surrenders once— hands in the air, voice high-pitched and pleading— before hitting you with a surprise attack the second you let your guard down.

you’re both shrieking, slipping, cackling, until you’re doubled over on opposite sides of a picnic table, red-faced from the cold and the wind with snow soaking through your socks.

he grins across at you, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “worth it?”

you can’t even pretend to be mad. it’s the most fun you’ve had in ages.

you nod, smiling so wide your jaw aches, “so worth it.”

you stop by his dorm on the way back to yours so he can change. he tries to offer you his fluffiest hoodie– sputtering things like “i have a spare! and it smells like fresh laundry!”— but you wave him off, already looking forward to being in your own dry clothes again.

by the time you’re both curled up on your couch, you’ve got popcorn between you, fuzzy socks on your feet, and ‘home alone’ queued up on screen.

outside, the world is still frozen and glinting and quiet, the sun just beginning to set over the white-blanketed landscape. inside, the heat hums softly and the string lights glow golden around the edges of the room.

you’re bouncing slightly in place, trying not to seem too eager as the movie starts, even though every part of you is buzzing. this is the first time in years— too many of them— that christmas doesn’t feel like something you have to survive.

you sneak a glance at han. he’s watching you, not the movie.

you blink. “what’s up, hannie?”

he just smiles. “you really like christmas movies, huh?”

you shrug, tugging your sleeves down over your hands and curling your fingers into the material. “this is my favorite movie. i even watch it in the summer if i feel like it sometimes. i know it’s silly, but...” you trail off.

“nah,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours, the touch deceptively simple. “you look happy.”

you swallow around something warm and dangerous in your throat. something that gives you leeway to keep talking.

“most years it’s just me,” you admit after a moment, voice small. “my family doesn’t really do holidays anymore. i stopped decorating my dorm after the first year ‘cause it felt… weird, i guess. when i had roommates, they didn’t celebrate much either.”

he nods, quiet. doesn’t push, doesn’t pry; just looks at you, silently telling you it’s okay to tell him more.

you rub your thumb along your own hand— an old habit, a silent comfort. “i guess it just… feels different. this time. with you, i mean.”

han notices. of course he does. but he doesn’t mention it. just tosses a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth and says, “well, you’re stuck with me now.”

you laugh. it comes out uneven, a little too sharp, a little too much like a cover for something you’re trying like hell to stamp down.

“i mean it,” he says, softer this time. “you and me, rocking the holidays together. it’s a new tradition.”

you blink fast, heart lurching somewhere behind your ribs.

“yeah,” you murmur, letting yourself lean a little closer. “i’d like that.”

the credits roll before you know it. neither of you moves.

you’re full of warmth and sugar and laughter and the kind of ache that isn’t painful– just proof that you’re still healing. proof that the hollow of loneliness melts in the right kind of presence.

he’s still next to you, steady and gentle and silly and here. every breath he lets out seems to whisper to you to let your walls down, to let him in. you don’t know how to… but you think for him, you can learn.

and maybe, just maybe, this is what christmas is supposed to feel like.

—

it’s early march, and the snow has finally stopped clinging to the sidewalk corners.

campus smells like cold mud and fresh air, and the trees still look dead, but there’s something new in the breeze— something light, like a promise that things will soon be blooming.

by now, the rhythm of a new semester has fully set in: early morning classes, cheap coffees, last-minute quiz reviews whispered under your breath. han’s presence, as always, has folded itself into the edges of your days like second nature.

he’s in your psych lecture now— along with felix, who keeps things mildly unhinged and wholly entertaining— but it’s han who walks you there most days. han who always saves you the seat by the sunniest window, who pokes your cheek with the end of his pen when your eyes start to drift closed mid-lecture.

he drapes his arm lightly over your shoulders sometimes when he’s laughing, leaning his weight into you like it’s effortless. he taps your ankle with his foot under the library table when you’re zoning out. he steals bites of your snacks and offers you his hoodie when the lecture hall AC goes haywire.

and it’s all… fine. it’s normal. it’s just jisung.

except his gaze lingers longer than it used to.

except sometimes, you catch him looking at you like he’s memorizing, not glancing– like he’s searching for something, quiet and careful.

except his eyes don’t match the jokes anymore. they’re too soft, too sweet, to knowing.

and it’s driving you a little bit insane.

you’ve never had someone this close before; not just in proximity, but in rhythm. in belonging. when you walk, your steps are in tandem. when you laugh, you look to each other first. you know him now, and he knows you. and there’s a part of you— one you’ve worked hard to keep small and manageable and silent— that wonders if he’s ever wanted to know you this much for a reason.

but you don’t ask.

instead, you sit on the floor of his dorm room on a rainy thursday afternoon and watch him strum chords on his beat-up guitar, tongue poked out slightly as he concentrates.

“okay,” he says, brows furrowed, “so we’ve got… frontal, parietal, occipital, temporal. we need a melody that slaps. something unforgettable. like… a brain-based banger.”

you snort. “you say that like it’s gonna go platinum.”

“it should,” he insists, dramatically flicking his pick like a mic. “if the class doesn’t give me a standing ovation next week, i’m reporting them to the APA.”

you give him a blank stare. “you mean the psychology APA?”

“all the APA’s. i’ll find more.” he huffs indignantly.

you laugh so hard you nearly spill your tea.

he grins at that, one of those open, crinkly-eyed grins he gives out freely that make your stomach tilt a little. his fingers find a chord again, slow and soft this time, and he hums a nonsense line to match the lobes. it’s dumb and borderline incoherent, but he sings it with so much heart that you giggle your way through the whole verse.

“stop,” you gasp, clutching your stomach. “this is so bad.”

“excuse you,” he says, offended. “this is the future of neuroscience education.”

“you rhymed ‘frontal lobe’ with ‘shut your robe.’” you argue through another laugh.

he sinks back against the couch and whines, “it’s innovative lyricism. you just don’t get the vision, y/nnie.”

you can’t breathe. your face is warm from laughter, from how close he is, from how natural this feels— his knee brushing yours, his gaze darting to your face like he’s checking your smile before letting his own loose.

“i think you’re just making excuses to get me to study with you,” you tease, eyes narrowing.

han doesn’t deny it. just smiles, soft and small, and goes back to plucking his guitar.

and for a moment, you forget to wonder what he’s thinking.

you just feel.

him, beside you. the lull of rain against his window. the warmth of his presence, the steady comfort of this closeness you’ve grown into like a second skin.

and still, under it all—

hope. aching and unsure.

but not unwelcome.

and that should bother you, shouldn’t it? it used to, at least. but you’ve spent so long alone that han’s steady presence is rewriting what you thought you knew about— well, everything. about feelings big and small, about friendship, about things you won’t dare name for fear of acknowledging more.

so you hum along, half-teasing, mimicking the awful little tune he just invented. but the second your voice joins his melody, han freezes.

he’s quiet— struck dumb, really— and you don’t notice at first because you’re still humming, still trying to match the cadence. “is that a major key? you seriously wrote a bubblegum-pop neuroscience anthem for your project instead of doing slides like the rest of us?” your voice is lilting, teasing.

you look up, and he’s staring.

not just watching— staring.

like you’ve just done something impossible. like you’ve reached into the sky, carved out a star, and handed it to him on a silver platter.

you blink. “what’s wrong?”

he seems to come back to himself all at once, eyes flicking away, mouth twisting into a grin that’s too quick to be real. “nothing. just… didn’t expect you to actually sing it. gonna have to start charging royalties.”

you flush instantly, all heat behind your ears and in your chest. “it wasn’t singing, it was just me humming. badly.”

he cracks a wide grin. “hmm, dunno. pretty sure it was technically a performance.”

you groan and smack him lightly with a throw pillow. he deflects with ease, laughing full-force again, but his gaze lingers a half-second longer than it should when he looks back at you.

you pretend not to notice.

you reach for your flashcards instead, desperate for some ground to stand on because your cheeks are still warm, and his eyes feel like too-much.

“okay, if we’re actually doing this—” you flip to a card and hold it up like a cue. “—then let’s make sure we’re not spreading misinformation in the name of music.”

“you wound me,” he says, clutching his heart. “i am a man of science.”

you blink. “you’re a man of rhyming ‘cerebellum’ with ‘overwhelm-’em.’”

he sits up straight, sputtering. “that’s my poetic license!”

you roll your eyes and scoot closer to help him with his project, angling the cards toward both of you. your knees bump. his shoulder brushes yours. and slowly, naturally, you settle into the kind of quiet teamwork that always seems to find you with han: shared space, shared rhythm, shared laughter under your breath as you try to rhyme “thalamus” without sounding like you’re making up words.

you keep turning cards, and he keeps watching you.

not in a weird way. not even in a ‘look-at-me’ kind of way.

just… soft. steady. like you’re something he’s still trying to understand. like every word out of your mouth adds another note to the song he’s building in his head, like you’re a melody he can’t wait to hear.

you catch him once.

just a flicker— eyes lingering on your mouth as you speak, then darting up to meet yours when he realizes you’ve gone quiet.

he doesn’t look away.

but he doesn’t lean in, either. doesn’t reach for your hand, doesn’t crack a joke to fill the silence this time.

just meets your gaze and holds it— like that’s all he’ll allow himself to do.

it’s too much.

you glance back at the cards with a shaky breath, pretending to be absorbed in your notes. he lets you go without a word.

you’re grateful. and aching.

because part of you wants to ask, part of you wants to lean in; wants to believe this could be something.

but another part— deeper, skittish, more bruised— remembers what it feels like to fall first. remembers what it feels like to fall alone.

so instead, you scribble a lyric about the medulla in your notebook and snort when han tries to rhyme it with “enchilada.”

he laughs with you.

and his eyes… they say the rest. even though you can’t decode it yet.

–

late march sunlight filters through still-bare branches as you and han cross the quad, side by side on the worn cement path that curves toward the dining hall. your breath still clouds faintly in the cool air, and the wet grass lining the walk is speckled with stubborn little snowmelt puddles. winter hasn’t let go completely, but the seasons are shifting. you can feel it in the light.

“i’m just saying,” han is insisting as you walk back to the dorms from class, chin tilted up and hair ruffled by the breeze, “if freud had heard felix’s theory about subconscious snack cravings being linked to childhood trauma—”

you snort and finish the sentence like it’s muscle memory, “—he would’ve spontaneously reanimated, dragged himself out of the grave, and sued.”

han gasps. “you get me.”

“someone has to,” you deadpan, hugging your sweater tighter around your arms.

he grins. that stupid, stupid grin. all teeth and crinkled eyes and dimples, like he’s never had a single unkind day when he’s with you.

and you— idiot that you are, you who never learn— you grin right back. because of course you do.

you’re mid-comment, about to tell him that freud would probably also blame felix’s love of gummy sharks on a repressed oedipus complex, when—

it happens fast.

a loud shout— rubber scraping pavement— wheels spinning out—

and then:

“watch it—!”

his hand.

it hits your waist first.

not hard— never hard— but firm, urgent. reflexive.

his other hand wraps around your wrist and he pulls, swift and clean, like he doesn’t even think about it; like his body just exists to protect yours.

and suddenly, you’re off the path, standing in the soggy grass, blinking like you’ve just been dunked under ice water.

you register it all in pieces:

a guy on a skateboard skidding wildly to a stop, arms flailing. a muttered curse. the faint scrape of denim against asphalt.

“sorry!” the guy calls out, already moving again.

you don’t answer. you can’t. because han’s hands are still on you.

one arm is wrapped fully around your waist, fingertips splayed through the fabric of your sweater, the other loosely cradling your wrist where he grabbed you.

his breath comes out in a huff against your forehead— close, so close.

“you okay?” he asks, eyes scanning you like he’s mid-checklist. no smile now, just open concern, steady and grounding and raw.

you nod. or at least, you try to.

but your body has gone silent. no thoughts. no words.

just him.

his hands, his eyes, his touch bleeding across your body til it settles in your heart with a weight you both adore and despise.

he’s not teasing, not goofy. just… there, keeping you safe like it’s what he was born to do. solid. steady. him.

and you— you go still as stone, because now you know.

now you know what it feels like to be held by him.

and it’s everything.

everything you weren’t supposed to want, everything you’ve been trying not to imagine, to daydream about, to crave. it’s better than any dream you shove away upon waking, better than any stray thought you lock up deep in your mind every time he looks at you with those soft, knowing eyes.

you swallow hard, eyes still on his chest so you don’t have to look higher; so you don’t have to risk seeing your own heart reflected in his face. because if you don’t look, then maybe he won’t see it, either.

he lets go gently, like he knows you’re braced for it— like he doesn’t want to startle you further. his touch leaves slow, like dusk pulling off the edge of the sky.

you exhale. the sound is a quiet, rattled thing.

he doesn’t tease; doesn’t make a joke. doesn’t act like he just touched you like you mattered. he just waits and lets you find your breath.

and when you finally muster a nod and a shaky, “i’m fine,” he just smiles: small, soft, more with his eyes than his mouth.

“good,” he murmurs. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

you try to wave it off. you try to match his steadiness. but inside, your whole chest is trembling. because you’re not fine.

you’re ruined. wrecked by a moment you weren’t ready for.

because now that you know what it feels like to be pulled into him, you don’t want to go back to not knowing, to pretending you don’t want to melt at the thought of his arms around you.

you don’t want to forget the warmth, or the weight, or the stillness. you don’t want to keep up the tiring act of not hoping.

but you won’t give yourself the choice. so you walk beside him the rest of the way in silence, shoulder brushing his every few steps, and you pretend.

but your hand still remembers.

and your heart is still holding on.

–

you lie in bed that night, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling paint, blankets curled around your body like a shield.

the dorm heater clicks quietly in the corner. the hallway beyond your door is dead silent. the world has gone still.

but your mind hasn’t.

it won’t shut up, actually. because you’re replaying it— again.

the moment. his hand. your wrist. his voice in your ear, low and steady, asking you okay?

you’ve heard it a hundred times since you got back, maybe more. like an echo with too much weight to disappear. like a memory playing on a loop just behind your ribs.

you press your palms to your eyes and groan into the darkness; you’re being ridiculous. you know you’re being ridiculous.

because it was just instinct. anyone would’ve pulled someone out of the way like that– at least, anyone with decent reflexes and a basic sense of self-preservation.

you would’ve done the same for him.

but—

but.

he touched your waist. he touched your wrist.

he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, something precious.

and it wasn’t the first time. wasn’t the first hand brushed, wasn’t the first lingering glance, wasn’t the first time you’ve felt like gravity has shifted every time he so much as says your name. and that’s the problem: you can’t pretend the dam hasn’t cracked.

you turn your face into your pillow and groan again, softer this time. more like a whimper than a sound. because you’re spiraling, and you know it.

you’re acting like some lovesick teen with a crush. replaying every look of something you can’t name, every subtle brush of his shoulder against yours, every stupid little song he’s made up just to make you laugh.

you can feel yourself slipping.

every smile, every inside joke, every morning walk to lecture and lunch of stolen fries and every text that reads y/nnie, i need to scream about this assignment—

he’s everywhere. he’s everything.

and it terrifies you.

because… what if you’re wrong?

what if you’re misreading it all? what if the warmth you feel is just kindness, and the sparks are just static, and the feeling is something you conjured from the dark to replace the lonely ghost of wanting that always follows you?

you don’t want to ruin this. you can’t ruin this.

because han— han is your friend. your best friend. he’s the one who stays when no one else does, the one who knows your rhythms, who memorizes the way your face scrunches when you’re annoyed and the way you talk faster when you’re excited. he’s the one who knows how you take your tea and who always makes space on his couch for your laptop and your legs and your stress.

and if you lose him— if you reach too far, feel too much, fall too hard—

you’ll lose it all.

you curl into yourself, fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over your own hand like it’s enough to stop the ache.

it isn’t.

you hate this. hate the wanting. hate how helpless it makes you feel.

because you know what it’s like to fall alone. you know how it feels to mistake kindness for affection, to hope too hard, to end up in pieces, clutching the scraps of something that was never really yours to begin with.

you thought you were past this. thought your heart had learned better.

but han… han is different.

and maybe that’s the scariest part of all: because he’s safe. and he’s kind. and he’s yours.

not in the way you want; not yet, maybe not ever. but in the ways that count.

and if you let yourself fall any deeper, you don’t know if you’ll survive hitting the bottom.

you breathe in.

you breathe out.

and the sound of your name in his voice plays through your head like a song you’ll never be able to stop singing.

you squeeze your eyes shut… and you let it ache.

–

it’s nearly one in the morning on the first day of april, and han’s dorm is a mess.

not the bad kind— nothing gross, nothing catastrophic– it’s just... lived-in. crumpled flashcards scatter the floor like confetti. two mugs sit abandoned on his desk, one still half-full of cold tea. his hoodie’s slung over the desk chair, your blanket’s draped over the back of the couch, and on the whiteboard beside his door, someone (probably felix) has drawn a very anatomically incorrect brain diagram with the label “read it and weep, sucker”.

it smells like him in here.

that clean-laundry, vanilla-lip-balm, instant-ramen kind of scent. soft and warm and uniquely jisung. it's in the air, clinging to the fibers of your clothes, your hair, your skin.

it makes your heart ache in that quiet, helpless way again.

you’re sitting on the floor with your back against his bed and your laptop balanced on your knees. han’s beside you, cross-legged, scribbling in a notebook and muttering about neurotransmitters. his hair is fluffy and too-long; he’s wearing his glasses and the sweatshirt you love most— green, too big, sleeves swallowing his hands.

you think you’ve read the same sentence in your study guide nine times and absorbed none of it.

because he’s everywhere.

his presence. his voice. the brush of his knee against yours, the sound of his pen tapping, the way he squints when he’s confused, the fact that he’s humming again— low, under his breath, the same way he did the night you met. his lo-fi playlist is droning softly and his guitar stands tall in the corner.

it’s killing you.

you’ve been trying to keep it buried since the skateboard incident. since the warmth of his hand wrapped around your waist. since the fire that the moment lit in your chest started eating its way outward.

you can’t stop thinking about him.

you’re not even pretending anymore; not to yourself, at least. not when every moment you spend with him makes it harder to keep your face neutral and your voice light, harder to stay present instead of withdrawing into the lonely solitude you used to know so well.

he’s not even doing anything; just sitting there, studying. being han.

and it’s too much.

you close your eyes, let your head fall back against the bed for a minute. you need to breathe. you try to count your exhales, slow and even, like they taught you in high school when everyone was anxious about college apps. in—one, two, three. out—one, two, three.

you focus on the rhythm of your heart, the feel of the carpet under your socked feet, the dull ache of too much screen time behind your eyes. you stay like that for a while, drowning in your thoughts, trying to stay afloat so you don’t ruin the one true friendship you’ve ever known.

you don’t focus on han shifting next to you.

and you definitely don’t focus on the warmth that creeps closer, the way the air shifts like he’s leaning in.

you think you’ll go insane.

then—

his fingers brush your face; gentle, featherlight.

you barely register the touch at first, so soft it could be imagined— until it isn’t.

his hand cups your cheek.

just for a second.

just enough for your breath to stutter, just enough for the world to stop.

his palm is warm; careful. you feel it first at your jaw, a press that coaxes more than it startles.

then— his thumb, slow and tender, brushing along your cheekbone. not searching. not hesitant. intentional.

like he’s trying to bring you back gently. like he wants your first awareness to be him.

