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cressidagrey · 7 days ago

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System Failure - Prologue

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes:

Please read the Disclaimer first. George Russell Bashing, more in later chapters, but I am already warning for it here.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025

At Brackley, everyone knew Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

She didn’t do small talk. She didn’t do“What’s your plan for the weekend?” conversations. She didn’t do passive aggression either—she did straight-up aggression, usually in the form of an eyebrow raised so sharply it could have sliced carbon fibre.

She didn’t stop by desks with coffee runs. She didn’t go to team karaoke nights at the pub, or sign thank-you cards, or smile for the annual “Team Mercedes Family” poster.

She was blunt—abrasive, even. Didn’t soften her tone. She once told a senior aero engineer that his revised packaging concept was “statistically insulting,” and then—five minutes later—handed him a diagnostic flowchart that solved three months’ worth of overheating problems.

Ana didn’t cushion her feedback or sugar-coat a failed system design. She once told a junior aerodynamicist that his heat dispersion model looked like “an Excel tantrum,” and he still asked for her help the next week.

She hated inefficiency. She loathed repetition. She had a mortal vendetta against unnecessary meetings and once told a senior consultant that his thirty-slide deck could be replaced by “a spreadsheet and two brain cells.”

Ana Wolff didn’t care if people liked her.

Which was probably why—quietly, absolutely—they did.

She wasn’t what you’d call warm.

She could be sharp, abrupt, deeply blunt in a way that took some getting used to. She had a way of walking into a room, scanning it like a machine vision algorithm, and saying exactly what everyone else had politely danced around.

But she wasn’t cruel.

That was the difference.

Ana Wolff was kind.

Not in the loud, performative way. Not in the “we should get drinks after work!” kind of way. But in the way that made them stop and hold the door open a little longer when they saw her coming, headphones on and sleeves rolled to the elbow. In the way they waited to eat lunch until she came back from the test bay and could join them, even if she only picked at an energy bar while debugging simulation code.

She was blunt—painfully so, yes.

But she always helped.

She never made anyone feel stupid for asking.

She answered questions at 2 a.m. if someone pinged her about an urgent cooling issue.

She stayed late when no one asked her to.

She didn’t smile often, but when she did—usually in the direction of a rookie intern who got the airflow graph right on the first try—it felt like a minor miracle.

She never acted like she was above getting her hands dirty. More than once, she’d crawled under a car in testing or stayed up on call with the factory floor when simulations threw bad flags.

When someone’s dad died last winter, Ana didn’t say anything. She just silently took over their entire portion of the control systems redesign and submitted the notes under their name.

She made jokes that didn’t always land, but they were always funny two minutes later when you finally got them. She never raised her voice. She never threw blame. She had no time for politics and no patience for ego, and if you made a mistake, she’d show you exactly where it happened, fix it beside you, and never mention it again.

When one of the junior engineer on her team had a panic attack during pre-season calibration, it was Ana who found her behind the equipment crates, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside her, and calmly walked her through her breathing like it was just another simulation glitch to solve.

Ana didn’t ask to be liked.

But the Brackley crew liked her anyway.

Because she was honest. Because she was brilliant. Because she didn’t bother pretending. Because beneath all the technical precision and withering sarcasm, she was kind—the kind of quiet kind that didn’t ask for recognition.

Most people at Brackley were sharp. A few were brilliant. But Ana Wolff? She was something else.

Some of the older engineers joked that she could hear an engine whine and tell you what part of the MGU-H needed replacement with her eyes closed. It wasn’t that far off the mark.

And of course—she was Toto’s daughter.

Not that she ever acted like it.

That was a known thing—unspoken but understood. But apart from her last name and the fact that she sometimes made grown men in strategy meetings go quiet with a single raised eyebrow, you wouldn’t guess it at first glance.

She never used his name to open doors. Never took the easy route. She had earned her way through Cambridge, earned her place at Brackley, and earned the deference of people twice her age.

You wouldn't necessarily guess they were related at first glance. She didn’t have her father’s height. Didn’t have his voice, or his presence that could fill a room like thunder.