“hey,” he whispers, barely louder than the hum of the heater. “y/n, wake up.”

your pulse goes wild.

he thinks you’re asleep— he’s trying to wake you up.

and you… god, you wish you were. it would be easier. easier than sitting here, skin burning under his touch, heart tripping over itself like it’s never been held before.

but you’re not asleep.

you’re so awake it feels like a curse.

his touch lingers on your cheek just a moment longer— long enough to be deliberate, long enough to brand itself into your memory. and then, as gently as it came, it’s gone. his hand withdraws. the air cools where his warmth was.

you hear him shift back beside you with a soft exhale, the kind that you think means i didn’t want to let go. a creak of his notebook spine. the muted click of his pen cap.

but all you can feel is the shape of his hand on your face.

you keep your eyes closed.

you have to. because if you look at him right now, you’ll fall apart.

because if you look at him right now, you’ll say it.

i love you, i love you, i love you, i don’t know how not to anymore.

so instead, you pretend a little longer.

you let your heart pound, let the memory of his touch sear itself into your skin, let the safety of his hand and the danger of your feelings fight a brutal war inside your ribcage.

because you’re doomed.

you’ve been utterly, irrevocably doomed since he sat across from you in the coffee shop with a pink highlighter and a sleepy smile, since he pelted you with snow on a clear winter morning; doomed from the moment he sang you a brain song on his guitar, doomed when he pulled you out of harm’s way like it was instinct. like it was nothing.

it was everything.

and now… so is this.

you finally open your eyes, slow and cautious, and glance at him from the corner of your vision.

he’s focused on his notes. scribbling something with furrowed brows. his glasses have slipped slightly down his nose. he looks soft. he looks real.

he looks like someone you could love for a very, very long time.

and the worst part is— you already do.

you don’t know when it happened.

maybe it was the first time he remembered your favorite candy bar without making a big deal of it. maybe it was the snowman. or the stupid song for his psych project. or the way he always sits just close enough to keep you tethered, never too far, never too much.

or maybe— maybe it’s just been blooming under your skin this whole time; slow and creeping, quiet and insistent.

it didn’t start as love. that’s what keeps wrecking you.

it started as safety. as friendship.

real, gentle, uncomplicated friendship— the kind you never thought you’d find in someone like him. someone who fills every space with sound and light and laughter. someone who reads you like a rhythm, who never forces closeness, who gives just enough to make you feel known without ever asking for something in return.

but you didn’t notice how deep it ran until now.

until you were half-curled on his dorm room floor, brain fried from midterm prep, air full of soft background music and instant ramen and that familiar scent of his shampoo clinging to the throw pillows behind your head.

you didn’t notice how much you wanted him until he touched you.

until he touched you like that; until he cared enough to wake you gently.

until his thumb traced across your cheekbone like it mattered. like you mattered.

your hands are trembling in your lap. you hope he doesn’t see.

he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t looked over. he just sits beside you, notebook open, pen scratching quietly. his leg bumps yours when he shifts, and it’s so casual it hurts.

how can he be so calm?

your heart is caving in, and he’s just… just here. steady. warm. everything he’s always been.

he makes it so easy to forget that people can leave; so easy to believe he never will.

but he could.

you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to push the feeling down. smother it with logic. remind yourself that he’s your friend. your best friend.

that you could ruin it.

you could lose him.

you breathe out slow and shaky.

“you still with me?” he asks softly, nudging your knee with his. not teasing. just checking in.

you blink, and your gaze lands on the side of his face— glasses slightly askew, hair curling around his ears, a pencil smudge on his cheek. he’s not looking at you.

and maybe that’s a small kind of mercy.

you mumble, “yeah.”

he hums, satisfied. flips to the next page of notes. “okay, let’s try the temporal lobe again. no cheating this time.”

you nod, barely, and the studying continues.

but you feel like you’re balancing on the edge of a cliff.

and his voice is both the push off the ledge, and the only thing holding you steady.

–

it’s raining when han shows up at your door a week later, sleeves damp where his yellow hoodie peeks out under his coat, curls frizzed adorably around the edges of his glasses.

“still on for bake-off night?” he asks, like there was ever a world where you’d say no.

you let him in without a word, already clearing his favorite spot on your couch. he toes off his shoes at the door, plops down with a dramatic sigh, and immediately whines about how the weather tried to assassinate him.

you throw a blanket over his head and he yelps like he’s been attacked. it only makes you laugh harder.

twenty minutes later, you’re both curled under that same blanket, your knees knocked together, shoulders brushing in that now-familiar way that sets your alarms off in one breath and quiets them in the next, the easy silence filling with warm pulses and quiet awareness.

the episode plays on, voices soft and lilting through the speakers. han keeps making little commentaries under his breath— he’s emotionally invested in this batch of tiramisu and insists he could do better with a bag of ice and a dream— and it makes your whole body feel like a smile.

somewhere between rounds of the competition, you shift to lean your head on the back cushion, and han leans too— closer this time. his arm slants behind you, not quite touching, but it’s enough to cage you in gently. to bracket you against the shape of him.

you’re barely breathing.

it could be casual; but it isn’t, not to you. and not to your brain who never learns how to stop wanting, to stop hoping for the impossible.

then— so quiet you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already attuned to the sound of his voice like it’s a melody you’ve memorized by heart— he says it.

“you’re dangerous, you know that?” it’s barely a murmur, the words sounding almost unintentional.

your heart stutters wildly.

you glance at him, but he’s staring ahead, a faint, crooked smile playing at his lips like he didn’t just detonate a landmine in the once-quiet hollow of your chest.

you swallow hard. “what?”

his eyes flick toward you, and they’re soft. heavy with something unspoken.

“you’re dangerous,” he repeats, and this time, he gives you a small, bashful grin, before he goes on with a joke that you’re doubting he meant to say at first. “hazardous to my blood pressure. the way you gasped at that sponge cake collapsing? i kinda thought you were about to cry.”

you shove his arm, flustered and flushed and reeling from the way your heart is pulling madly in your chest like it’s trying to break free and crawl to him, and he laughs like you’re the best part of his week.

maybe you are.

he doesn’t say anything else. just nudges your knee with his like he’s tagging you back in, like nothing happened—like he didn’t just toss a live wire between you and leave it humming.

you try to focus on the screen again. on the bakers, on the ganache mishap, on the way han mutters rookie mistake like he’s been training for this his whole life. but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

or maybe it’s still right here.

caught in the weight of his gaze, the softness of his smile. caught in the way his words— you’re dangerous— wrap around you like a question you’re not ready to answer.

you stay like that until the episode ends, nestled in silence that feels less like quiet and more like a breath held too long.

eventually, you shift to sit up, brushing imaginary crumbs from your lap even though you haven’t eaten a thing. “i should…” you start, then trail off, not sure how to finish.

but he knows– whether he believes you care so much about a test or can just read you so well he knows when to go, he nods and shifts on the couch. “you definitely need to get enough sleep for that test tomorrow,” han hums, already standing to grab his coat from where it hangs by the door.

your smile is equal parts relieved and crestfallen. “want me to walk you back?”

“nah,” he shakes his head. “it’s barely drizzling now. i’ll be fine.”

you nod like you understand— like you’re letting him go, even though part of you hopes he won’t. but he just opens the door, steps out, and gives you that two-finger salute before he disappears down the hallway.

and it makes your chest ache to see him go.

you tuck your hands into your sleeves, heart full to the brim with something sad and bright and anxious and dangerous.

and you’re not sure if you’re ready for it to bloom.

but nevertheless… you can’t stop yourself from wanting it to.

–

it’s a sunny mid-april afternoon when han shows up to start prepping for another exam.

he doesn’t knock this time; just taps the doorframe gently with the back of his knuckle and steps inside like he’s always belonged there, like he’s never had to ask for permission.

“psych review?” he says softly, like a question he already knows the answer to.

you nod. “psych review.”

he settles on the floor across from you in your living room, notebook in hand, red hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. his hair’s still damp from a quick shower, curling around his temples, and his face is open in that way that always makes you feel seen, even when you wish you weren’t.

you’ve already pulled out the flashcards. you’ve already queued up the playlist. you’ve already lit the candle that smells like cinnamon and calm– even though nothing about you feels particularly calm right now– and start studying.

you’re trying.

god, you are trying.

you smile when he cracks a dumb joke about freud again. you groan when he quizzes you on the same brain lobe twice in a row. you tap your pen against the couch and twist your fingers in your sleeves and pretend like the feeling of his hand on your face the other night hasn’t replayed in your head over a hundred times since.

he hasn’t mentioned it.

he’s acting normal; he’s being han.

but when your hand trembles slightly as you reach for a card, his eyes flick to it. and they don’t leave.

you pretend not to notice.

but then he says your name. quietly.

just— “y/n.”

you look up, meeting his eyes fully for what feels like the first time in weeks.

his pen is still in his hand. his notes still sit between you. but his gaze is on you, sharp and unreadable, something buzzing underneath it.

you swallow. “yeah?”

a pause. then—

“did i do something wrong?”

you blink. hard.

“what?”

“the other night,” he says. “you were— i thought you were asleep when we were studying at my place. but then you weren’t. and after i…”

he trails off, shaking his head, like the words keep dissolving in his mouth before they can land.

you stare at him. your lungs forget how to work.

“i dunno, you’ve been acting weird ever since then. so… i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable,” he says quickly, voice soft, too soft. “really, i am. i didn’t mean to. i just— you looked so—”

he cuts himself off again. breathes out harshly through his nose. looks down at his notes like they might save him.

“never mind,” he mutters. “forget it. not important.”

but you don’t say anything. you can’t.

and that silence— your silence —it cracks something in him. you see it happen. you see it ripple across his shoulders, the slope of his back. you watch the tension coil tight until it snaps clean in two.

“god,” he says suddenly, pushing a hand through his hair. “this is driving me insane.”

your heart jumps to your throat. “what is?”

he looks up, finally. eyes bare. voice rough.

“you.”

a beat.

“you’re driving me insane.”

your breath catches. he leans in toward you like he’s making sure you’re listening; and when you don’t run, when you don’t back away, he keeps talking.

“i’ve been trying to—fuck, i don’t know. to be normal. to be fine. to be the version of me you like. the version who knows when to back off, when not to ruin a good thing. but you—” he exhales again, scrubbing his palms down his face. “you’re sitting there acting like your hands aren’t shaking, like you don’t feel it too. like i’m the only one falling apart over here.”

you go unnaturally still.

“so i need to know,” he says, voice steadying, quieter now, dangerous. “are you really that good at pretending, or do i just want this too much?”

you stare at him, open-mouthed, gut-sick with hope.

you want to say a hundred things.

you want to reach for him.

you want to fall, and fall, and fall.

but all you manage is—

“han…”

and he flinches, just slightly. eyes pulling away.

“it’s okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to say anything. just—if i’m wrong, tell me. and i’ll stop. i’ll be the good friend until the day you decide you want more.”

you finally find your voice.

“han… you’re not wrong.”

his eyes flick up. fast. wide with hope and a million other things you thought you’d been imagining all this time.

you keep going. you have to.

“i’ve been pretending for weeks. maybe months.” you laugh, but it sounds too much like a sob. “i just didn’t know how to say it. i didn’t want to lose you.”

han stares at you, soft and shattered. stares like you put the very stars in the sky, tremulous hope building behind his eyes.

“say it now,” he murmurs. “whatever it is. just say it.”

you inhale. sharp. real.

then:

“i think i’m in love with you.”

silence.

not heavy. not startled. just... full, bursting at the seams. warm and impossible.

his breath catches audibly— like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, not really. like maybe he’s spent weeks dreaming about it, torturing himself with it, letting it echo in his chest with no hope of it ever being returned. and now here it is.

here you are.

his eyes— wide, dark, disbelieving— search your face like he’s trying to prove to himself that he didn’t hallucinate it, that you aren’t joking or pulling some sick prank.

“say it again,” he breathes.

your heart stutters.

you didn’t even mean to say it once. you didn’t think you ever could.

but you look at him now— at the boy who’s been your safest place and your deepest fear, the boy who sings stupid songs about brain lobes and holds you like you matter, the boy who’s been breaking and healing your heart in the same breath for months— and you say it again. let the words pour out, let the feelings finally brim.

“i think i’m in love with you, han.”

his hand reaches for yours instantly— fingers brushing yours like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to touch you yet, like he’s waiting for you to disappear.

you don’t.

you curl your fingers around his instead of your own for the first time, anchoring him. let him feel the certainty in your grip, even while your voice shakes.

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “i didn’t want to ruin anything. you mean so much to me, and i— i thought it was safer not to say anything. i didn’t want to lose the only good thing i have, hannie.”

he exhales, sharp and soft all at once, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. his forehead tips forward, resting against yours.

your noses brush. your fingers stay tangled.

he still hasn’t kissed you.

he could.

you know he wants to. you want him to kiss you more than you want your next breath.

but instead, he just lets his next words spill out, like they’ve been carved into him for weeks. like if he doesn’t say them now, he’ll shatter.

“do you know what it’s been like,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, “watching you fall asleep next to me, pretending i’m not falling in love with every inch of you?”

you freeze. your breath catches in your throat.

he meets your eyes— really meets them. his hand comes up again, soft at your cheek.

“i wanted to kiss you the day we built that snowman,” he says. “i wanted to kiss you when you hummed that awful psych song with me. i wanted to kiss you every time you stole my hoodie and every time you laughed at my stupid jokes and every time you held your own hand because you’re too used to keeping yourself together."

his voice goes quieter. “but i didn’t. because i didn’t want to be the reason you stopped trusting the one safe place you had.”

your eyes are burning now. your heart is full to bursting, stretched tight with everything you’ve ever wanted and been too afraid to ask for.

“you’ve always been safe,” you whisper, and your voice breaks on it. “that’s the thing, han. i didn’t fall in love despite you being my best friend. i fell in love because you were. because you’ve been the one thing i never had to earn.”

his hand slips down to your jaw. his thumb brushes your cheek.

his voice is laced with restraint and wonder when he says, “you don’t ever have to earn this love from me.”

your next breath trembles as it leaves you.

and then, finally—finally—he leans in.

not all at once. not desperate. not rushed.

just slow, soft.

inevitable.

you meet him halfway; and when your lips touch, it’s not a question. it’s not a test.

it’s a promise.

the kiss is warm; steady. no sparks, no explosions— just a quiet, overwhelming rightness that roots itself deep in your chest and says, home is here now.

his lips part on yours and he kisses you with aching tenderness, slow and careful and eternal. his hand finds the back of your neck. your fingers twist in the sleeve of his sweatshirt, closing over his hand, but not to push it away; just to hold it. to hold onto him as he holds you together.

“i was never afraid of loving you,” you whisper against his lips, “i was terrified of losing you. i was so scared i was imagining everything.”

he kisses you again gently, tucking your hair behind one ear and cradling your face like you’re something precious. “i know, y/nnie. i didn’t want to be someone you were scared to love, so i never did anything i thought you wouldn’t want.”

your eyes are glistening when you look at him. “you’re all i’ve wanted this whole time.”

your lips meet again and while it’s not intense, it’s impossibly, wondrously deeper. his tongue traces the edge of your lip but goes no further; your hand slides from around his fingers to drape your arms around his neck, pulling him close. you don’t ever want to pretend like you don’t crave him again. you don’t ever want to feel far away from this.

he kisses you like you’ve rewritten his life just be being in it. he kisses you like he’s making up for every time hes wanted to but didn’t. you kiss him back for all the almosts, all the should-haves, all the maybe’s that threw up walls between you for months. you let him hold you, let him see you, let him love you.

and he does. wholly. fully. unashamedly.

when he pulls back, you’re both breathless. not just from the kiss, but from finally having said it. from finally being allowed to want.

you smile first– a soft, dazzling thing, stretching across your face until it threatens to pull you apart from joy.

he laughs— quiet, dazed, radiant. he leans in again, bumping his forehead against yours.

“i’ve loved you for a while, you know,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

“yeah?” you whisper, giggling.

he hums, the sound warm against your lips, “yeah, i thought it was just a crush at first. then you made me tea when i had a migraine the first time i came over to your place and i started planning our wedding.”

you snort, rolling your eyes even as your fingers find their way into the fluffy mass of hair you’ve been aching to touch for months.

he kisses you again. like he can’t stand to go without you anymore– like he never could to begin with.

and this time, you let yourself fall without fear.

–

it’s strange, how easy the quiet is now. how much brighter your days are around the edges.

strange how the space next to you— once a hollow you never let yourself notice too much for fear of it eating you alive— feels like it’s been his all along.

you’re walking together to some boba shop he swears he knows the way to downtown, steps even and slow because the streets are still wet from last night’s rain. your hands are in your sleeves, twisting the cuffs the way you’ve done for years without thinking. a little pressure, a little anchor to yourself— just enough to know where you end and the empty air begins.

han glances down mid-sentence, catches the tiny motion.

he doesn’t tease. doesn’t ask– doesn’t have to. he knows every tell, every habit, every little quirk that made him fall for you in the first place.

he just gently works your fingers free and slides his hand into yours like it’s nothing; like it’s everything. like it’s the only thing he’s ever meant to do. his palm is warm, and he laces your fingers with a firmness that makes your shoulders drop before you even realize they were tense.

you keep walking, pulse settling into the rhythm of his thumb brushing over your knuckles. for once, you don’t miss the press of your own palm against itself. you don’t need it. he’s steady enough for both of you.

at the bus stop, you cross your arms out of habit. a shield you’ve carried since before him, since before you realized love believed in you, too.

he doesn’t say anything— just steps closer until his chest fits to your back, wrapping his arms over yours. you stand there, stiff for a heartbeat, then melt into his embrace before you can stop yourself. one of your hands lifts, resting over his forearm. it’s not defense this time. it’s something else. something that feels deliriously like trust– like love.

his thumb skims the back of your hand as his arms stay wrapped around you, rubbing like he’s smoothing out creases you’ve been carrying for years. you laugh without meaning to; he kisses your hair and hugs you tighter. it feels absurdly… right.

like you’re not hard to love.

like loving you comes as easy as breathing.

you still find yourself running your palm down your arms sometimes, the old self-comfort a habit too hard to kick yet. but now, when you do, han catches it— his hands tangling your fingers together casually, thumb tracing over your wrist in the same quiet rhythm, an echo that makes your chest ache. you tuck your hair behind your ear and he’s already reaching to do it for you, tucking the strand with the same care you’ve learned to give yourself.

and maybe that’s the difference. the love leaking into every little gesture.

you’re not fixed. you still fidget, still hold yourself when the air feels too big. but now, for every time you twisted your fingers in your sleeve, han is lacing his with yours. for every time your hand swung alone in the air, he’s there to hold it. for every time you wrapped your arms around yourself, he’s holding you instead.

you kept yourself together for so long.

now, you’re learning what it feels like to be kept.

to receive the love you’ve always been so full of.

and han… he makes it easy.

he always has.

the end.

—

489 notes · View notes

homelessmeowmeow · 1 month ago

Text

-‘๑’- spiraling

fem!reader x han jisung, college au | fluff!!, mutual pining, partying, sungie is a hot loser, alcohol consumption, suggestive scenes, brief makeout, neck kisses, ~3k

in which han jisung can freestyle under pressure but can’t string a single sentence together when it comes to confessing his feelings.

based off of this request! i loved this idea and it is safe to conclude that jisung is the epitome of a loser trapped in a hot body. finally finished this and was so excited to post it!

jisung has written entire verses in under twenty minutes. has freestyled with such creativity in the middle of the quad that chan has urgently pulled out his phone to record it. he’s rapped so fast before lectures while hyunjin threw up gun fingers and jeongin screamed like they weren’t already one warning away from getting kicked out of the classroom.

but today?

today, he has been struggling to say one sentence for over two hours.

“okay,” he says, pacing. “okay, okay, what if i go—no, that’s stupid. wait—”

jisung has soaked through the white blouse he wore for that 9am pitch. like, fully. he’s pacing a rut into his bedroom carpet, walking so fast back and forth it’s like he’s trying to generate enough friction to spontaneously combust and avoid his problems entirely.

felix, meanwhile, is lying on jisung’s bed like a cat with nowhere to be, scrolling lazily through something on his phone.

“you’re gonna burn a hole in the floor,” felix says, not looking up. “or your brain. whichever gives out first.”

jisung whirls around, eyes wild. “i can’t do it, felix. i can’t.”

felix raises an eyebrow. “han jisung.”

“what?”

“jisung.”

“i heard you.”

“sit down.”

jisung groans and flops onto the floor.

felix sighs and tosses his phone to the side. “she likes you.”

“no she doesn’t.”

“yes, she does.”

“no, she doesn’t. she laughs at me.”

“she giggles. it’s different”

jisung props himself up on his elbows, glaring. “you’re reading into it.”

“i see the way she looks at you, dude.” felix says, sitting up. “like she’s watching a…a movie and you’re her favorite scene.”

jisung snorts. “yeah, a comedy.”

“no, like—she looks at you the way minho hyung looks at pudding. like she’s about to risk it all.”

jisung flops back down, arm over his face. “doesn’t matter. i’m too—me.”

felix stares. “you’re literally hot.”

jisung lifts his arm off his face just enough to peek.

“you’re hot. get it through your sweaty little head.”

“that sounds so fake.”

“no, what’s fake is you thinking you’re not attractive when girls gawk at you. you’re attractive and the fact that you don’t know it makes you more attractive”

jisung makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a whine. “i hate this.”

felix grins. “no you don’t. you're just terrfied that y/n might actually like you back.”

jisung peeks out again, this time with the wide-eyed panic of a baby deer. “…what if i ask her and she says no?”

felix raises an eyebrow. “what if you don’t and she starts thinking you’re not interested?”

that shuts him up.

felix hops off the bed, grabs his can off the desk, and downs the last of his pre gaming beer like it’s water. “you’ve got twenty minutes before we leave. shower, deodorant, new shirt.”

“wait, are we—am i actually gonna say it tonight?”

felix yanks out a black button-down from jisung’s closet and tosses it to him. “you’re gonna look her in the eyes and say: ‘hey, i think you’re the coolest person i’ve ever met, but i’m a little bitch about it.’”

jisung groans, fingers tugging on his tie to loosen it. “felix.”

“just tell her you like her and kiss her. that’s it.”

“not hard? you try doing it.”

felix shoots him a look. “i would, if i wasn’t babysitting a grown boy melting down over a girl who already likes him.”

jisung grumbles something unintelligible as he yanks the tie off with a frustrated sigh.

“i just—i don’t know how she does it,” jisung says while adjusting the collar. “she’s just…so natural at everything.”

behind him, felix is pouring a little vodka into two mismatched little cups. he doesn’t even glance up as he says, “then that’s what you need to be. chill. effortless.”

jisung snorts, rolling his eyes as he fidgets with the buttons on his shirt. “yeah, like it’s easy.”

felix walks over and hands him the cup. jisung eyes the drink, then gives felix a flat look. after a beat, he exhales through his nose, rolls his eyes, and knocks the vodka back in one go. he makes a small face but doesn’t comment.

felix grins, tossing him a lazy salute with his cup. jisung sets the cup down with a soft clatter.

“if i do anything too bold tonight, i’m blaming you.”

the bass is low and heavy, rattling the walls of hyunjin’s basement. you’re leaning against the old pool table, one hand wrapped around a half-finished drink, the other gesturing vaguely as you talk to your friend.

“do you think he’s actually gonna show?” you ask, trying not to sound too hopeful. you fail.

your friend gives you a look. “he will.”

you sigh, sipping whatever's in your cup. it’s starting to taste like juice, which means you’re definitely tipsy. everything’s a little warm around the edges.

your phone’s in your back pocket, and you’ve checked it three times in the past ten minutes like it's gonna magically light up with his name. it hasn’t.

you glance at the door again. still no jisung.

your friend raises an eyebrow at you, clearly catching the way your eyes keep drifting. you pretend to focus on your cup like it holds answers.

“i’m not texting him,” you say.

your friend doesn’t even respond. you last exactly twenty seconds.

then you’re turning slightly, as you unlock your phone. the screen’s bright, and jisung’s contact is already near the top.

then you type:

you coming? :)

you hit send, and slam your phone screen-down on the table.

your friend side-eyes you. “not gonna text him, huh?”

“shut up.”

meanwhile, on the other side of the hyunjin’s house, jisung’s standing near the speakers, bass thudding so loud it’s basically a second heartbeat. his eyes are across the room. on you.

“you’ve been watching her for like five minutes.”

jisung exhales, nervous energy curling in his gut. “i’m just—figuring it out. timing. y’know.”

“she’s waiting for you to walk over.”

“shut up,” jisung hisses, but he’s smiling now, a little sheepish. his cheeks are warm, and not just from the drink. he shifts from one foot to the other.

and then—buzz.

he checks his phone. one notification.

from you.

he opens it and nearly chokes on air. “she texted me,” he blurts.

“yes,” felix says slowly, “so now you go over there.”

“i—yeah. yeah, okay. i will.” jisung knocks back the rest of his drink. “i’m going.”

he shoves his phone back in his pocket, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it does every time you’re even mentioned. the vodka's not doing much for his coordination, but it’s giving him just enough nerve to start walking.

felix claps him on the shoulder. “go get her.”

jisung doesn't respond. he’s already moving.

you see him before he expects you to and the moment your eyes meet, jisung smiles.

not his usual frantic, overstimulated grin. this one’s softer. smaller. quick. and then, like he didn’t mean to let it slip, he ducks his head down, running a hand across his neck as he starts walking toward you.

your heart does a little stupid flip.

“he’s here,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

your friend raises her brows. “i’ll see you later.”

you smile before you can stop yourself—an easy, instinctive kind of smile that crinkles at the corners and warms your face from the inside out.

jisung looks up just in time to catch it, and for a second, he forgets how to walk. his feet still move, somehow, but he’s not totally sure he’s controlling them anymore. “y/n.”

you push off the edge of the pool table and step toward him.

“hi, hannie,” you murmur while closing the distance between you two.

he blinks like he wasn’t expecting you to see him so fast, and you’re already stepping forward, arms looping around his waist in a hug that feels too natural. he lets out this tiny, stupid noise in response—half-laugh, half-sigh—and you feel him relax, just slightly, arms still around you.

“you look so nice tonight,” he says. “not that you don’t always look nice. you do. i just mean tonight you look... extra. extra-nice. not like extra extra. just—” he cuts himself off to take a deep breath.

“jisung,” you say, trying not to laugh.

he groans, pressing his forehead lightly against your shoulder like he’s trying to physically hide from his own mouth. “why do i talk?”

you giggle, arms still around him. “i like when you talk.”

“even when it’s a full word salad?”

“especially then.”

he lifts his head, eyes a little glassy, cheeks pink. he’s definitely drunk. that loose, slow-blinking kind of drunk that makes him just bold enough to stay.

“i’m serious, though,” he says, a little steadier this time. “you look really pretty.”

you glance down for a second, suddenly very interested in the floor. his words sink in slower than usual—like they need to be translated through the warmth crawling up your neck first.

“you don’t look so bad yourself,” you say, voice low, a little teasing. “i like you in black.”

his lips twitch, and he glances down at himself like he forgot what he was wearing. “yeah?”

“mhm,” you pull away gently from the hug, but your fingers are ghosting along the sleeve of his shirt. “looks good on you.”

his smile comes back, wide and boyish and completely unfiltered. “i’ll wear black every day for the rest of my life.”

you laugh, half-buried in your drink, and jisung watches like he’s never seen anything more important. like the party behind him doesn’t exist. like the only music playing is whatever your laugh sounds like inside his head.

“you’re ridiculous,” you say, still smiling.

“you’re perfect,” he blurts, too fast.

you freeze.

he realizes what he just said, panic flashing behind his eyes. “no pressure at all, like obviously you’re human, you’ve got flaws or whatever, like maybe you bite your straws or something—wait do you do that? that’d actually be kinda cute.”

you smile, shaking your head slowly, your cheeks warm with something gentler than tipsy heat. “you’re such a loser.”

“shut up,” he whines immediately, tipping his head back.

you laugh again, softer this time. “you don’t need to be so nervous all the time.”

he looks down at you. “i’m not nervous.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“i’m—okay, i was nervous,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “like, very, very nervous. but i’m not anymore. i’m just…”

there’s a pause. then—suddenly, like something in him just clicks—he exhales hard and leans in a little, eyes darting to the floor for a second before he finds the courage to meet yours again.

“do you even understand how long it took me to talk to you?” he says, voice a little shaky but rising with momentum. “i’ve been at this party longer than you think. like, i got here and saw you and panicked.”

you blink.

he nods, almost laughing now. “ask felix. i’ve been running recon missions all night trying to figure out when to approach. i went to the bathroom just to psych myself up.”

you’re giggling before he even finishes the sentence, and he’s grinning now, fully leaning into the embarrassment like it’s somehow worth it just to make you laugh like that.

your chest warms, the way it always does when he’s honest like this. “you were scared to talk to me?”

he nods, eyes flicking to yours like he’s bracing for impact. “yeah. which is so dumb. because now that i’m here, i don’t even remember what i was scared of.”

you look at him for a second, really look, and your voice comes out quieter. “you know i was waiting for you, right?”

his eyes widen slightly.

“i kept checking the door. thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

he exhales something shaky, overwhelmed but trying not to show it. “so i was over there being dramatic. meanwhile, you were standing here thinking nice things about me.”

“i usually am,” you say simply, like it’s a fact. because it is.

jisung stares at you for a beat, like his brain is buffering, then shakes his head in disbelief. “i’m really calling myself out tonight, huh?”

you tilt your head, smiling. “you kind of are.”

he laughs, nervous but real, his hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. “yeah, well. might as well go all in at this point.”

you watch him quietly, as he takes a breath. a deep one.

and when he looks at you again, “i like you,” he says, all in one breath. then again, slower. “i really, really like you.”

your breath catches.

he keeps going, words tumbling out before he can stop them. “like, so much it makes me kind of insane. like, i replay our conversations after they happen. i see you across the room and i forget what i was doing. like my whole brain just reroutes to you.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing, but because it’s so him. nervous. rambling. stupidly beautiful under the soft, colored lights of hyunjin’s basement, every line of his face sincere.

jisung laughs, but it’s nervous—barely held together. “and you…” he exhales hard, running a hand through his hair again. “you’re always making it seem like it’s okay that i’m all over the place. like i talk too much and say dumb things—like now—and you just…”

his voice drops.

“you just smile at me. like i’m not a disaster.”

you’re already stepping closer before he’s even done talking, heart thudding.

“jisung,” you say gently. “you’re not a disaster.”

he lets out a small breath, like he doesn’t totally believe you yet.

“you’re funny and thoughtful and so, so good to the people you love. you’re smart. you care so much, and you try harder than anyone i’ve ever met, even when you think no one notices.” you continue, fingers brushing his wrist.

he looks at you, finally.

“and i like that you talk a lot,” you continue. “even when you spiral and say five things at once. especially then, honestly.”

he blinks, surprised.

“it’s kind of hot,” you add casually, like it’s no big deal. “how fast your brain moves. i mean, you literally rap for a living. makes sense your mouth can’t keep up sometimes.”

his ears turn pink instantly.

“oh my god,” he mutters, covering his face with both hands.

you laugh, nudging him gently. “i’m serious. all the weird, nervous, overthinking parts of you. because they’re just you. and i might seem composed most of the time,” you say, voice softer now, more tentative, “but truthfully, i’m not.”

that gets his attention. his fingers part just enough for one eye to peek through.

you shrug, cheeks heating. “i just… i’ve gotten really good at pretending i’ve got it together.”

jisung stares, stunned into silence, like he can’t believe you’re saying all this. like every part of him is rewiring in real time.

you reach out, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, tugging gently. “even tonight, i almost didn’t text you.”

his breath catches.

“i sat there with the message typed out. had second thoughts about it. i thought maybe you didn’t want to hear from me, or maybe i’d come on too strong.”

“you’re joking,” he says, blinking hard. “you’re actually joking.”

“i’m not,” you say, laughing, tugging again at his shirt like it’ll ground you. “i was spiraling.”

your face is close to his now—too close, and not nearly close enough. you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the barely-there brush of his breath against your lips. his eyes flicker between your mouth and your eyes like he’s still trying to decide if this is really happening.

“you have no idea,” you whisper, “how much i’ve wanted this,”

and then he leans in and kisses you.

slow, sure, his lips parting yours like a question he already knows the answer to.

you kiss him back instantly, instinctively, your hand curling tighter in his shirt. it starts gentle—like you’re both still trying to wrap your heads around the fact that this is real—but it builds fast.

you melt into him, arms sliding up around his neck, hands finding the soft strands of hair at the back of his head. he groans, just barely, when you pull him closer.

his hands move to your waist, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips warm against your skin. he kisses like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent holding back.

you grin, and he laughs before tugging you forward again.

his back hits the edge of the pool table with a soft thud, and you go with him, hands still tangled in his hair. around you, the party hums on—bass heavy, people shouting over it, everyone too drunk or distracted to notice the two of you. your bodies are angled close, flush. his hands slipping up your back, your hips pressed between his legs.

then his mouth dips lower.

he kisses your jaw, then just below it—his lips brushing the curve of your neck. you giggle, surprised by the way it tickles and burns all at once.

“jisung—”

“shhh,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing up your throat again, back to your lips, like he needs to reclaim them.

and you let him. you always will.

“bro.”

jisung doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, staring down at his phone like it’s personally wronged him.

felix flops onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, limbs everywhere. “you’ve been rewriting the same text for ten minutes. you’re literally dating her. you don’t need to be this stressed.”

“that’s the problem,” jisung mutters. “we’re dating. there are stakes now.”

felix blinks. “for three months. you sleep at her place like twice a week. what are you even texting her about?”

jisung squints at his phone. “i wanted to say ‘i miss you,’ but then i was like, is that too clingy? so i tried ‘thinking about you,’ but that sounds vaguely ominous. then i changed it to a meme, but the meme was from 2020 and it made me sound like chan hyung.”

felix groans, grabbing a pillow and chucking it in jisung’s direction. “just send—”

ding-dong.

they both freeze.

jisung scrambles to his feet and nearly trips over his phone cord. “that’s her.” he’s already halfway down the hall, socks skidding on the floor.

he flings open the front door, chest heaving slightly like he just finished a sprint—and there you are, hoodie on, hair windblown, grinning like you couldn’t wait another second to see him.

he doesn’t hesitate. he just pulls you in.

you laugh, arms wrapping around his waist easily, comfortably, like you’ve done it a thousand times by now.

“i missed you,” jisung squeals into your hair, with no problem saying it out loud.

felix sighs, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like loser as he disappears back into the room.

537 notes · View notes

homelessmeowmeow · 1 month ago

Text

quiet hurts loudest.

han jisung x f!reader

synopsis/request: when jisung forgets your birthday and pushes you away during a moment of vulnerability, silent tension fills the days that follow. as he scrambles to make amends, he realizes the real damage wasn't forgetting the date, but making you feel like a burden.

warnings: angst, silent treatment, emotional neglect, hurt/comfort, miscommunication.

wc: 8,162

The rain had been falling all day. A slow, steady rhythm tapping against the windows, so soft it could almost be soothing, if not for the storm quietly brewing inside you.

The week had been uneventful in most ways. Jisung had been more or less locked in his little creative bubble, something you'd always admired about him. He could get consumed by music, swallowed whole by a single lyric he couldn't quite get right, or a melody that refused to sit still. You loved that about him. Loved the way his eyes got glassy and far away when his brain started spinning faster than he could talk.

But lately, it wasn’t just that.

He’d been distant. Not unkind. Just… elsewhere. Every conversation felt like you were knocking on a door he no longer heard you through.

You chalked it up to work, because it was work. He’d been spending long hours writing, recording, tweaking things late into the night, and barely looking up from his laptop when you came in. You were used to it, in a way. This was Jisung. He went hard when inspiration struck. He burned hot, fast, and completely.

Still, it stung in a way you didn’t want to admit.

Especially with your birthday just a few days away.

You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d made a quiet decision not to bring it up. Part of you thought it would be sweet if he remembered on his own, if he had something planned, something thoughtful, even small. Jisung wasn’t extravagant. He didn’t do grand gestures. But he knew you. He always knew you.

So you waited.

And waited.

Each day passed without a mention. No little comments. No suspicious texts. No asking if you were free. Just his head down, pen scratching across paper, headphones on, a world away.

But today, Tuesday, you couldn’t take the silence anymore. You weren’t going to outright ask him if he remembered. That would be pathetic, you thought. That would make it worse if he didn’t. But you could be subtle. Casual. Just ask if he had Friday off. Plant the seed. Give him a chance.

It was late afternoon when you walked into his studio. You could hear the low hum of a beat looping in the background, his fingers moving fast over his keyboard, pausing every so often to scribble something into his notebook. His back was to you, hunched slightly, hoodie pulled up over his head.

He didn’t hear you come in.

You walked over quietly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek lightly against his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away.

Yet.

"Hey, baby," you said softly, your voice almost lost in the music. "Do you have Friday off?"

You didn’t mention why. You didn’t want it to sound like a trap.

He didn’t turn around. Just shrugged, his fingers still moving.

"I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a lot going on right now."

You blinked. Pulled back a little. That was it? No follow-up? No “why do you ask?” Not even curiosity?

You bit your lip and tried again, stepping around him this time so you were facing him. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy from staring at the screen too long. You leaned down, gently trying to kiss his cheek, but he shifted just as you did, and your lips landed awkwardly at the corner of his jaw.

You let it slide. Forced a smile.

"Really no plans this weekend? Not even a day off?"

He finally looked up. Annoyed. The kind of look you’d only seen when he was dealing with customer service or slow Wi-Fi.

"Can you not right now?" he snapped, rubbing his temple. "I’m in the middle of something."

You blinked. Stunned for a second.

"I was just asking—"

"Yeah, and I said I don’t know." He exhaled hard, clearly irritated. "Why are you pressing me about this? I’m busy."

That one landed like a slap. You took a step back, arms folding tightly over your chest. You felt like you were shrinking.

"Sorry for bothering you," you said coldly, the tightness in your throat giving you away. "God forbid I ask my boyfriend a simple question."

You turned before he could say anything else, before the anger on your face melted into something worse. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want him to know.

The door slammed behind you harder than you intended. The echo rang down the hallway like a warning bell.

You stood there, frozen, in the hallway. Alone.

And that's when it hit you.

He’d forgotten.

He really, truly had forgotten.

Your birthday was in three days.

And Jisung, the boy who once remembered the exact day you first cried in front of him, the boy who had surprised you with ramen at 1AM because you offhandedly said you missed home, had forgotten.

Your chest burned.

You didn’t cry right away. You refused to. Crying meant giving it weight. It meant making it real. And maybe, maybe this was still salvageable. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe this was just a bad moment, a bad hour.

But the more you thought about it, the more the silence over the past week screamed in your ears.

Not one hint. Not one look. Nothing.

The house was quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that felt like tension stretched too thin. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavier.

You’d noticed it growing for a while now, the slow fade of warmth, like a candle burning down to its last inch of wick. Jisung had been lost in his work lately, immersed in melodies and metaphors, his mind trapped in the small studio tucked at the end of the hall.

He’d always done this. You knew his process. He dove headfirst into his music, sometimes forgetting meals, forgetting sleep. You’d loved him for that. For how deeply he loved creating. For how earnestly he got caught up in the things that mattered to him.

But this time… something was different.

This time, you felt like a stranger to him while he buried himself in lyrics.

And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Your birthday was in just a few days.

That tiny fact sat in the back of your mind like a needle under the skin. Small. Sharp. Unshakable.

You didn’t need much. You weren’t the type to demand gifts or parties or posts with long, poetic captions. What you wanted, what you hoped for was that he’d remember. That he’d do something meaningful, something that showed he still saw you.

You had convinced yourself that he did.

Even after the way he snapped earlier that day, the way he brushed you off when you asked if he had Friday free, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.

You had to. Because if he had forgotten, if he truly wasn’t planning anything… then what did that say about the two of you? About how far you’d drifted without realizing it?

That evening, the house remained mostly silent.

You moved around the bedroom without saying much, folding laundry you didn’t have the energy to care about, rechecking a calendar you’d already memorized. You hadn’t seen him much since the argument. He stayed locked away in his studio, headphones on, music leaking faintly through the door like a barrier between you.

You had hoped stupidly, maybe that he’d come out and say something. Apologize, even a little. Ask what was wrong. Notice that you’d been quiet too. That you didn’t eat dinner. That you didn’t sit on the couch like usual waiting for him to finish work.

But none of that happened.

It was nearly midnight when he finally came into the room. You were already in bed, the blanket pulled up to your chest, your body curled to one side, eyes closed. You weren’t asleep, not even close.

He moved quietly, but you heard every step. The rustle of his hoodie dropping to the floor. The faint creak of the mattress as he slipped in beside you.

You waited.

Your heart thudded.

Then, slowly, you inched toward him.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t push your luck with words this time. You just slid closer and gently wrapped your arm around his waist, your face nestling near his shoulder. A quiet attempt at truce. A silent please let’s forget the fight.

But before you could even settle into the comfort you craved, he flinched.

And then he sighed. Loudly.

“Seriously?”

The word hit you like a slap.

Your body stilled. “...What?”

“When I’m working, I really need you to not be all over me,” he said, voice flat, frustrated. “It throws me off. I was just about to write something important earlier and you came in, touching me, kissing me and I completely lost the line I had in my head.”

You pulled back slowly, staring at him in the dim lighting. His profile was hard. Tired. Detached.