She didn’t look like him, not really. Her hair was soft blonde, pulled back in a no-nonsense bun most days. Her voice was cooler. Her frame smaller.

But if you looked closely—her eyes gave it away.

That same dark intensity.

The same glint when she was fighting for an idea she believed in.

Still, people at Brackley respected her not because she was Toto’s daughter—but in spite of it. She had earned every inch of her place. Her doctorate, her portfolio, her published research—they all spoke louder than any nameplate could.

Dr. Ana Wolff might’ve walked like a lone variable, might’ve spoken like a MATLAB script—but she never looked down on anyone. Never shouted.

Never asked for more than she’d be willing to give. And when she quietly joined the late shift, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with graphite from motor housing recalibration, people noticed.

They liked Ana.

Even if she didn’t always know what to do with that.

***

Department of Engineering, University of Cambridge

Hybrid Systems Efficiency in Turbocharged Power Units: Thermal Recovery, Energy Redistribution, and the Limits of Predictive Modelling in Competitive Motorsport Environments

A dissertation submitted for degree of Doctor of Philosophy

January 2021

By Anastasia Yelena Wolff

Trinity College

Dedication:

For the machines that made sense when people didn’t.

And for Jack—who thinks I’m cool, even when I forget how to be human.

Acknowledgements:

This research would not have been possible without the relentless patience of the machines that behaved exactly as expected, the data sets that told the truth even when no one asked, and the simulation models that never once demanded clarity on emotional intent.

To Professor J.L. Gorran, thank you for your guidance, even when I failed to meet the unspoken social expectations of academic interaction. Your feedback, blunt and mathematical, was always appreciated.

To my father—thank you for teaching me the value of precision, persistence, and volume. And for never asking me to be anything other than exactly what I am.

To Susie, who reminded me that kindness and intelligence are not mutually exclusive.

To Jack: you won’t understand a word of this (yet), but thank you for reminding me that sometimes, even very complicated people can be loved very simply.

To the person who once said engines don’t lie, and neither do I—not even when I pretend to. You are the variable I could never model, but somehow the system always runs better when you are there. You won’t see your name here. But if you ever read this, you’ll know it’s you.

And finally, to the machines. For their logic. Their clarity. Their refusal to conceal fault.

May we all run as cleanly.

—A.Y.W.

***

The Guardian - Excerpt from "Power, Pressure, and Precision: Inside the Mind of Toto Wolff"

The Guardian Weekend | November 2024

By Rachel Kingsley

Interviewer: You’ve spoken often about your passion for leadership and long-term strategy—but I’m curious about your role off-track. You’re a father, too. How do you balance being a parent with the demands of running a Formula 1 team?

Toto Wolff (smiles): Badly, sometimes. I think any parent in a high-performance environment would admit that. It's always a balance between presence and pressure. But I try to show up when it counts.

Interviewer: You have four children?

Toto: Yes. Rosa and Benedict from my first marriage, and Jack with Susie. Jack is still young—he's seven. The house is noisy. There are a lot of LEGO pieces underfoot.

And Anastasia, of course. She’s my eldest. From a relationship I had very early in my life—when I was living in Moscow in my twenties. Her mother and I weren’t… built for longevity.

She came into my life when she was eight. We didn’t—how do I say this—start traditionally. But she’s mine. Fully. Always.

Interviewer: That must’ve been a big shift.

Toto: It was. Suddenly there was this very silent, very brilliant little girl standing in my apartment with a suitcase. She didn’t speak German at first, only Russian. She barely spoke at all. But she watched everything.

Interviewer: That must’ve been difficult.

Toto: It was. For both of us. I made mistakes. I thought giving her structure would help—boarding school, academics… And she was always brilliant. Quietly so. Sharp in a way that makes you slightly afraid she’s already figured out what you’re going to say next.

Interviewer: She’s in motorsport too, isn’t she?

Toto (nods): Yes. Very much by her own doing. I never pushed her toward it. In fact, I tried not to.

She’s an engineer. System dynamics, hybrid architecture. She’s working in motorsport, but not on the front-facing side of it. Which suits her. Ana’s the kind of person who wants to solve the problem, not be photographed with it.