You blinked once. Twice. Trying to process what he’d just said.

“I distracted you…?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out another sigh and turned his back to you.

“I just… I’d appreciate it if you could give me space when I’m in work mode. That’s all.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You lay there, staring at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath.

There was something hollow in your chest. A yawning emptiness where warmth used to live.

All day, you had been convincing yourself that this was just stress. That he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean to be cold or distant. That it wasn’t personal.

But this, this wasn’t just stress.

This was dismissal.

And that, somehow, hurt more than him forgetting your birthday.

Because this wasn’t about one day.

This was about being made to feel like you were in the way. Like your affection was an inconvenience. Like loving him gently, quietly, earnestly was a problem.

You blinked away the heat in your eyes and rolled onto your other side, facing the wall.

You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t touch him again. You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Lying there in the dark, you played the moment over and over in your head.

You weren’t sure what stung more: That he hadn’t tried to fix the argument. That he’d called your love distracting. Or that he didn’t even realize he’d hurt you.

You thought about how he used to pull you into bed and kiss you like he couldn’t wait to tell you everything he’d written. You thought about the nights when he would bring his lyric notebook to the couch just to be next to you. You thought about the quiet way he used to hold your hand while working, like even in silence, he wanted to be tethered to you.

Now… you were a distraction. And worse, someone who made you feel too much for wanting to be close.

You clutched the edge of the blanket and closed your eyes.

You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to give it that power.

But the tears came anyway silent and slow, soaking into your pillow like an open secret.

In that moment, you realized something heartbreaking:

It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday.

It was that, lately, he’d forgotten you.

You woke up the next morning feeling like you hadn't slept at all.

Your eyes were sore, your body heavy from the weight of unshed words and smothered cries. There was a dull ache behind your ribs that hadn’t gone away since last night, since he turned away from you after telling you that your love was distracting. Since you’d reached out for comfort and got a complaint instead.

You lay still in bed, watching the gray morning light bleed into the room. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood floor. The clink of a mug. A spoon against a bowl.

Your heart didn’t race. It slowed. Because nothing felt worse than knowing he was acting like everything was fine.

And it was then that the decision made itself: You wouldn’t say a word. Not out of pettiness. Not out of spite. But because you had said enough. And he had heard nothing.

Let him feel the silence he gave you. Let him hear it this time.

You walked into the kitchen wrapped in a hoodie, your face blank, your mouth a hard line. He was standing by the stove, eating cereal straight out of the bowl, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up briefly.

"Morning," he said, like nothing had happened.

You nodded once, tight, and opened the fridge. You could feel his eyes linger on you for a second too long like he was waiting for you to say more. But when you didn’t, he just turned back to his screen.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t ask about his schedule. Didn’t try to sit close.

You took your yogurt and left the kitchen, eating alone in the living room with the TV off and your thoughts screaming.

The silence grew louder as the hours passed.

He didn’t notice it at first. You were usually quiet in the mornings anyway. He probably assumed you'd snap out of it, give him a kiss on the cheek, ask how the lyrics were going, sit beside him with your head on his shoulder.

But you didn’t.

And by mid-afternoon, it had become clear that this wasn’t just a quiet morning.

You walked past him in the hallway when he emerged for coffee. He smiled faintly and said, “I think I figured out that chorus.” You gave a nod that didn’t reach your eyes. No follow-up. You didn’t even glance at him.

He paused. Just for a second. And then kept walking.

By evening, you heard the subtle tone in his voice shift. A flicker of unease.

He called from the kitchen, “Hey… you want me to make pasta or something?”

You didn’t respond.

“...Y/N?” he tried again.

You were in the bedroom, folding the same shirt over and over just to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted.

He peeked into the room, holding the bag of pasta in his hand. You didn’t look at him.

“I’m making something to eat,” he said slowly, carefully. “Do you want any?”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t even shrug.

He exhaled sharply, clearly irritated now. “Okay. I’ll just leave you alone then.”

And he did.

The rest of the day passed the same way. Cold. Wordless. Wide.

You were in the same rooms but worlds apart. He started watching you more carefully. Furtively. He asked small things throughout the day "Did you do the laundry already?" or "Hey, have you seen my hoodie?" Each question met with nothing but the silence you were buried in.

You saw confusion start to shift in his face. His brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled taut. He’d ask something, and when you didn’t answer, his eyes would narrow slightly like he was starting to notice that something was wrong but still couldn’t connect the dots.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because to you, the answer was obvious. You were bleeding right in front of him, and he was asking why the floor looked red.

You were brushing your teeth late that night when he leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.

"Are you gonna stay mad forever?"

You blinked once and spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiped your mouth without answering.

He waited.

"I seriously don’t know what I did," he said, his voice cracking a little with frustration. "If you’re not gonna tell me, how am I supposed to fix it?"

You turned off the bathroom light and walked past him.

The door didn’t slam this time. It clicked shut, soft and final.

By the time Thursday night arrived, he looked exhausted. You couldn’t tell if it was from the studio or from trying to figure out what had changed. Probably both.

You sat on the couch with your arms crossed, the TV playing something you weren’t even watching.

He stood in the doorway for a while, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Then finally, he said it. “I’m gonna go to the practice room for a bit.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“Maybe you just need space or something,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep bothering you.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.

Space?

That’s what he thought this was about?

He thought you were ignoring him because you needed air? Not because he’d forgotten the one day you were silently hoping he’d remember? Not because he’d made you feel like loving him was a chore? Like your affection was an obstacle?

You blinked at the screen, your eyes glassy. The show kept playing. You didn’t even know what episode you were on.

He waited a moment longer.

Then the door shut.

And suddenly you were alone. Again.

The tears finally came, thick and hot, as soon as his footsteps faded. They weren’t quiet this time. You choked on them, the kind that made your chest heave and your throat close. Your hands shook.

Because you were tired.

Tired of giving the benefit of the doubt. Tired of excuses. Tired of being too scared to say it’s my birthday tomorrow and you’ve done nothing. Tired of hoping he would see you, without you having to beg for it.

How could he not know?

How could he be so oblivious?

And still… you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.

Because wasn’t that the whole point?

You wanted to be chosen. Not reminded.

You wanted him to remember, not be told.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow, when you woke up…

It would be your birthday.

And you had no idea if he would know it.

The practice room lights were dim, buzzing faintly overhead like the last nerve in Jisung’s mind, frayed and twitching. He stepped inside without much thought, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his whole body. His legs gave out near the far wall, slumping down onto the cold wooden floor beside Hyunjin, who looked like he’d just finished drowning in sweat and choreography.

Jeongin was sitting criss-cross at the center of the room, stretching lazily with one earbud still dangling from his hoodie. Felix lay flat on his back beside him, chest heaving with tired breaths, while Minho scrolled through his phone like he hadn’t just danced for two hours straight.

The energy in the room was comfortable. Familiar. But the second Jisung sat down, it shifted.

Hyunjin glanced at him sideways. “What are you doing here?”

Felix sat up halfway, his brow scrunched. “Don’t you usually spend your days off with Y/N?”

“Wait—yeah,” Jeongin chimed in, tossing his head back. “Isn’t this, like, a once-in-a-blue-moon thing for you to be here on a day off?”

Jisung didn’t respond at first.

He exhaled hard and let his head fall back against the mirror. “She’s not talking to me.”

That caught their attention.

“What?” Hyunjin blinked.

“Like... ignoring you ignoring you?” Felix asked, scooting closer.

“Yeah. Since yesterday. Full-on silent treatment. Not even a shrug. Just—blank face. No words.” Jisung pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And I swear to God it’s driving me insane.”

“Damn,” Jeongin muttered under his breath.

Minho looked up from his phone. “Did you do something?”

Jisung shook his head instantly. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? I don’t know.”

Jeongin snorted. “That’s not convincing.”

“I didn’t, though!” he snapped. “Like—okay, yeah, maybe I was kind of short with her the other night, but I was working. She came into the studio while I was trying to get this chorus down and I got frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t say anything bad.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“She tried talking to me a couple times that day and I just—I asked for space. I was in the zone.” Jisung rubbed his temples, groaning. “She knows how I get when I’m writing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And then she just stopped talking to you?” Hyunjin asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. Didn’t even respond when I asked what she wanted for dinner. Hasn’t said a single word in two days. Like, is that normal?”

Felix frowned. “Sounds like she’s hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t get why,” Jisung said, his voice raising without him meaning to. “I didn’t yell at her, I didn’t say anything cruel, I just... I was working! I asked for space!”

Jeongin gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Okay, but did you look at her?”

Jisung paused. “What?”

“I mean... when she came to see you, when she tried talking to you—did you actually look at her? Like—her face? Her energy? The way she was holding herself?”

Jisung frowned, caught off guard. “I mean... not really? I was focused.”

Felix leaned forward, soft but serious. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Silence fell for a moment. The kind that starts to crawl into your chest when people say things you aren’t ready to hear.

“You probably said something you didn’t even notice,” Hyunjin said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You do that when you’re in work mode. You push people away without meaning to.”

“I was just trying to finish my song,” Jisung muttered. But even he could hear the defensiveness in his voice.

Minho finally chimed in. “Then maybe ask yourself what’s more important—your music, or the way you treat the person who’s always there supporting it.”

The words hit harder than Jisung expected. They weren’t said harshly. Just plainly. Truthfully.

And they made his stomach twist.

He hated the idea that he had done something careless. That while he was focused on not forgetting a lyric, he might’ve forgotten her. Forgotten how hard she tried to love him even when he was too preoccupied to notice.

Jisung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together tightly.

“She looked so blank,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize how... quiet she really was. I thought she just needed space.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe she was waiting for you to realize something.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Jisung blinked down at the floor, the thought nagging at him like a weight on his back. He hated the way it made his chest feel tight. The way guilt started to form like smoke in his lungs.

And then..

Hyunjin, ever the emotional antenna in the room, turned to him with an almost casual question.

“So, anyway—what do you have planned for her birthday tomorrow?”

Jisung looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Her birthday,” Hyunjin repeated. “Tomorrow, right?”

Jisung laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not tomorrow. It’s next week or something. The—uh—the 11th, right?”

“Tomorrow is the 11th,” Jeongin deadpanned.

Jisung froze.

His hands went numb.

He instinctively pulled out his phone, thumbing the lock screen, eyes scanning the date like it had betrayed him.

Thursday, July 10th.

Tomorrow: Friday, July 11th.

His world tilted.

“No…” he breathed. “No way.”

Felix’s face fell as realization hit him too. “You didn’t…?”

Hyunjin stared at him in disbelief. “You forgot her birthday.”

“I—” Jisung's voice caught in his throat. “No—I didn’t—I just—I thought—shit—”

The words splintered into chaos. He dropped his phone. His mind was spinning.

It wasn’t just the date. It was everything. The way she came to him asking if he was free Friday. The way she tried to kiss him, twice. The way she’d softened into his side that night in bed, begging silently for him to hold her. The way she hadn’t said a word since.

The way she hadn’t cried. Not where he could see. But oh god, she had cried, hadn’t she?

He missed all of it.

He missed her.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Minho stared at him, arms folded. “Now do you get it?”

“She was trying to see if I remembered,” Jisung muttered, like he was trying to convince himself the sky was blue. “She didn’t even say it out loud. She just… asked if I had Friday off.”

“That’s the worst part,” Felix said gently. “She didn’t want to remind you. She wanted you to care enough to remember.”

A punch to the gut wouldn’t have hurt as much.

Jisung buried his face in his hands.

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin muttered. “Kinda bad.”

He didn't even argue.

Because he could see it now, all of it. Her silence wasn’t punishment. It was heartbreak. It was the sound of someone giving up.

And tomorrow, her birthday, she’d wake up in a house full of silence, thinking the person she loved most in the world didn’t remember or care enough to say a single word.

The second the realization hit, Jisung couldn’t sit still.

He shot to his feet like the floor had burned him, nearly tripping over Felix’s outstretched legs. The others barely had time to register his panic before he was already moving, storming out of the practice room, heart pounding in his chest, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.

He barely heard Jeongin’s “Hey—where are you going?” Didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t even breathe.

He’d forgotten.

Your birthday.

Tomorrow.

No, today. It was past midnight now.

He had forgotten your birthday.

The one day he was supposed to remember. The one day you never reminded him of because you always wanted to be seen without having to ask.

And instead of showing you love, he’d brushed you off. Pushed you away. Told you that your affection, your literal presence was a distraction.

It made him sick to think of your face in that moment now. The softness of your voice when you asked him if he was free. The way you leaned in, tried to kiss him. How your touch lingered on his shoulder like you were silently begging him not to let go.

And he had.

Without a second thought.

He hurt you.

The company doors banged shut behind him as he ran into the cool night air.

The streets were mostly empty, the last few buses rumbling past. He tugged his hood up and darted toward the only place that made sense, the only place he could think of at a time like this:

Your favorite bakery.

Even though he knew it was close to closing. Even though the odds were against him.

He didn’t care. He had to try.

He arrived, chest heaving, legs burning, and nearly slammed into the glass door.

Inside, the lights were still on. But barely.

The workers were already cleaning up, putting chairs on tables, wiping down the counters. Their eyes shifted to him the second he pushed the door open.

He could see it on their faces. That “please don’t walk in” expression masked with tired politeness.

“Can I get a cake?” he blurted, breathless.

One of the girls forced a smile. “We’re just closing up, I’m sorry—”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t be here this late unless it was an emergency. I forgot something really important. Someone’s birthday. Someone I love.”

Something in his voice must’ve hit them.

Because after a beat, the girl sighed, glanced at the display case, and muttered, “I think we have one left. Lucky night, I guess.”

Jisung’s heart flipped.

She returned a second later with a small cake box in hand.

Your favorite flavor.

He could’ve cried.

He ran the whole way home. The cake safely in his arms. Careful. Intentional.

When he got back, the apartment was dark. Quiet. You were already asleep.

He peeked into the bedroom, you were curled up, turned away from the door, your shoulders tense even in rest. You looked… small. Worn out.

The guilt twisted inside him like a knife.

He closed the door gently. Didn’t make a sound.

Then he stared at the living room and kitchen like they were a blank canvas.

And he got to work.

He didn’t sleep.

He blew up balloons some crooked, some lopsided. He taped pictures of the two of you on the walls, printed ones he’d taken in secret during your late-night snack runs, your beach trip, even that one where you were brushing your teeth with a scowl.

He strung up a makeshift “Happy Birthday” banner, cut by hand with scraps of colored paper. He’d messed up the “R” three times. It still looked wrong.

He pulled out the small gifts he’d forgotten he had been meaning to give you, the lyrics he’d scribbled in the back of a notebook weeks ago, inspired by something you said while laughing. A hair clip you pointed at in a store once. He wrapped them in old sheet music.

He wrote a letter. Messy. Panicked. Honest. Full of crossed-out words and a giant smudge where he wiped his eyes.

He arranged it all by the time the clock hit 1:00 a.m.

And then he collapsed on the couch mid-balloon. One still half-inflated in his hands.

He didn’t hear the bedroom door creak open.

Didn’t feel the light of the hallway hit his face.

But the moment you moved, He did.

His body shot up like he was jolted back to life.

There you were.

Standing in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, the expression on your face carefully blank, but your eyes spoke volumes.

You were still upset.

Rightfully.

You hadn’t forgotten. You hadn’t forgiven.

But he didn’t care if you hated him for another hour, another day, a week he had to show you something real now.

“Wait—don’t look yet!” he rushed, nearly tripping over a balloon.

You blinked slowly, unimpressed.

He walked up to you, gently reaching his hands to cover your eyes. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t soften, either.

He felt the chill in your posture. The hurt still lingering in your shoulders.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just... let me try.”

He guided you, quietly. Carefully.

His hands shook.

He stopped you in front of the living room, heart pounding against his ribs.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Now.”

He removed his hands from your eyes.

The lights were low. The table was covered in flickering tea candles. The little cake, topped with your favorite frosting. Photos taped to balloons hovered above.

Your name was scrawled across the banner in bright colors. The gifts sat nearby. His letter peeking out from under them.

He stepped in front of you.

“Happy birthday,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I know this doesn’t fix it, but I needed you to know, I know now. And I’m not going to forget again.”

You stared.

Expression unreadable. Chest tight.

He could see your jaw twitch like you were trying not to smile. But your eyes were glassy. The corners of your mouth shifted ever so slightly. You nearly cracked.

Nearly.

But the silence remained.

Because what he hurt wasn’t something decorations could patch up.

And still, you stood there.

Looking at him.

Looking at the effort.

The mess.

The truth.

And for the first time in days,

You didn’t look away.

The soft flicker of candlelight painted the room in warm hues, casting shadows over the clumsy decorations, the carefully placed gifts, the melting frosting on your cake.

It should have felt special. Thoughtful. Sweet.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

Jisung stood just in front of you, his breathing uneven. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked nervous. Not in the cute, shy way he usually did when he surprised you, but the kind that made his whole frame feel like it was waiting to collapse.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t move.

Your arms remained crossed, your expression unreadable, carefully neutral, but your eyes were fixed on him. Not the decorations. Not the cake. Not the pictures or the presents.

Just him.

And that silence, heavier than any door slam or raised voice, pierced deeper than either of you were ready to admit.

He finally swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night working on this.”

You blinked slowly. Once.

“I ran all the way to the bakery before they closed,” he added, as if that explained anything. “They only had one cake left. I—I begged them.”

Still nothing.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something, anything to tell him he was getting through. That he hadn’t completely shattered the fragile thread between you.

But your face remained calm. Distant.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”

You finally moved. Not toward him.

Just your head, tilting slightly.

Your eyes flicked over the decorations. The half-deflated balloon on the couch. The misspelled banner. The crumpled wrapping paper around a small box. The cake. The candles, now half-melted.

And then back to him.

A beat passed.

And then your voice quiet, hoarse, deliberate cut through the air.

“You didn’t mean to forget,” you echoed, almost to yourself. “But you did.”

Jisung flinched.

Because hearing it said out loud like that made it feel real all over again.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse. You didn’t cry.

You just told the truth.

And somehow, that hurt more.

“I know,” he whispered, guilt tightening in his chest like a fist.

You finally stepped forward, walking past him, not bothering to ask if you could. You stood before the table, staring down at the small cake in the center. Your favorite flavor.

It looked perfect.

But it felt... wrong.

Uncomfortable.

Artificial.

You were quiet for a long time before you spoke again.

“You know what hurt the most?” you asked, eyes still on the table.

Jisung slowly turned to face you, but didn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t that you forgot the date,” you said, voice trembling just enough to betray your restraint. “It’s that I came to you, twice, and you didn’t even look at me.”

He said nothing.

“I asked if you were free,” you continued, quieter. “And you brushed me off. I tried to kiss you, and you called me a distraction. You said you almost forgot your lyrics like I was in the way.”

The words cut like glass.

“And then you came to bed,” you said bitterly, shaking your head, “and instead of pulling me close, you scolded me again. You didn’t notice that I didn’t say anything back. You didn’t ask why I turned away.”

Jisung’s voice caught. “I didn’t know—”

“I know you didn’t,” you snapped suddenly, turning to face him now, arms still crossed but your chest rising fast, “because you didn’t care to know. You were too wrapped up in your music to notice that I was hurting. That I was right there in front of you, trying everything I could to be seen.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

“I didn’t want cake,” you said, softer now. “I didn’t want decorations or balloons or even a gift.”

Your voice cracked just slightly.

“I wanted you to remember me.”

A silence fell over the room that made even the candles seem to quiet.

Jisung’s heart felt like it had dropped out of his body.

Because now he saw it.

All of it.

This wasn’t about a forgotten birthday.

It was about what that forgetfulness meant to you.

That in the middle of his chaotic, music-fueled mind, you had fallen out of focus. And not just the date, you. Your presence. Your love. Your place beside him.

And the worst part?

You hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t begged.

You’d just gotten quiet.

And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but it sounded so small now. So empty in the shadow of everything you’d just said.

You looked at him for a long, long moment.

There was something raw in your expression now. Not anger. Not even sadness.

Just tiredness.

And then you gave a faint shrug.

“I know you are,” you said. “But I’m still hurt.”

You turned back toward the hallway slowly.

And before you walked away, you added one final thing,

“I don’t need grand gestures, Jisung.”

You paused.

“I just need to know I matter without having to remind you.”

And then you left him standing there.

Alone in a room full of balloons.

Morning came heavy.

The early light filtered in through the curtains in faded strips, casting muted patterns across the floor and walls. You were already awake, had been for hours. Lying still in bed, eyes on the ceiling, a dull ache stretching across your chest.

You hadn’t slept much.

Even after he decorated the night before. Even after the surprise. The effort.

The reminder that he cared, but only after he realized he’d forgotten.

There was something deeply hollow in the pit of your stomach. Something disappointment couldn’t fully name.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you.

It was that he didn’t see you when you needed him to.

And you weren’t sure a cake at 1:00 a.m. was going to fix that.

When you finally got up, you didn’t say a word.

You padded into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the decorations still up. They felt… false. Like remnants of something built on guilt rather than intention.

Jisung was already awake, curled up on the couch, eyes half-lidded and red from lack of sleep.

He sat up immediately when he heard you.

"Morning," he said, softly cautiously.

You didn’t respond. Not even a glance in his direction.

He frowned but didn’t push.

You passed him, quiet as ever, and walked to the kitchen. The clatter of a mug on the counter was the loudest sound in the apartment. You poured yourself water. That was it. No breakfast.

He stood a minute later, stretching awkwardly. He hovered, just a few steps behind. Like he wanted to be close but didn’t know if he had permission anymore.

The silence between you was crushing.

He trailed you throughout the day, always within sight. Always trying to stay near you like he could fix the damage just by being close.

He didn’t go to practice. Didn’t write. Didn’t open his laptop or touch his notebook.

Instead, he lingered.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hovering.

When you sat on the floor to organize a drawer you didn’t really need to organize, he sat a few feet away, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to you. Quietly hopeful. Painfully anxious.

You didn’t speak.

When you changed rooms, he followed.

Not in an overbearing way just enough to make it known he was still there. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how.

By the time afternoon crept in, you were still silent.

You didn’t eat.

Not out of pettiness, but because your emotions were so knotted, so close to the surface, that even chewing felt like a chore. Food would make this real. Food would be you accepting the day.

And right now, you weren’t ready.

Jisung noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything.

He just... watched you.

With a kind of quiet panic in his eyes that made it clear he was spiraling inside.

By late evening, the tension had become a third person in the room breathing heavily, sitting between you on the couch, pressing against your sides.

You were scrolling absently on your phone. You hadn’t spoken in hours.

He was next to you, knees pulled to his chest, a small cushion hugged against his stomach. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. He looked miserable, but kept pretending to be calm.

Then, in the quiet, your stomach growled.

Loudly.

Painfully loud in the dead silence.

You immediately stilled, eyes widening.

Jisung’s head whipped toward you.

There was a pause.

A long, too-long beat where his mouth twitched, like he was fighting it.

And then he laughed.

Not obnoxiously. Not teasingly.

But a soft, breathless, startled kind of laugh. Like the kind that slips out when the universe plays a joke on you.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he knew he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.

And for just one second, you cracked.

Your face twisted as you tried to stay stern. Tried to keep the front up. But the ridiculousness of it all, the dead silence, your growling stomach, the haunted look on his face, broke something loose.

You choked on your own breath, and suddenly a small laugh escaped you.

Not a big one. Not even a full sound. But enough.

His eyes softened instantly.

The tension snapped not fully, but just enough for the room to breathe again.

He stood, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might still bite. Then walked toward you, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "Look, I know you’re still pissed. And you should be."

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.

“I’ll apologize as many times as you want. I’ll keep groveling for the rest of the year if I have to,” he said, gently, kneeling in front of you now. His hands rested on the couch cushion beside your legs, not touching you. Just near.

“But right now… I need to celebrate you. Just a little. Just today. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t let yourself breathe. And I know I ruined the start of your day, but I’m begging you, please let me try to salvage the end of it.”

You blinked at him. Slow. Guarded.

“I know I messed up,” he said again, voice shaking. “But you don’t deserve to be hungry on your birthday. You don’t deserve to sit here feeling invisible. You deserve cake and your favorite food and someone telling you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”

His throat bobbed.

“I’m that someone. I swear I am.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. But your lip quivered.

And he saw it.

He saw that flicker. That tiny unraveling.

So he slowly reached out his fingers brushing yours, tentative, waiting for rejection.

But you didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

He let out a shaky breath, and his grip tightened slightly around your hand.

“I’m ordering your favorite,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting you lift a finger tonight. You’re going to eat, and if you want, we’ll sit in silence. Or we’ll watch that show you love. Or I’ll leave after. Whatever you want. Just… let me be here for you. Like I should have been from the start.”

Another pause.

Then, barely audible

“Please.”

The air between you had shifted, slightly, like clouds parting just enough for a patch of sun to warm the skin. Still cloudy. Still heavy. But there was warmth now. And that was a start.

You watched him as he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the food delivery app. “Your usual?” he asked gently, cautious but hopeful.

You nodded.

But just before he tapped the screen, you spoke, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“…Add a brown sugar bubble tea.”

He looked up at you, surprised.

Your eyes met his briefly.

A small corner of his mouth lifted, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if a smile was allowed, but when you didn’t pull away, it widened with quiet relief. That moment, tiny as it was, cracked something in both of you.

He tapped a few buttons and said, “Large brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, 50% sugar, less ice. Right?”

You nodded again.

“…Thank you,” you added softly.

His eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. “It’ll be here soon,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table.

Then he moved slowly like approaching a fragile edge of ice.

He sat beside you, close enough to feel his warmth again, but not crowding you. Not forcing anything.

And then, gently, he leaned his head on your shoulder. Slowly tilted further down until he was lying across the couch, his legs curled and head tucked carefully against your side. One arm draped loosely across your lap, his grip feather-light. His face pressed into the hem of your hoodie.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against you. “God, I’m so sorry.”

The words were hoarse. Choked.

Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just real.

Repeated again, like a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You ran your fingers through the sleeve hem of your hoodie for a moment, eyes staring past him, before you finally said, “I know.”

He turned his face a little, just enough to glance up at you.

“I forgive you,” you murmured, after a beat. “But I need you to know that you really, really hurt me.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded slowly.

You kept your voice steady. Firm but not harsh.

“I wasn’t even upset about the birthday anymore,” you said quietly. “You know I’ve never cared about birthdays that much.”

You paused.

“But when I asked if you had Friday off, you barely looked at me. And then I tried again, and you told me I was distracting you. Like I was bothering you. Like I was some kind of obstacle in your way.”

Jisung’s eyes dropped. His fingers curled tighter against your lap. He stayed completely still.

“That’s what hurt,” you said, voice finally cracking slightly. “Not the forgetting. But the pushing away. Like I was too much. Like I was getting in the way of your real priorities.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed, I should’ve stopped and seen you.”

“You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking to you,” you added, looking down at him. “I was right there. And you didn’t even ask.”

His chest rose sharply, his lips pressing into a thin, broken line.

“I’ve been kicking myself for that for two days,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking, ‘Why is she being so cold?’ And I didn’t even consider that it was because I had gone cold first. I made you feel like a burden when you were just trying to love me.”

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes softened at that.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re not a burden. You’re my peace. My home. And I treated you like you were noise.”

That hit something in you. Hard.

Because that was the truth you had no words for until now. You hadn’t wanted flowers or presents, you’d wanted to be met. To be held in mind and heart like you always did for him. You were asking to be cherished, just for a moment. And he hadn’t shown up.

But now, here he was.

Curled around you like an apology with a heartbeat.

You let your hand fall gently to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands.

And you finally said, “Just… don’t let me feel like that again.”

“I won’t,” he said immediately, his voice thick. “I swear, I won’t.”

You tilted down slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were red. Teary. He looked so small, so ashamed, but so present.

“I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even when I’m stupid. Especially then.”

You gave him a small, tired smile.

“You are stupid,” you whispered.

He exhaled a breath of a laugh. And then looked at you again, this time with a question in his eyes.

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently, and kissed him.

Not soft.

Not dramatic.

But real. Lingering. Quietly desperate.

His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer, holding you like something he thought he’d lost. He kissed you back like he was still apologizing through every movement like he didn’t deserve you, but would spend the rest of his life making it up.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, barely audible.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time all day, you smiled.

“I still want that bubble tea,” you whispered.

He laughed into your shoulder, voice warm now, full of the relief he hadn’t dared hope for hours ago.

“You’re getting it,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll buy you ten. I’ll buy the whole damn shop.”

“You better,” you muttered, resting your hand over his.

And for the first time in days, the silence between you didn’t ache.

It simply held.

a/n: for 🌺 anon.

masterlist.

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

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homelessmeowmeow · 1 month ago

Text

「𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚘」

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 5.5k (~23 min. read)

➥ Dark Romance, Forbidden Attraction, High-Tension Smut

➥ The author chooses not to issue tags for everything that takes place in this work to preserve tension and some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.

⚠ — Age gap, obsession, zero moral ground, heavily risky, strong language, explicit sexual content—public sex, brat taming, bondage, overstimulation.

➥ He isn't just your father's business partner. Not only have they been best friends since college, but this man has been a part of every major family event, including being one of the groomsmen at your brother's wedding.

And you're sick of not being able to call him by his first name.

When you return after finishing law school, he's still the same charming player you know, but even though you look the same, he can't recognize you at all.

You're gonna be the death of him one of these days.

*a/n: Byproduct of the "Karma is coming" freakout energy. Enjoy~

You are the fucking demon, he’s sure of it.

Chris once knew a girl. Levelheaded, diligent, the pride of her family with all her achievements. The dictionary definition of go-getter. Surely will make a great heiress one day.

He has no idea when you have become… this.

Sometimes he thinks he’s going insane because you act like an entirely different person around other people. You might be fooling everyone with your good girl antics, but he doesn’t buy it.

He can smell trouble from a mile away, and you are the worst kind of it.

The midweek chaos in his 48th-floor corner office is drowning him. The phone won’t shut up, the emails won’t stop, his secretary keeps buzzing the intercom like an annoying notification alarm every five minutes…

“Mr. Bang, your 8:30 is here.”

“Mr. Bang, the settlement draft…”

“Mr. Bang, the deposition…”

“Mr. Bang…”

FUCK the day he thought law school was a good idea.

As he goes back and forth between trashing his obnoxiously large office and jerking off for stress relief, the frosted glass door opens. He looks up.

From the looks of it, the devil no longer wears Prada, but she still looks like a classy whore.

“Wow, you look like shit,” you sneer as you approach his desk.

“Good to know my mood shows on my face, I guess,” he retorts.

“Why? I heard your divorce is finalized at long last,” you mindlessly reach for the little plane figure sitting on a box. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Does that mean you are free to fuck whoever you want now?”

HUH?!

He’s pretty sure he looks like the human embodiment of the word dumbfounded now. He can feel his mouth part; he’s even making some sounds, but no words come out. You seem amused, grinning wider at the sudden disappearance of his speech ability, packing up all vocabulary and fucking right off into the night.

“May I use your restroom?” you point to his left.

“You uh… Er erhm… Don’t you have one in your own office?” he manages to collect the crumbs of his wits.

“My office is on the other side of the floor,” you say, already making your way towards the large black door. “I won’t move in, don’t worry.”

The door closes with a satisfying clank, and he rolls the last ten seconds back in his head. What the absolute FUCK does that even mean? Why are you suddenly interested in his prospective body count? Were you custom-produced to fuck with his head on this Wednesday from hell by any chance? Are you bored or something?

“God, Chris…”

He checks his overpriced watch to confirm he hasn’t somehow blacked out and lost five hours. Nope, it’s still noon.

Does he need to make an emergency shrink appointment because what’s up with the auditory hallucinations in broad daylight?

“Chris, come fuck me…”

No… Fucking… Way…

Eyes glued to the restroom door, he slowly stands up, vigilant like he’s approaching an intruder he’s about to catch red-handed. His throat is parched, but somehow what he craves to quench his unholy thirst is not water. He walks closer, almost tiptoes, unsure if he’s doing it to hear better or because he’s scared you will stop.

Because a part of him really, really, really doesn’t want you to stop.

Ever the sleuth, he pulls up his phone and hits record, collecting evidence on his sanity levels. Only when he can’t gasp does he realize he’s been holding his breath.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Chris, please… Please!”

The soundwaves are right there on the screen!!!

You make no attempt to keep your voice down. You’re moaning like this is his bedroom. He can clearly hear how wet your pussy is with your fervent fingering.

What the fuck are you playing at?!!

He returns to his desk a changed man, trying really hard to process his reality. Are you trying to seduce him? Is this how you’re trying to send a message? Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?

Will he be able to survive the shame of how turned on he is right now?

The door opens again, and you emerge, glowing like you’re six months pregnant. You’re somewhere between sleepy and high. He can make a sophisticated guess about what you look like when you cum, and his entire body stands at attention at how fantastic it is.

He should have just trashed his office.

“What?” you ask as he looks at you completely bamboozled, then you leave without saying anything else.

Only when he makes sure you’re halfway across the floor does he walk into the restroom. He’s very much not insane; it smells like you in here. It also smells like a freshly fucked pussy. Something dark on the floor attracts his attention, and he looks down, using every single drop of his willpower to stay sane.

You’ve left your underwear, and the white, damp lines on the black fabric are prominent. This isn’t the kinda shit one does by accident. He reaches for it before his reasoning can even begin to say ‘Don’t do it.’

What the hell are you trying to pull here?

“Chris, come fuck me…”

He loses all control.

His painfully hard cock throbbing in his palm, your scent on his nose, your taste on his tongue, he fervently strokes himself, trying to imagine what exactly you did in here mere moments ago. Did you really imagine him with you? How did you imagine him? Were you sitting on his face? Were you riding him to death? Were you begging for praises in your ear for being a good little slut? God, you deserve a lesson. You deserve a proper punishment for what you’ve done. You deserve spanks on your ass and tugs on your hair and a hand around your throat while he’s at it. If you can offer a heartfelt apology, then he can consider making you cum until you cry.

He unloads a week’s worth of cum on your underwear when he finishes.

The post-nut clarity hits like never before. He’s mortified by what he’s just done. He deadass fantasized about railing you flat right here on his desk five minutes ago. His best friend’s daughter. His best friend’s corrupted as hell daughter who has seemingly walked through a portal and turned into the most lethal woman, all innocence lost, now hellbent on driving him insane.

He pulls out his phone and hits play. Then he plays it again. And again. And again.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Chris, please… Please!”

You are the fucking demon.

He’s sure of it.

What a fucking bitch…

You’re smiling at the client sitting across the table, but you hate her with every fiber of your being. She’s shamelessly flirting with her gorgeous lawyer sitting to your left, and not only does he not stop it, he seems to be enjoying it.

You’re so ticked off, you’re about to slap a bitch.

“You can hold my hand during the trial, right?” she reaches for Chris’ hand over the table. “I’m scared of courtrooms.”

It’s not like she will appear before a judge at a RICO trial. This is a fucking defamation lawsuit, but if she can’t keep her hands to herself, you might consider contributing to the slander.

“I can even rub your shoulders if you want,” he raises the stakes for no reason, “but we have to put it in writing that you’re asking me to do it.”

“You’re such a lawyer,” she playfully smacks his hand and tucks her hair behind her ear.

And you’re such a slut, you sneer inside.

“If you have drinks with me this Saturday,” she leans back into her chair, crossing her legs while staring right at Chris, “my business is yours.”

Something at the back of your head finally snaps.

“Coercion is a felony, miss,” you intervene with an ice-cold voice. “You’re not exactly helping your bullying scandal here.”

“Coercion?” she lets out one of those hearty old money laughs. “A good time with a hot model would be considered more of an incentive, don’t you think?”

“That incentive is called economic duress. We can drop your case right now and sue you for unlawful business terms.”

“W–Wait, I was just joking,” she suddenly perks up when her priorities rearrange themselves in her mind. “I really need to get these claims against me thrown out. Please.”

Chris watches the whole thing in silence, not sure if he’s amused, scared, or aroused. Possibly all three at once.

You leave the building with the multimillion-dollar lawsuit in your briefcase and walk towards the Chrysler waiting for you in front of the plaza. Chris has a satisfied smile on his lips, but it has nothing to do with securing the business of a spoiled nepo baby.

“Unlawful business terms, huh?” he asks while descending the marble stairs, though not quite in the form of a question.

“Sorry, would you rather get your reputation tarnished?” you scoff.

“I don’t fuck my clients,” he responds seriously. “Even if I was, she’s not my type.”

“What’s your type then?”

He stops before the car and turns to you. The look on his face screams pleased arrogance, and that stupid ego-filled smirk is making something boil in the pit of your stomach.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he opens the door to the backseat and enters first with no gentlemanly manners whatsoever.

Your plans for instant retaliation go out the window when you see your father and brother in the car. As the driver takes off, the fervent hostile takeover discussion reaches an intermission, and your father turns around to address Chris.

“If you didn’t get the case, get the fuck out.”

“Come on, they don’t call me The Closer for nothing,” Chris boasts, unbuttoning his blazer and spreading his legs as wide as he can.

You almost wheeze your lungs out.

Oh, he’s so damn smug. Oh, he’s so full of himself. Oh, he needs to fucking stop acting like he didn’t almost cream his pants just five minutes ago.

“You can learn a thing or two from him, sweetheart,” your father points at his ride-or-die. “Watch closely.”

He turns back around to glue his eyes on the laptop screen, and the thing that has snapped at the back of your head goes off, turning into a full-on mushroom cloud.

“Oh, really?” you raise your voice hyperbolically, shifting your body in Chris’ direction fully. “How does one become The Closer? Do tell, I’m watching.”

He looks entertained, clearly about to say something infuriatingly cocky again, but when your hand lands on his inner thigh, he chokes. The grin vanishes. His eyes dart down. The shudder comes third.

“What is it?” you purr as your hand gently slides up his thigh. “Are you not in the market for a mentee?”

He wants to say Stop it for a lot of legitimate reasons, but his mouth doesn’t render the words. He stares at you instead, lips parted, eyes widened, screaming a silent Do you want to get us both killed? Terror rushes through his veins when you unzip his slacks. Your hand reaches deeper inside and holds his arousal captive in your palm, warm, throbbing, very much tangible under your touch. He pulls his briefcase onto his lap in panic and glances at the two men in the front to make sure no attention is channeled to the back seat.

He’s so paralyzed that it doesn’t even occur to him to remove your hand instead.

“There’s uh… Th–There is an art to this,” he utters, alarmed that his porcelain poker-face already has a chip on it. “It’s… not much different than… er erhm, seduction if you think about it.”

“Are you saying I should seduce all my clients?” you start jerking him off with an utterly straight face.

He lets out a shaky exhale and pounces on the window switch for a sip of fresh air.

“You can say that,” he thickly swallows, wholesome dimples still kissing his cheeks as if he’s not having an active meltdown. “Though you gotta play the uh… plausible deniability card.”

“Stop teaching my sister how to be a legal slut, will you?” your brother playfully speaks over his shoulder, though not turning all the way back.

You both freeze in your places and wait until he submerges himself under a corporate law handbook again. So they are not fully distracted. You need to stop; otherwise, this is going to derail really bad.

Which is why you start stroking Chris faster as the next natural step.

“Eh, who cares if it lets me win?” you hold his cock in a tighter grip, your smirk spelling eight kinds of mischief. “Like, say, if I don’t go out with them to get their business, that’s plausible deniability, right?”

He’s sweating. He’s internally screaming. He’s fighting the urge to shove your head down and fuck your face hard while speaking the worst profanities you’ve ever heard. He focuses all his energy on regulating his breathing.

Then his hand reaches under the briefcase and wraps around yours, making you squeeze him even tighter.

“As long as no bodily fluids change hands, you’re good,” he responds, staring deep into your eyes. “There are no laws on what constitutes flirting.”

“So I should just make sure I’m not coming on too strong, and there will be no problems,” your eyes dart to his lips, watching the way he licks them.

“Yes.”

“Or as long as I’m not overtly sexual.”

“Yes.”

“Can I still wear blouses with some cleavage?”

“Y–Yes…”

Trying to control his body while cumming is the hardest thing he has ever had to do, and this man has heard murder confessions. He takes close-mouthed deep breaths like he’s just trying to ride out the pain of getting his blood drawn, hand slapped to his mouth to prevent any questionable sounds. The car comes to a halt in front of the company, and Chris looks like an absolute wreck.

“Are you okay?” you ask with bootleg concern, your slightly cum-laced hand pressed on his sweaty forehead.

“I just need a minute,” he pants. “I feel very queasy.”

“You’re not coming, sweetheart?”

“Oh, shoot, I think I left my phone at the plaza, Dad,” you immediately put plausible deniability into practice, going through your briefcase. “You go ahead. I’ll be right up if I can find it.”

The NPCs leave, and the scene clears. The suspicious stain on Chris’ pants doesn’t. Once the two Prada suits are sufficiently away from the car, you turn to Chris, way too proud of your work.

“I’m under your skin, Bang,” you gently kiss his ear. “Let another woman touch you again, I fucking dare you.”

You didn’t call him Mr. Bang like you used to. You addressed him like a nemesis as if you have generational blood feud between you. He is definitely losing it because this is the last thing he should be aroused by, not to mention the fact that he has just unloaded on himself.

He watches you walk to the revolving door, the click of your heels the only thing echoing inside his head. He closes his eyes and leans against the headrest, but his head is not resting. It’s trying to contain the deplorable thoughts uncontrollably multiplying inside like a wildfire.

You are the fucking demon.

And he’s captivated.

“Of course not! We have the best of the best on this case.”

The Zoom call has been going on for almost two hours now, and Chris is running out of brain cells to deploy. He pinches his nose bridge and squeezes his eyes close to alleviate some of the headache, but it doesn’t seem to work. If anything, it gets worse when you walk into his office carrying a file.

He tenses at your sight.

It’s been a few days since what shall be known as The Chrysler Incident, and neither of you has talked about it, which is part of the reason why he feels like he made it up in his head. Lucid dreaming awake. If so, then fucking WHY? What the hell happened to corrupt his mind palace this bad that he can’t think of much else other than rawdogging you into the next week?

“I think our strategy is pretty solid on this one,” he talks into the camera while pointing at the leather armchair across his desk for you to sit.

You settle down and cross your legs, waiting for the call to conclude, but it seems to be neverending. It’s not long before your boredom takes over you. You look at your nails. You look around the office. You look at the new vinyls he has added to his collection, clearly a gift from a client in the music industry.

“The client knows Chris and I are the dream team. We should go in as Mr. and Mrs. Bang at this point,” a woman’s sultry laughter blares out of his speakers.

He immediately makes eye contact with you.

It’s not so much ‘Oh, no’ but more of a ‘Go ballistic on me again’ dare. He heard you loud and clear the first time. He’s not letting another woman touch him.

But you never said anything about the verbal grounds, and loopholes are Chris’ bread and butter. He abuses them for a living.

His eyes return to the screen, but he can still see you in his peripheral vision. He knows you’re uncrossing your legs. He knows you throw one over the armrest.

He has to confirm with his own eyes that you’re indeed touching yourself, though.

“Chris, you good?”

How the HELL did they know?! Did his face change that noticeably? Or was it how he gulped?

Well, how can he not when your pussy is that wet? He can almost hear the begging in a slightly tweaked version.

“Chris, come lick me…”

“YEAH! Yeah, I’m fine,” he shakes his head, loud voice trying to overcompensate for his flustered state. “What were we talking about?”

It pleases you that he’s not fine at all. It amuses you how easily he gets horny. Is he touch-starved, or does he just have a high sex drive? How long does that stamina last? Can he fuck you from midnight until daybreak, for example? Or can you help him with the endurance training so he can go past breakfast hours maybe?

Much like some entitled bitch, you have incentives you can offer, too.

You slowly unbutton your shirt. He can feel your gaze on him and eventually looks back. The lace of your bra would be tolerable, but when you reveal your breasts and start playing with them, he freaks out, muting his microphone in panic.

Don’t you fucking CARE that the door can be swung open at any time?

“Fucking stop that,” he hisses with a straight face so as not to attract suspicion. “Your father is next door.”

“Chris? Your mic is off.”

“Yeah, your mic is off, Chris,” you echo the faceless woman in the call, the smile on your face lethally infernal. “Why don’t you turn it back on, so they can hear how wet you get me?”

“This is very serious. Do not do anything stupid,” he urges with a clenched jaw, genuinely mad, then turns his mic back on. “Sorry, I think I’m having technical problems. Can we try this in like five minutes?”

“No, we can’t,” a man replies this time. “We’re in the home stretch now. Focus.”

Okay, he didn’t have to be that fucking hot when he’s mad, but he was.

And unfortunately for him, it was giving you ideas.

You fix yourself up, merely for logistical purposes, and rise to your feet. He knows he’s in trouble, and his uneasiness culminates into unmitigated dread with each step you take towards him. He doesn’t look your way as you place the file on his desk. It’s good that he doesn’t. It could have ruined the element of surprise.

You get on your knees and crawl under his desk.

“…so we know for a fact that they have no other CHANCE!” he jumps in his seat.

His pseudo-scream rips from his throat when his cock meets slippery warmth. It feels too deep to be just your mouth. He’s growing bigger in whatever demoniac glory hole you’re hosting him, so ridiculously fast that it gives him a brain freeze.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” another participant in the call observes.

“Just… Cramp…” Chris folds in half.

He’s trying to focus, but he doesn’t hear shit else. Your quiet panting on his cock magnifies into screams within his body. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear how wet it sounds when he fucks your face. He wants to see your eyes roll back. He wants to watch you drool.

He spectacularly caves.

“Gotta go. Emergency.”

He leaves the call with that half-assed excuse and slams his computer close, rolling his chair back just enough to see the sight that will haunt him for years on end. You choking on him like you’re on death row, your eyes closed, slobber dripping down your chin.

It’s a miracle how he doesn’t blow right then and there.

“What? You fucking forgot how to moan now?” he tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs on it. “Don’t even lie, you got wet just from sucking my cock, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t receive a verbal answer. He receives an eye contact and laughter soundwaves so thick he feels them in his ribcage. You’re going at it like he’s been starving you, but turns out, that’s not even the designer of his demise.

Time bends into slow motion when he sees your fingers reach between your legs.

“Be quiet,” he snarls, yanking your hair again. “I wanna hear.”

On cue. Flawless obedience. Impeccable good girl manners. Suddenly, the only thing that hits his eardrums is the room tone and something… wet. God, it’s so wet, he doesn’t know whether he should keep listening, or sit you on his desk and inhale your pussy whole, or bend you over and fuck you so hard your spine snaps.

“Stick your tongue out,” he commands. “Now.”

He vehemently strokes himself to the very brink, and his brain goes numb as he watches strings of his cum land on your tongue. A part of him dies when you swallow each drop looking right at him. His entire body becomes limp with his release, and he lets himself fall back into his chair.

He’s gone.

He faintly remembers you standing up and heading to the restroom. He doesn’t know how long has passed until his feet touch the ground again.

“Just what the fuck are you trying to do to me?” he asks with a faded voice when you reemerge, still taking long, drawn-out breaths.

“What are you talking about?” you contort your face in confusion, as if nothing remotely scandalous has happened in this room within the last five minutes, then tap on the file on his desk. “I just came to bring the questions for the mock deposition. Be ready at 2.”

If you weren’t dragging your finger on the corner of your mouth to wipe off the residual cum, he really was going to believe you for a second.

You’re clearly high on your little victories, and it’s tricking you into getting bolder, making you bet things you might not afford to lose. Because you’re so sure you’re going to win at the end, aren’t you? It’s fine, Chris is nothing if not a patient man, but it’s time for you to face the music now. Even though he knows it won’t change certain facts.

You are the fucking demon.

And he might be addicted.

“What are you doing here?” Chris opens the door to his ridiculously expensive condo.

The question is rhetorical—he knows what you’re doing there. Earlier that day, he casually asked his secretary to ‘Send Ella to his place’ when he knew damn well you were within earshot. Now he’s reaping the rewards, gazing at the beauty before him wrapped in a classy black trench coat.

“Thought we could discuss the defamation case tonight,” you show him the thick folder you’re holding. “We need a strategy.”

“Not a good time,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m going out to meet a client for drinks.”

“Drinks?” you break into hysterical laughter. “Don’t tell me it’s the—”

“It’s Joaquim Ferreira,” he interrupts. “You might be familiar with him since his name is on our library.”

Oh.

Well… The fact that you know the person doesn’t prove anything. He’s still not being truthful. He says ‘Not a good time’ clearly as an excuse to send you away, doesn’t he? What is it that he desperately doesn’t want you to see around here?

You get a partial answer when you hear the footsteps in the distance. You take one look at his bedroom to your left, bed suspiciously unmade at this hour of the evening.

“Is this where you fucked her?” you ask with enough animosity to end nations.

“Who?” he asks, confused smile adorned with furrowed brows.

“What did I tell you about another woman touching you?” you take a step closer to him.

The footsteps are at their loudest now. Someone’s about to walk out of that hallway, and you will crush his flimsy lies into dust. You wait for the shadow to reach a strategic opaqueness, then you yank the belt of your trench coat like a pro flasher, revealing the lingerie you’re wearing inside.

The woman that appears by the kitchen counter is utterly scandalized.

“Oh my god, sorry baby. I thought our appointment was today,” you fake the most convincing surprise. “Should I come back another time?”

There is a lull before another voice is heard again, but it’s not Chris. If anything, he’s refusing to be the one to talk.

“I’m… so sorry, Mr. Bang. Did I confuse the days?” the woman slaps her hand on her mouth. “Your secretary told me you wanted housekeeping today.”

The extremely irritating grin slapped on his face literally has captions, and it says ‘Gotcha’.

“You’re not the one who confused the dates, Ella. You’re good,” he reassures her, dimples so deep it gives you the bends.

Ella nods, gathers her jacket and bag, then leaves at lightspeed. There is no trace of astonishment nor embarrassment on your face, and not even being alone with Chris brings them out.

“Something you wanna say to me?” he tilts his head.

“No,” you reply with annoyingly perfect poise, not acknowledging a granular amount of slip.

The distance between you is not that far, but it feels like he takes an hour to come close. He brushes two fingers between your breasts and slides them down, indescribable amounts of satisfaction coursing through his veins as he watches the goosebumps break on your skin.

“But there is something I wanna say to you, baby girl,” he breathes against your lips.

And for the first time ever, he sees something akin to panic in your eyes.

You suddenly find yourself in his arms, your heart about to jump out of your chest while being carried to his room. Your mouth suddenly goes dry. Your breathing suddenly becomes erratic. Your entire snark arsenal is destroyed, and all you can do is watch Chris as he empties a drawer on the nightstand. With dubious dexterity, he quickly cuffs you to his headboard, ties your feet to the corners of his bed, tapes a clit sucker on your pussy.

Yup. Tapes.

“Now I’ll go for those drinks, and you’ll fucking wait for me to come back,” he throws on his blazer and fixes his cuffs. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

Then he turns the toy on and casually fucks right off as if he didn’t just rewrite the playbook of a menace.

He’s on cloud nine when he enters that bar, so much so that Mr. Ferreira feels the need to ask if he’s high. Chris lies through his teeth with a heartfelt smile because technically speaking, the satisfaction of a good retaliation isn’t clinically narcotic. Maybe it should be. He orders double of the lounge’s most expensive scotch and gets to talking business, not rushing to finish his drink, but not exactly exercising patience, either.

“Chris?” Mr. Ferreira asks. “Is everything okay? You’re constantly checking your phone.”

“Sorry. Just checking the security cameras,” he puts his phone away, relieved he can at least pass the aggressive flush on his cheeks as the glow of the Macallan. “No need to be alarmed, but our meeting will have get cut short. There might be an intruder in my house.”

He is immediately excused, but for someone who has an emergency, he is much too nonchalant, whistling a tune to himself as he strolls back to his place with hands in his pocket. Once he finally opens his front door, he is welcomed by heaven—your tired moans echoing all over the place, your scent permeating every inch of the place, tears of overdose pleasure running down your cheeks…

“Have you reflected a little bit?” he removes his jacket. “Ready to apologize to me now?”

“What… What do I… For what?” you barely manage to utter.

He unbuttons his shirt as slowly as you did in front of his desk and walks to the bed, finally turning off the toy to give a respite to all your overstimulated neurons.

“For fucking me up this bad,” he whispers into your ear like a spiteful secret and places the softest kiss on it.

He turns on his nightstand lamp, and the vista revealed before his eyes should be fucking framed and put in a museum. His sheets are soaked. Your thighs are drenched. He has never been this turned on, and he’s salivating.

“Apologize,” he iterates his wish. “Or I’m gonna make you cry harder.”

“Why don’t you?” you maniacally smile at him. “That was the best part.”

He undoes your restraints one by one like he’s carefully opening a present. The anticipation of ten seconds into the future stretches into a forever as he kisses the burns from your ankles up to your wrists, giving birth to a never before discovered species of excitement in his bed.

“You have a fucking problem, you know,” he declares, but he can’t help reflecting the exact unhinged shade back at you. “I think I’m in love with it a little bit.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, then let yourself go into the calming waters of his kiss. You have walked so far beyond the threshold of sensitive that when he finally finally disappears into you, you find yourself on the brink of crying. You resurrect each time he breathes a bit of himself into your lips. You die all over again when he moans your name.

“Faster,” you claw at his shoulders.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore,” he bites into yours.

His rhythm suddenly turns ruthless, and you can swear your vision turns white every time he hits that dead end inside you that hard. It’s like he’s trying to avenge something. Maybe something lost, maybe something that has never been spoken, but he’s gunning for it at full speed, breathless, no longer giving a fuck about anything other than how terribly he has wanted you for so long.

God manifests within your body as Chris spills into you. When all his strength relents with the last drop out, he collapses, trying to find the whereabouts of his mind somewhere in the crook of your neck.

“Thank… you,” you kiss his temple, the most fucked out giggles of your life forcing themselves out of you one by one.

“No tapping out,” he rolls to his side and wraps your leg around his waist. “We’re just getting started.”

“Are you trying to make me pass out or something?”

“Maybe. If you don’t make me pass out first,” he tugs your bottom lip down. “I’ll race you for it.”

The only thing you remember from the rest of the night is the pure bliss of being his, but it’s nowhere near wholesome. It’s drenched in the heroinesque depraved pleasure dripping off his walls. Even though you know full well every orgasm is a gateway drug to Chris, you just can’t help it. And come the daybreak, you might be irrevocably addicted.

You might be the fucking demon.

But he has invented it.

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homelessmeowmeow · 2 months ago

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LOVE!!!!

wait hold on. for a series to get out of my writing slump, what if I did sharing a bed again but switch the dynamics. meaning last time hyung line got friends2lovers and maknae line got enemies2lovers, so what if I gave the the first four enemies2lovers and the last 4 friends2lovers this time… yes I think I see the vision omg

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homelessmeowmeow · 2 months ago

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WANNA BE YOURS

── if going back on his own word means getting the girl he’s waited to treat right, then to hell with it. ⠀⠀𐔌 pt. one .ᐟ

ෆ ͜ ̩͙ f!reader x seungcheol. indent format. fluff. smut. angst. emotional turmoil. best bf cheol <3. 18+

cheol doesn't push. doesn't act, doesn't do. not even when his lips still tingle from your kiss, when you’re sleepily drawing circles on his thigh before dozing off to sleep in his arms — and all he can think is that he’d part seas to just hold you like this forever.

but he meant what he said: you’re the boss. everything that happens, or doesn’t, is on your terms. cheol won’t take another step unless you tell him to. and you know it’s not because he’s scared of what people would say or what your ex would think — cheol’s a grown man who can defend his own actions. no, it’s because you matter. he wants you to choose him with your whole heart, not out of heartbreak, not out of spite. and he’ll still be there, whether he’s your choice or not.

what he doesn’t realise is that you already did. you’ve always been fond of cheol, your (ex)boyfriend’s leader who’d greet you with a warm smile. he made you feel welcomed, appreciated, where your ex wouldn’t. somewhere between the day you first met and the night that’s over: his hand on your back, his soft voice saying you deserve better — somewhere between his quiet patience and guarded restraint is when you made your choice. it’s him. always would’ve been him, if the timing had been kinder.

but cheol can’t wrap his head around that. someone as soft and golden as you settling on choosing him — the same guy who went back on his own word, who swore he’d never touch one of his member’s girls. who swore he’d stay on the right side of that line. but he’s here now anyways. in your bed.

cheol barely slept with your body nuzzled into his on the couch. once the morning sun cut through your curtains, he’d carried you to your bed and tucked you into the sheets. he was about to make the trek back to the living room when you had stopped him, a sleepy finger hooking around his own. only an idiot would turn you down.

maintaining any polite space was futile once he slid under the covers next to you, since you instantly curled into his body. he hadn’t slept a wink since. just watched you — mouth slightly parted, fingers curled into his hoodie — wondering what you must be dreaming about. seeing you so vulnerable like this rouses a type of fear in him. all he can think about is how dangerous this could’ve been. someone with a smooth voice and deceptive grin could’ve so easily taken advantage of you, luring you in under the guise of warmth you’ve been starved of. but cheol didn’t. wouldn’t.

he watches your chest rise and fall as he runs circles in his head. he listens to the sound of your breathing, the soft smile on your lips when he shifts next to you, and something inside him just aches. you stir eventually, a soft noise falling from your lips as you stretch. hair a little messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. you smile at cheol. he smiles back.

“morning,” he mumbles, voice deep and husky. his hand reaches out on instinct, tucks an unkempt strand of hair behind your ear, leaving a soft caress on your cheek with his thumb. you don’t flinch. you lean into it. and just like that, something clicks into place.

maybe he’s not the guy who’s supposed to do this. maybe he broke the unspoken code. but if the cost of being good means not being with you — then he doesn’t want to play it safe anymore. because you’re worth it. every guilty second thought, every complication, couldn’t be more worth it. you blink up at him with a smile, small but sure. “still here?” his palm flattens against your cheek then, cradling your face in his large hand. “always.” he utters, breath on your lips. and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

cheol dotes on you in a way that feels almost unreal. he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t flirt too much, or joke about last night, or ask if this means you’re official yet. he just stays by your side, steady and warm and gentle, like he’s been waiting his whole life for you to turn toward him on your own. it must’ve been hours that you laid there in your bed, giggling and cuddling, talking about nothing in particular and everything at all.

you cut yourself off with a grumble of your stomach, and cheol’s offering to take you out for breakfast before you can even think to excuse yourself. he doesn’t make a big deal of it, just grabs your shoes from the hallway like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you do this all the time.

you ride in silence for a while, your hands resting in your lap as he drives. every once in a while, you’ll catch him glancing over, like he’s checking to make sure you’re really here. that you haven’t changed your mind. it almost makes you laugh out loud — because how could you, when you’re finally being loved in all the ways you’ve waited for?

cheol pays without thinking. holds the door for you, remembers your coffee order exactly right. smiles when you smile. laughs when you laugh. he asks how you slept, if the couch was uncomfortable, if you want to stop by the store before heading home. and he doesn’t ask for anything. cheol doesn’t even expect anything. just being with you, being the reason you smile, is enough. and for the first time in maybe weeks, you feel steady again. wanted in a way that’s not possessive or loud or reckless. just genuine. real.

your ex messages that afternoon. just a short pathetic “can we talk?”, followed by a novel-length text about how he didn’t mean what he said, that it came out wrong, that he was stressed, that he misses you. you don’t even open it. just glance at the notification, groan, and quietly turn off your phone.

cheol read the notification when your phone screen lit up. he doesn’t say anything. just slides your phone a little farther from you. not controlling. just… protective. a fork in the road, one you’re certain you’ll never take again. because you know better now. have better. and like a quiet promise, you lean into cheol, leaving a soft peck on his jaw. it’s too early to say out loud, but he can’t wait to call you his.

jeonghan corners him the following day when a handful of members show up to cheol’s house unannounced. with cheol barely answering his phone all of yesterday, your ex crashing out over you ignoring his texts, and the fact that jeonghan literally saw you leave the dinner in cheol’s car, well… it’s not looking great.

he doesn’t look threatening, but just in that jeonghan sort of way — quiet, piercing, vaguely disappointed. “are you really going through with this?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked, arms crossed in the hallway while the others are in the kitchen joking around. cheol heaves a sigh. he knew this was only a matter of time.

“it’s not like that,” he stresses. “i didn’t plan this. it’s not like i was waiting for my shot or something. i tried not to feel it for a long time, i just—” he cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “i want to make sure she’s being treated right. that’s all.” jeonghan watches him for a moment. then quietly nods, believing him.

“no one’s mad,” jeonghan says eventually. “honestly, we were all kind of hoping someone would step up before she wasted another year on him. it just… complicates things.” cheol lowers his head, nodding. he knows that too. he’s not stupid. shit will hit the fan when your ex finds out. especially if this turns into something official. which — if fate’s kind to him — it will.

you text him a few days later, just a casual “r u busy?” like it’s nothing. as if you’re not giggling behind the screen, already wearing the hoodie he left behind, and scrolling through your playlist trying to figure out what songs to play in his car to set the mood.

it’s basically a date. not that either of you calls it that, but you both know. the way he picks you up in his car, opens the door, smiles at you like he’s been thinking about you all day — it’s unmistakable. you even reach for his hand on the gearstick at the red light, pleasantly surprised when his fingers curl around yours. your entwined hands end up back in your lap, but this time, cheol’s palm slides up to rest on your thigh.

per your suggestion, you both go to watch a cinema screening of the latest shitty horror movie. cheol agrees, hoping you can’t sense his reluctance. he ended up jumping at the movie more than you did — walked out at the end feeling like he must’ve made a giant puss of himself. but the way you were hanging off his arm, all giggly and cute, made all of the near heart-attacks worth it.

after some lunch (his shout), you end up back at your place — tangled on the couch. his hand on your thigh, yours in his hair. your mouth on his mouth. the kisses start out sweet and slow, but things heat up real quick. months of tension bleeds out into every grasp of your body, every sigh onto his lips. before you know it, he’s pulling you into his lap, and you can’t help to rocking your hips against his — eliciting a sharp hiss from cheol. he’s painfully hard, and you want him so bad it’s making you dizzy.

but cheol doesn’t rush with you. not even with how much he’s wanted this — god, you’ve got no idea. he stops you with a gentle hand as you’re about to tear off his clothes. he lays you back so gently like you’re porcelain. trails his fingers down your stomach with so much caution in his eyes you could cry. when his face hovers at your clothed heat, he can tell you’re uneasy. but when he goes to move away, muttering about how he doesn’t want you to feel pressured, you’re already stopping him with firm hands on his shoulders. “i want it, cheol,” you mutter, blush flooding your face. “…it’s just been a while.”

cheol kisses your clit before he goes down on you. he only starts with little flicks of his tongue, but you’re so sensitive, thighs clamping over his ears. he pries away your hand cupping your mouth, breath hot on your cunt as he grunts about wanting to hear you. and once his head bobs against you, tongue relentless on your clit, you just let loose for him. you came embarrassingly quick.

cheol holds you steady through it, lets you shake and cry and fall apart for him, smiling against your cunt like he’s honoured to bear witness. afterwards, you hide your face in your arms. cheol doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. the wet sound of him cleaning your slick off his fingers has your cheeks burning. “my ex never did that for me.” you mumble. you spare a peek at cheol — he just blinks at you, bewildered. “why the hell not?”. you shrug, shy. he used to tell you it was too much work, made you feel bad for asking. cheol’s jaw clenches. “then he really didn’t deserve you.”

cheol shushes you softly when you reach for him, insisting on returning the favour. he’s serious when he meets your gaze. “i don’t want anything,” he reassures, brushing a stray hair from your face. you give him a pointed look as he readjusts the front of his pants. “you don’t owe me for just being treated right.” he reaffirms. it’s in that moment — more than the kisses, more than the sex — that cheol makes you feel like you’ve never belonged to someone before until now.

you haven’t said it out loud. that you’re his. but he’s absolutely yours. cheol holds your hand out in public like he’s proud to be seen with you. sneaks photos of you when you’re not looking to look at when he misses you. buys your favourite snacks without asking just to see you smile. texts you good morning, even during errands and rehearsals.

when people talk about you, when his brother calls you his girl, he doesn’t correct them — doesn’t refer to you as just “a friend” or “someone he’s seeing��. doesn’t try to hide the puppy-love smile that spreads across his face at the sound of your name. it’s a budding romance, but it already feels rooted. something that’s been waiting to grow for a helluva long time. but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

there are moments. nights when you argue, more so you than him, over something stupid, or something not-so-stupid. nights when you raise your voice, when old habits rear their heads, when the tears just won’t stop coming and you brace yourself for him to walk out on you. but he never does. cheol stays. sits beside you in silence when you're knees deep in a spiral. reaches for your hand even when you're berating him.

when you cry, he wipes your tears. not out of pity. with reverence. “i’m not going anywhere,” he tells you each time, over and over like a mantra. it’s like he’s trying to lift the curse your ex left. you’re not used to patience. not with you. not from a man who’s a ten across the board. but cheol lets you know your feelings aren’t a burden — it’s not too much to hold. and every day, it becomes clearer: you didn’t just leave something behind with your ex. you actually found something with seungcheol.

the tension’s been building for weeks. escalating with kisses that get way too heated, touches that linger too long, eyes that say i want you but never quite cross the line. on cheol’s part, at least. he’s been very firm with you, as impatient as you are to climb him like tree. but tonight, on your one-month anniversary, he gives in. you doll up, meet him at the door like any other date night, but the way he looked at you? reservation be damned, cheol could’ve eaten you for dinner right then.

he’s soft with you all evening. opens every door and pulls out your chair, kisses your wrist after holding your hand, calls you “my pretty girl” under his breath, just once. you don’t even have to ask once he drives you home. you just kiss him, practically leaping over the centre console to get to his lap. and this time, he lets himself kiss you back like he’s starving. because god knows he has been.

clothes didn’t stay on much longer once you were through the front door. with two strong arms, he’d picked you up and carried you to your bedroom with your legs wrapped around his waist. even with all the hunger in his kisses, the mindless rocks of his pelvis, his heavy gaze as he peeled off your dress — cheol’s touch was still gentle as ever. his hands traced over the marks of your skin, lingering over each curve like he’s memorising it. he kissed down your body until you’re left trembling, mouth hovering over that now familiar heat between your legs.

his hands held you in place while he lapped at you. your first orgasm comes easy — and then again, without even realising you’d been close, too lost in the feeling of his fingers curling inside of you relentlessly. your ex struggled to make you cum once. never gave a damn if you didn’t. but with cheol, it feels like your pleasure is the only thing that matters, and his is just an afterthought. but you always practically beg to feel him inside you. and tonight, he just can’t politely turn you down anymore.

you find out why once he drops his pants. you spend a second just staring at his length, flushed red and leaking, your core pulsing in anticipation. of course he was worried about your first time together — he could full well hurt you. but you coax cheol with soft kisses and whispers at his ear of how bad you’ve wanted him, and when he finally sinks into you, you both moan in symphony.

cheol moves with an almost painful gentleness, like he wants to give you every chance to stop — even though your body is literally begging him not to. he winces when your cunt flutters around him as he steadily fills you to the hilt. “you okay?” he murmurs into your neck, not moving a muscle yet. you nod, gulping.

but he doesn’t start, not yet. his hand brushes over your cheek. “you sure? you tell me if i have to stop.” it’s the most tender thing anyone’s ever said to you during sex. you just grin, all giddy, hands anchoring on his sides. “not gonna wanna stop.” and when cheol finally pulls out to thrust back in, you gasp together, eye contact unbroken as his hips start a steady pace.

even with how he’s pistoning in and out of you like a man possessed, cock hitting that sweet spot with each thrust, cheol still holds you like you’re fragile. a soft hand cradling your cheek as he watches your face, the other coming to rub circles on your clit. it’s not long before you finish around him, and cheol’s own release follows instantly after — your name falling from his lips as he fucks into you, fingers stuttering on your clit.

cheol collapses next to you once you’re both spent. his arms wrap around you, and neither of you move as you catch your breaths. cheol doesn’t rush to clean up or reach for his phone. just lays there, twirling a strand of your hair around his thumb, staring at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

your ex finally finds out. it hadn’t come as a shock really. everyone had been side-eyeing the inevitable. cheol had been spending less time with the members as of late, head always in his phone, and you’d been glowing in a way no one could doubt. it was a known fact that your ex’s “boyfriend” status had been hanging by a thread for a while — he just hadn’t realised how fast someone else could come along and do better by you.

still, when he finds out, basically cornering chan until he admits it — he doesn't take it well. you could cut through the tension during practice with a chainsaw. his mood's sour, movements sharp, tone short. it’s like he’s looking for a fight that no one wants. but then cheol points out a mistake he makes in the choreo, and he says it. mumbles bitterly under his breath about cheol playing knight for some easy rebound, but loud enough for it to hit the room like a slap.

it takes three people to hold cheol back. he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even speak. he just tries to get to him. jaw clenched, fists curled, every muscle in his body shaking with restraint. not because your ex insulted him — but because he insulted you.

cheol comes over later that night. he doesn't say anything at first, just slips through the front door with his head low and a tightness in his shoulders that hasn’t been there in weeks. you can tell something's wrong the second he kisses your temple and doesn't meet your eyes. you press when he tries to brush it off.

eventually, it all tumbles out. not just what your ex said — but the way it got under his skin. the way it made him question whether he’s done the right thing, whether he is the right thing. whether he even deserves you. “maybe he’s right,” cheol had muttered, sitting at the edge of your bed with his elbows on his knees. “maybe i did just swoop in. i only seem better by comparison.”

you kneel in front of him, hands on his thighs. “cheollie, the fact you’re even asking that? is exactly what makes you better. he never once cared about what was good for me. but you — you think about that constantly.” cheol meets your eyes then. his jaw flexes, gaze flickering with something dark. that’s when he reaches for your jaw, hoisting you up into a kiss.

the sex is needier. rougher around the edges. cheol’s hands were everywhere, gripping tighter, holding harder. his mouth’s hot and heavy against your neck, your collarbone, marking his name on every patch of skin. and when he finally presses into you, it’s with a slow, aching desperation that makes your breath catch.

“tell me,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, voice deep and shaky. “tell me i’m the best you’ve had.” you gasp at that, because of how he says it like he needs it. like he’s not sure he’ll ever believe he’s worth it unless he can hear it from your mouth, right this instant.

your legs wrap around his waist, pushing him further in by the hips — and cheol groans when he bottoms out inside of you. you reel him in close by the back of his neck, whispering on his lips: “you are. ‘s not even close.” and god, that does something to him. he hisses through his teeth, hips snapping to fuck into you like crazy. his lips claim yours, your cries falling onto cheol’s tongue as he rams into you over and over like he’s trying to brand the words into your cervix.

and despite it all, afterwards — when you’re sweaty, ruined, still glowing — he asks again, quieter now. still uncertain. “really?” you give him a confused look. you push his damp hair back, kiss the corner of his mouth. “yes, seungcheol. you are the only man i’ll ever want.”

cheol finds out your ex got back in contact with you. it’s joshua who mentioned it by accident — something about peering over your ex’s shoulder and seeing your contact image. for a second, cheol’s heart sinks to the earth’s core. it’s not that he thinks you’d cheat — he knows you, knows how loyal you’ve been and how much you’ve reassured cheol about any doubts in himself — but your ex did have your heart first. and sometimes, that kind of history leaves behind skeletons in the closet. cheol can’t help but wonder what kind of hold he might still have on you.

but it wasn’t like that. with a heavy conscience and a near shaking voice, he brings it up to you — to which you show him the messages yourself. strings of short, shameful apologies. vague attempts at reopening doors you already locked. and right below them, your reply: final. “stop texting me. i don’t love you. i’m with someone who actually knows how to treat me right.”

you reassure cheol you didn’t mention it only because you didn’t want to upset him. didn’t want to give your ex any more space in your lives than he already took. cheol doesn’t respond right away — just quietly pulls you into his arms and holds you tight against his chest, his breath on your hair. “thank you,” he whispered. “for choosing me.”

and then without hesitation, you tell him: “i love you.” cheol pulls back just enough to see your face. his eyes are wide, face flushed. and then cracking into smile. “i love you too. so damn much.” and just like that, it’s yours. the ending you never thought you’d get. one where love isn’t taken, or earned through hardships, or asked for like a favour. one where it’s just given. simply, freely. finally. by someone who’s always known how to hold it. who’s been waiting to longer than he knew himself.

a/n: part two FINALLY omg. did u all miss me ?!??! i’ve been off the writing grind so bad since work has been walking me like a fkn dog. i still intend to see all my wips done tho, trust and believe☝️

mlist · taglist 〃

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @orphicarchive @vix3e @babycaratdeul @sseungcheols @sunnysidesins @livelaughloveseventeen @nezhamoment @nervousaggressive @madebybec @aaronwarners69thwife @gyuguys @jupittergirl @tomodachiii @mercif4l

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homelessmeowmeow · 2 months ago

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Nooo my shaylaa 😭😭

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homelessmeowmeow · 8 months ago

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They should give Minho oreo hair. This is a formal request

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homelessmeowmeow · 8 months ago

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OMG!!! PLS!! It messed my brain in the best way possible, I don't have the words to describe it T_T)

Lose My Breath

Pairing: han jisung x reader x lee know

Word count: 5,5k

Summary: for their youtube series where they look for new hobbies, Jisung and Minho come to your studio for a lesson in pole dancing. neither of them expected to find more than a new hobby..

Tags: youtubers!minsung, pole dancer!reader, established minsung, fluff, smut, nsfw, 18+, fingering, oral (f), a bit of m/m kissing, threesome, nipple play, vaginal sex, mirror sex, creampie, pet names -sorry if i forgot anything!-

a/n: happy birthday to the lovely @staylovesmiley this one is for you! <3

‘Good morning lovely people,’ Jisung grins into the vlogging camera he’s holding. ‘Today Minho and I are going to try out a new activity in our quest to find a new hobby.’

You watch in silence as the gorgeous man who walked into your studio about fifteen minutes ago, explains to their audience what they’re about to do. He’s dressed in some loose grey sweatpants and a black tank top that shows off his broad shoulders. His black hair is tousled and he’s wearing black eyeliner that’s making his eyes pop.

‘He’s a stunning little creature, isn’t he?’ a voice whispers next to you and you jump in surprise, bringing up your hand to cover your chest where your heart is beating so fast you can feel it thump against your palm.

‘You scared me,’ you laugh softly, not wanting to interrupt Jisung who’s still babbling to the camera and showing everyone the room.

‘Sorry,’ Minho grins, bumping his shoulder against yours. ‘I have very quiet feet and you were pretty distracted by my man doing what he loves.’

You feel your cheeks heat at being caught staring at someone else’s boyfriend. Jisung and Minho are a very popular Youtube couple and you’ve been following them for years, silently crushing on both men as they made their way through life with their own camera’s following their every move.

‘Oh, look who finally decided to join us!’ Jisung says then, turning the camera to you and Minho. ‘Say hi, baby.’

‘Hi,’ Minho says, waving a peace sign next to his face as his lips turn up in a small smile.

‘And this is y/n, she will be teaching us today,’ Jisung introduces you and you too wave at the camera.

Jisung turns the camera to himself again. ‘Wish us luck,’ he grins and then he lowers his arm and shuts off the camera. ‘Okay I’m all ready now.’

‘Did you bring any shorts like I requested in the email?’ you ask them, eyeing the sweats they’re both wearing. They may look ridiculously good in them, but wearing pants like that did not go well together with pole dancing.

‘Oh yes, we’re wearing some underneath,’ Minho says and then he promptly pushes down his sweatpants, revealing black athletic shorts.

You blink and Jisung giggles.

‘Min, baby, you can’t just start undressing in front of y/n,’ Jisung says, reaching over to help his boyfriend pull his pants over his shoes.

‘I’m wearing shorts? It’s not like I’m naked,�� Minho mumbles, but his ears turn red.

‘It’s fine,’ you smile at them. ‘I’ve seen it all after six years of dancing and teaching.’

Jisung makes a face as he too gets rid of his sweatpants, leaning heavily on Minho as he pushes them off his feet. ‘I can’t even imagine how some people probably show up to pole dance.’

‘Yeah, you don’t want to know,’ you laugh, not missing the curious glint in either of their eyes.

You put on some soft music and start warming up, instructing the man what movements are best to prep their muscles and they easily fall into your warm up routine.

‘Very good,’ you praise them when you’re done. ‘Do you want me to show you the whole routine I’ll be teaching you first or would you rather I’ll take you through it step by step?’

‘Routine,’ Minho says at the same time as Jisung goes; ‘Step by step.’

They look at each other and for a moment they seem to have a whole conversation with just their eyes until Minho raises his eyebrows and licks his lips, causing Jisung to let out a little whine, sagging his shoulders as his cheeks turn red.

‘Routine first,’ Jisung agrees and you let your eyes wander between the two of them.

Sexual tension seemed to roll off of them and you’re pretty sure that if both you and the camera weren’t here, Minho would have had Jisung pressed up against one of the mirrors in a heartbeat.

‘What just happened there,’ you ask with a chuckle as you try to ignore what their interaction just did to you. It shouldn’t have been hot, but it was.

‘Nothing,’ Minho smiles. ‘Please show us the routine.’

Pushing away your feelings, you nod and get in position, winking at Jisung who’s still blushing. You start with the pole in front of you and grab onto the cold metal with one hand, easily maneuvering your body around it until your back is against the pole. You move your hips in a sensual way and reach up with your arms before arching your back as you move to lower your body and spread your legs. It’s a pretty sexy, but easy routine and you let your muscles move on auto pilot.

When you end with your back against the pole again, only slightly out of breath, you can’t help but notice how both men have moved closer. Jisung his mouth is open in a little ‘o’ while Minho has his hands in his pockets, watching you with his head cocked as if he’s trying to figure out how you just did that.

‘You want us to do that?’ Jisung asks. ‘That was–’ he clears his throat. ‘Very sexy.’

‘Agreed,’ Minho nods.

‘Thank you,’ you smile. ‘And yes I will teach you how to do this.’

Jisung frowns, but when Minho pats his butt, he slowly walks towards one of the poles and stands before it like you had.

‘Put all your fingers together, like this,’ you show them your hand. ‘And place it at forehead level on the pole. ‘Then you go ahead and sink under your arms,’ you instruct, moving your body to get in front of the pole with a sexy sway in your hips.

When you look back at Jisung and Minho, they are nodding to themselves and get in position, placing their fingers against the metal. Both men follow your instructions and move smoothly to the front of the pole, just like you showed them.

‘Very good!’ you grin at them, clapping your hands.

You show them the next move and once again they execute it perfectly.

Jisung beams at you with sparkling eyes and you can’t help but compliment them again. ‘You have great form! I told you, you could do it!’

Jisung giggles and moves on the ball of his feet in excitement. ‘Show us the next move!’

You go through the next few moves with them, correcting their postures here and there, but overall they take to the routine like a duck to water.

‘There you go, very nice!’ you compliment the both of them with a little cheer when they finish going through the entire routine for the first time.

You give them a few more pointers and at Jisung’s request you join them for the entire routine one more time before he goes to the camera’s to shut them off.

‘That was way more fun than I thought it would be, easier as well,’ Minho admits, sitting down next to you on the floor as you start your cool down stretches.

‘I haven’t heard someone say it was easier than expected in a long time,’ you chuckle, leaning forward to touch your toes.

‘Oh,’ Minho frowns. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

You sit up and shake your head with a smile. ‘You didn’t, don’t worry. It’s also been a while since I’ve seen someone take to it so easily, but I guess it makes sense with your dance background.’

‘Did I just hear you say we’re naturals?’ Jisung pipes up, letting his body fall to the floor on Minho’s other side, his head resting on his boyfriend's thigh.

‘Yes,’ you laugh. ‘You have lots to learn, but if you commit to it, I am very sure you’ll be upside down in that pole and spinning around in no time.’

‘I’d rather focus on the fact that you know I have dance experience. You watch our videos?’ Minho asks, watching you carefully.

‘I do,’ you nod, your cheeks heating up until you’re sure you’re as red as a beet. ‘I’ve been following you guys pretty much since the beginning.’

'Awww, really?' Jisung coos, sitting up again to also start stretching. ‘That’s so sweet.’

‘Why didn’t you say so sooner?’ Minho asks.

You shrug and lift your arms above your head to stretch your back and shoulders. ‘You didn’t ask and I was being professional I guess.’

They both smile at you and the three of you chat about their channel for a while as you lead them through a cool down.

‘Do you have any more lessons after this?’ Jisung asks when the three of you get up again and you offer them a bottle of water from your mini fridge.

You look at your watch. ‘I do, but not for a few hours.’

Jisung shares a look with Minho. ‘Would you want to join us for lunch?’

‘Oh, uhm sure,’ you nod. ‘Why not!’

*******

In the next few weeks Minho and Jisung come back about twice a week for more lessons from you. Sometimes they film, sometimes they don’t and you love watching them grow each week, picking up on the movements quicker than any of your other students. They often bring you coffee or homemade treats that Minho made and you can comfortably say that the three of you have developed a bit of a friendship.

There’s lingering touches sometimes and heated gazes when they watch you do your thing on the pole, but not once have they been inappropriate. They make you feel seen, sexy and safe.

‘I have a question,’ Jisung says on a Thursday evening when you’ve just finished your lesson.

‘Mhm,’ you hum, moving into your stretch.

‘What do you think about us? I mean, how do you feel about us?’

‘What do you mean?’ you ask, sitting up so you can look at him. ‘Are you asking if I like you? Because of course I do. I’m very happy the two of you came into my life and I’d like to think we’re friends.’

‘Friends,’ Jisung mumbles and his brows furrow. ‘Right.’

You tilt your head in question. ‘Was that not what you wanted to hear? You don’t think we’re friends?’

Jisung’s eyes widen and he crawls closer to you, already having finished his stretches. ‘No, no I didn’t mean it like that! I love that you consider us friends, I just..’ he bites his lip nervously and glances at his boyfriend.

Minho chuckles from your other side. ‘What he was meant to ask was, are you attracted to us?’

You nearly choke on your own spit at the unexpected question and you start coughing violently. Minho gently pats your back and Jisung hands you a bottle of water, his cheeks are red, but his eyes are hopeful.

‘Sorry,’ you mumble when you finally feel like you can breathe again. ‘Did you just ask me if I think you’re hot?’

Minho lets out a laugh and Jisung giggles.

‘Basically,’ Minho nods.

‘Wow, okay,’ you mumble, taking another sip of water. ‘I mean, how can I not? Have you seen yourselves?’

The two of them share another look and Jisung scoots even closer to you until his knee touches your thigh.

‘So you are attracted to us?’ Jisung repeats Minho’s question.

Nervous butterflies swirl in your stomach and you suddenly feel hot all over by the way they both stare at you with the same heated gaze you’ve seen before.

‘I- yes,’ you admit, licking your lips. ‘I am.’

Jisung smiles and beams at Minho, causing the older to chuckle at his boyfriend and lean closer to you to reach out and pinch Jisung his chin. ‘Patience, baby.’

‘I’m not patient and you know it,’ Jisung pouts and both Minho and you laugh at his sad face.

Minho lets go of Jisung and places his hand on your thigh. His touch immediately heats up your entire leg and when you look down to see his long fingers against your bare leg, you nearly groan out loud.

‘We have a question for you, pretty,’ Minho says, his voice sounds lower than usual and it makes you shiver. ‘And I need you to answer honestly, can you do that?’

You nod and look up at him, meeting his eyes. ‘I can.’

‘Good,’ he smiles. ‘If you say no, I promise there will be no hard feelings between us and we can still be friends.’

Your mouth suddenly feels dry and you wish you were still holding onto that bottle of water, but you nod again anyway.

‘You see,’ Jisung starts, placing his hand on your other thigh. ‘We’ve had this fantasy for a while now, but never found the right person.’

‘But now we did,’ Minho continues. ‘You fit with us perfectly and we both like you very much.’

Jisung nods enthusiastically, his fingers tightening on your thigh a bit. ‘We’re kind of hoping that you feel the same way about us.’

You blink at them, your head moving left to right to look at them both. ‘I’m flattered, but I’m not sure what you’re asking of me? Is it sex? A one night stand? A relationship?’

‘For now it’s sex,’ Minho grins. ‘But we’re open to more if it leads to that.’

‘Alright,’ you say, nodding slowly, your thoughts racing about as loud as your heartbeat. ‘And you want it now?’

Jisung lets out a little whine and leans in to press a sweet kiss to your shoulder. ‘We wanted it yesterday, last week, hell the day we met actually, but now works.’

You laugh at his ridiculous babbling and place your hand on top of his own. ‘Now works for me as well, but one of you will have to get up to lock the door.’

You’ve barely finished the sentence when Jisung jumps up and jogs towards the little hallway where the entrance for your studio is. You giggle at his eagerness before turning towards Minho who’s already looking at you.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks.

You nod and feeling bold, you move and crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. ‘Oh, I’m sure.’

Minho’s hands immediately clasp your hips to pull you even closer, pressing your clothed chores against each other. You bite your lip when you feel how hard he is already and without a second thought you crash your mouth against his. He responds right away, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you in place against his body while the other moves so he can grab onto the back of your neck.

‘Hey, you started without me,’ you hear Jisung’s voice say faintly behind you before you feel a strong warmth pressing against your back.

A hand moves your hair to the side, freeing your neck and a heartbeat later lips are pressed against your skin. Minho slips his tongue inside your mouth when you gasp and a moan escapes your throat as he tangles it with yours while Jisung leaves open mouthed kisses on your neck.

‘Hmm if I'd known you wanted this, I would have asked earlier,’ Jisung says against your skin while gliding his hands from your sides to your bare thighs and then back upward towards your breasts.

You can only moan again in response, too busy kissing Minho, which he is obviously very good at. It’s messy, wet and hot and you love every second of it.

‘Hmm you make such pretty noises,’ Jisung whispers against your neck, his fingers slipping underneath the sports bra you’re wearing. ‘I can’t wait to make you scream when I eat you out.’

You arch your back for as far as you’re able to and a violent shiver goes through your body when Jisung teases your nipples, twirling his fingers around the sensitive buds. Minho breaks the kiss and leans back a little so he can look down at where Jisung’s hands disappear underneath your sports bra.

‘Take it off,’ he says to his boyfriend.

Jisung does as he says and frees your breasts in one quick motion, slipping the top over your head and throwing it behind him on the floor.

‘Hmm beautiful,’ Minho mutters, moving his hands to caress your stomach and up towards the underside of your breasts before cupping them. ‘So perfect.’

You claw at Minho’s shirt, trying to take it off and make it even. He chuckles at your efforts and leans in to capture your lips again, successfully distracting you from your task. Behind you, you hear the rustling of clothes and when Minho lets go of your lips again, he turns you around and basically drops you in Jisungs lap.

‘Hello baby,’ Jisung grins, eying your naked breasts that heave with every pant that leaves your mouth.

He has taken off everything but his boxers and you take a moment to appreciate his lean form, smooth skin and the tattoos that cover his chest. He’s absolutely mouthwatering.

‘Hi yourself,’ you purr, reaching out to trace the large tattoo on his side. ‘I like your tattoos.’

Jisung preens under the compliment and pulls you closer. ‘How much?’

Giggling you lean forward to press your lips against the black compass on the left side of his chest. Your tongue sneaks out to trail a wet line all over the ink and Jisung lets out a surprised grunt at the feeling. He grabs onto your neck and pulls you up to kiss you.

His lips are even softer than Minho’s and you melt into him, moving your hands to his strong shoulders and then to his hair to tangle your fingers in the soft black strands.

It should surprise you how fast you adapted to this situation with the two men you only met a few weeks ago, but seeing as you’ve been crushing on them for years, it probably wasn’t that hard for your brain to accept.

A naked chest presses against your back then and hands move from your hips to the front of your black yoga shorts, cupping your clothed pussy. Liquid heat spreads through your entire body and you let out an embarrassing whine against Jisung’s lips when Minho pulls his hand away again to tug at the waistband.

‘Can I take it off?’ he asks, pressing a small kiss on your shoulder.

You pull back from Jisung’s mouth and giggle when he pouts at you. His lips are swollen and red and his pupils are elated, he looks even prettier than usual like this.

‘Stand up, baby,’ Minho says and you’re not sure if it's to you or Jisung, but the both of you get up with his help. ‘Good, now take it off.’

Minho smirks as once again, both you and Jisung follow his demand. Jisung pulls off his boxers, his dick springing free against his toned stomach, a drop of pre cum already drips down his length and your mouth waters at the sight. You quickly follow his lead and take off your shorts, shedding your underwear as well.

‘Look at that, I’ve got two lovely stunning creatures now,’ Minho hums, licking his lips as his eyes devour every inch of naked skin in front of him. ‘Ji, baby, why don’t you get on your knees for y/n.’

Jisung drops to his knees right away, his hot breath tickling against your pelvis bone as he scoots closer to you. The sight of his mouth only inches away from your pussy makes your legs feel weak and you look at Minho with pleading eyes, hoping he’ll understand you’ll need his support if his boyfriend is going to make a meal out of you.

Minho grins, drops his own boxers to the floor and strides over to you with three big steps. He pulls you against his chest, his arm hooking around your waist underneath your breast to hold you steady.

‘Feast away, baby,’ he tells Jisung.

One of your legs is placed over Jisung’s shoulder and then he licks a fat stripe between your already slick lips, all the way from your hole to your clit. If it wasn't for Minho’s hold on you, you would have collapsed.

‘Fuccckk,’ you moan, your head falling back against Minho’s shoulder.

Jisung hums and dives in again, this time putting even more pressure with his tongue. Your hips buck on their own accord and Jisung reaches up to hold you in place against Minho.

‘Hmm you taste delicious, baby,’ he murmurs against your folds, nipping at them with his teeth.

‘Unnghh,’ is all you are able to let out, your brain feeling hazy with lust and pleasure.

Minho starts placing wet open mouthed kisses against your neck as his free hand plays with your nipple, while Jisung keeps lapping at your clit with his skillful tongue. Heat curls in your stomach and when he adds a finger and curls it just right, you cry out so loud that it startles you a bit. You’ve never been this loud before. The thought immediately leaves your brain when another finger is added to your heat and your legs are starting to shake.

‘Please, Sungie,’ you moan, trying to buck your hips again.

Jisung picks up the pace, moving his tongue and his finger in tandem.

‘That’s it, kitten, let go for us,’ Minho whispers in your ear as his fingers twist and pull your already sensitive nipple.

‘So close,’ you whine, the coil in your belly getting tighter and tighter.

When it snaps your eyes roll back and you moan Jisung’s name. Your legs give out, but Minho’s hold keeps you up as Jisungs keeps moving his fingers until he’s sure you’ve ridden out your orgasm.

‘Hmm so sexy,’ he says against the inside of your thigh, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your skin there.

Your legs shake and Minho gently lowers himself and therefore you to the floor. He sits you down in his lap and moves your limbs around like you're a doll.

‘Look at that,’ he hums, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

‘Hmm?’ you hum, still a bit hazy from your release.

‘Look in the mirror,’ Jisung says, moving to sit behind Minho.

You do as he says and gasp at the sight that greets you. You barely recognize yourself, naked, flushed skin, big eyes and wild hair. Your feet are on either side of Minho’s thighs, causing your legs to stay open and displaying your glistering pussy for all of you to see in the mirror.

Minho moves his hands from your breasts towards your core and when his finger gently dips into your soaking folds, you shiver.

‘Mhhgh, sensitive,’ you mutter, but you don’t slap his hand away.

‘You can take it,’ Minho whispers, biting the skin between your shoulder and neck.

Jisung moves to your side and lays down onto his stomach, his chin resting on your thigh as he stares at your pussy with big hungry eyes like he hadn’t just eaten you out already. His tongue is peeking out of his lips and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was drunk or at least a little tipsy.

‘Can I go again?’ he asks, looking up at Minho.

‘No,’ Minho growls. ‘It’s my turn to play.’

Jisung huffs, but stays where he is, pressing a soft kiss on your thigh. You reach out to pat his hair and he smiles up at you.

‘You ready, kitten?’ Minho asks, his free hand coming up to circle your throat lightly. ‘I want you to keep looking in the mirror the entire time, okay?’

All you can do is nod, your gaze connecting with his through the mirror.

‘Good girl, now watch how easily you’ll take my finger.’

Minho slips his finger inside and your mouth falls open at the sensation. It’s only one finger, but it still feels so unbelievably good. Your head falls back against Minho’s shoulder, but you make sure to keep your eyes on the mirror, watching as he starts pumping his finger in and out of you. Wet slopping sounds fill the studio and soon your moans echo off the walls as well.

‘More, Minho, please,’ you beg, the sensitivity from before completely gone.

Minho’s fingers leave your throat to play with one of your nipples again, pinching the bud between his thumb and forefinger. Jisung sits up beside you and takes the other nipple in his mouth, sucking and twirling his tongue around it until you’re a shivering mess. A second finger is added to your core and your eyes fall close as the pleasure nearly overwhelms you.

‘Eyes open,’ Minho growls in your ear, pinching your nipple so hard a yelp leaves your mouth.

It’s a good type of pain and when your eyes lock with Minho’s once more and his thumb brushes over your swollen clit, you fall over the edge for the second time. Your legs are shaking violently and it takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back inside your head.

‘Such a good girl,’ Minho murmurs, kissing your neck as he fingers you through your orgasm. ‘So tight and responsive.’

‘She’s perfect,’ Jisung says, his mouth still attached to your breast.

‘God,’ you groan, coming down from your high. ‘You guys are.. fuck.’

Jisung laughs and pulls back to look at you, his hand coming up to push a sweaty piece of hair behind your ear. ‘We’re just Minsung, baby.’

You smile at hearing their nickname and reach out to touch his chest. ‘That’s enough for me.’

‘Good, because we’re not done with you yet,’ Jisung smirks. ‘How’d you feel about riding my di–’

You don’t let him finish and push yourself up against Minho’s thighs to basically launch yourself against him. Your legs still feel like jelly, but Minho’s hands on your hips help you straddle Jisung who laughs in pleasant surprise at your attack.

‘I guess that’s one way to answer,’ he grins. ‘You’re that desperate for me, huh?’

‘Oh shut up,’ you laugh, lining yourself up with Minho’s help.

‘You can just say you want to be fu–’ Jisung’s mouth falls open when you sink down, your walls clenching around him. ‘Fuck, fuck fuck,’ he groans, throwing his head back and exposing his long neck.

You waste no time to lick a fat stripe from his collarbone all the way to just behind his ear and he shivers beneath you. Minho moves to sit beside you and grabs onto the back of Jisung’s neck, pulling his head back up.

‘How does she feel, Jagi?’ he asks Jisung when you roll your hips forward before bouncing up and down.

‘So good,’ Jisung whines. ‘So tight and warm.’

Minho groans and leans forward to catch Jisungs lips with his own, kissing him feverishly. The sight of their tongues tangling is breathtaking and you can’t help but slow your movements to enjoy the view.

Jisung moans and grabs onto your hips, his tongue still battling Minho’s, but the instruction is clear and you slowly increase your speed again before leaning in to press open mouthed kisses against Jisung’s neck.

When Minho pulls back and Jisung whines at the loss, you tilt your head up and press your lips against his instead. The kiss is messy and wet and your rhythm fails again as you’re too focused on both the kiss and the noises Jisung makes.

‘Such pretty noises, right?’ Minho murmurs, burying his face into your neck and biting down on your skin again.

You hum against Jisung’s lips and arch your back when Minho’s fingers twirl around your hard and abused nipples. They're so sensitive that it sends a shock through your body and you moan into Jisungs mouth, your hips faltering. Both their hands find their way to your hips and help you move.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room and the feeling of being sandwiched between two hot bodies makes the coil in your stomach tighten once more, heat spreading through your veins as your third orgasm approaches.

Jisung comes first, his hips rutting up with little shocks as he moans into your mouth. Minho quickly moves his hand down to your folds to circle and pinch your clit. You’re a withering mess in seconds and when he bites down on your shoulder you actually come with a scream this time.

Your body sags against Jisung and for a moment the three of you just sit there, hugging each other and catching your breath.

‘Do you think you’d have one more in you?’ Minho asks when the sweat on your skin is starting to cool down enough for you to shiver in their arms.

Never in your life have you come more than three times in a row, but the thought of saying no doesn’t even cross your mind, especially when you feel his cock twitch against your ass.

‘Only if you take me against the mirror,’ you tease, looking over your shoulder to wink at him.

You’re only partly joking, but Minho just grins at you and stands up. He gently pulls you off of Jisung, chuckling softly when the both of you shiver when his softening cock slides out of you, before he easily hauls you up in his arms and wraps your legs around his waist.

‘I’ve had a dream about this,’ Minho mumbles as he approaches the mirrored wall and presses your naked back against the cold glass.

‘I’ve thought about this too,’ you admit, blushing. ‘But it was actually you fucking Jisung against the mirror.’

‘I want that!’ Jisung squeals behind you.

Minho laughs and repositions you in his arms so his cock is teasing your soaking entrance. ‘I’m sure we can make that fantasy come through as well.’

Your eyes widen and that’s when he sinks home, pushing all the way into you with one smooth movement.

‘Oh, fuck,’ you moan, his cock stretching you deliciously.

‘How are you still so tight,’ Minho pants, his hands squeezing your ass. ‘Fuck.’ A droplet of sweat drips down from his hairline to his chin and you follow it with hazy eyes before focussing on his lips where his teeth are biting into his bottom lip.

‘She feels amazing, doesn’t she?’ Jisung has gotten up from the floor and is now pressed up against Minho’s back, his chin leaning on his shoulder.

‘So good,’ Minho agrees, squeezing his eyes shut as he ruts his hip upwards.

‘Mhmh,’ you moan, pleasure is already building in your belly again and your eyes flutter shut as your head falls back against the mirror.

This time Minho doesn’t scold you to keep your eyes open, he just buries his face in your neck and attacks your skin with his tongue and teeth. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about him today, it’s that he likes to bite and leave marks.

The sensation of his cock pounding into you, the cold mirror at your back and the warmth of his tongue against your neck is almost too much. Your muscles tremble and when Jisung reaches around Minho to let his hands travel all over your body, you start to feel dizzy.

‘Please,’ you murmur, clenching your walls around Minho. ‘Please, Minho.’

You’re not sure if you’re begging for him to come or to go faster, you just know that it’s all getting too much. Tears start to leak from your eyes as your body doesn’t know what to do with the overload of sensations.

‘I’m close, Jagi,’ Minho murmurs against your neck, nipping at your collarbone. ‘Let go for me, yeah?’

You sob and dig your fingers into his shoulders as the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had takes over your body. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, your limbs are spasming and your vision turns black for a second or two.

A grunt leaves Minho’s throat as he comes inside you, his hands holding you close as he presses soft kisses all over your shoulders, neck and face while Jisung runs his fingers through your hair and whispers sweet praises in your ear.

When your body goes lax in Minho’s arms he sinks to the floor and cuddles you close. Jisung curls his body around your back and once more the three of you just sit there and cuddle into each other's warmth for a while.

‘Next time we’re doing this, we need to pick a more comfortable place than the floor of your studio or against the mirror,’ Jisung says, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. ‘As hot as it is.’

‘But the mirrors,’ Minho pouts.

You and Jisung both giggle and you reach out to tap his bottom lip with your finger. ‘So you want to do this again?’ you ask, smiling up at him.

Minho raises his eyebrows at you and tightens his arms around your waist. ‘Don’t you?’

Oh fuck yes.

a/n: i'm still pretty new to writing smut so uhm I hope that was good lmao. (it was a lot of fun to write hehe) If you enjoyed reading, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog <3

shoutout to @staybabblingbaby for helping me brainstorm, u rock <3

general taglist: @jaeminie-cricket @jeonginsbaee @staylovesmiley @newbbystay @cashtonsbetch @mariahxrrera @kaleigh-2002 @silencionyx @smileykiddie08 @my-neurodivergent-world @yaorzu-blog @yoongiismylove2018 @staytinyluv @bookswillfindyouaway @queen-thiccness @notastraykid @ateez-atiny380 @estella-novella @furfoxsake22 @hyunjinhoexxx @insomnjen @girl-in-love-with-kpop @vivilovesuu @velvetmoonlght @skz8love @corgilover20 @littlelostdemonofthelight @stephanieeeyang @zulie-and-cats @chanshugsaretherapy @pizzalove5000 @dazzlingjade @milie-com @thequibbie @channiesrightasscheek @strawbrriz @delulustardust

#but thank yew for the acknowledgement #i'm HONOURED #i hope more people come across this masterpiece 🙏#skz smut #minsung x reader

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homelessmeowmeow · 8 months ago

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What the fuck how the fuck why the fuck. Nevertheless, so good. Omg.