She’s brilliant. Quietly. Ferociously. She doesn’t like being looked at, but she loves solving impossible problems.

Interviewer: Is it strange, working with your own daughter?

Toto: Strange? No. Surreal, sometimes. Because I look at her and I see someone who’s earned every inch of where she is. Not because of her name—but in spite of it. She doesn't use it. If anything, she tries to hide behind the work.

She’s… remarkable. Brilliant. Very independent. She doesn’t like attention, so I try not to talk about her too much in the press, but I am very proud of her.

***

Twitter Thread: People Behind the Car - Ana Wolff

@/F1backstage: She’s Mercedes' quietest powerhouse. Fiercely private. Chronically unbothered. Hasn't given a quote to press since 2021. But if your engine runs right in 2026, you’ll have her to thank.

@/F1backstage: If you’ve never heard of Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff, that’s by design.

She’s the daughter of Toto Wolff (yes, that Toto), but unlike the Nepo Baby™ playbook, she does not do press.

She doesn’t show up to premieres. She’s not pitching skincare on Instagram.

She’s in the engine room. Literally.

So here’s everything we know about her:

@/F1backstage: Anastasia Yelena Wolff. Born December 1997.

Daughter of Toto Wolff.

She’s from a relationship in Moscow when he was 25. Her mother left her with Toto when Ana was 8.

No, we are not making this up. Yes, it does sound like a Cold War Novel.

@/F1backstage: First appeared on the Mercedes internal staff directory as “Systems Integration Analyst” in 2021. Has two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate, all earned before age 23.

@/F1backstage: Ana Wolff is Mercedes' lead systems engineer for the 2026 PU. Rumored to be the reason Brackley’s simulations outpaced the FIA's own projections.

@/F1backstage: Fluent in English, German, French and Russian. Her social media presence = zero.

@/F1backstage: You’ve probably never seen her in a team interview. She doesn’t do media. She’s not even listed on the website unless you really dig. But insiders will tell you she’s been instrumental in developing the systems diagnostics protocols for the upcoming engine cycle.

@/F1backstage: She’s also terrifying.

A few engineers have joked that she’s “the ghost of Brackley” because you never see her unless the engine is in crisis. Someone once said she fixed an entire thermal sync issue without speaking a word. Just walked in, made three changes, and left.

@/F1backstage: Ana doesn’t do media. She’s not in team videos. She doesn’t give interviews. The only place she occasionally appears? Susie Wolff’s Instagram.

Usually blurry in the background. Sometimes in stories with her little brother Jack, who races karts and worships her.

@/F1backstage: Her relationship with the rest of the Wolff family seems… complicated. Rosa and Benedict—Toto’s other children from his first marriage—aren’t seen with her much. But Jack? Jack is glued to her side at every karting event she shows up to.

@/F1backstage: Ana Wolff is a mystery. No romantic links. No partner ever spotted. One unlucky journo tried to ask Toto if she was dating someone. Toto reportedly just said, “My daughter has exacting standards,” and then changed the topic.

@/F1backstage: Basically: she’s brilliant, brutal, beloved by the mechanics, and likely operating on a higher plane of intellect than the rest of us.

@/F1backstage: If Mercedes nails the 2026 engine regs, don’t just thank the drivers. Thank Ana Wolff.

@/F1backstage: She has a doctorate, and once shut down a paddock journalist by saying, “If I wanted to be visible, I’d work in PR.” (Iconic. Terrifying. Queen.)

***

RaceTech Weekly - Dr. Ana Wolff: The Engineer Behind the Silence

By Emily Kavanagh – Senior Technology Correspondent

In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, names carry weight. And few names carry more gravitational pull than Wolff.

But while much of the motorsport world associates the name with Toto Wolff—Mercedes team principal, business strategist, and mainstay of the F1 political chessboard—another Wolff is quietly redefining the way Mercedes approaches the future.

When asked about the 2026 Mercedes power unit, most in the paddock will point to simulations, regulatory resets, and hybrid breakthroughs. But those who really know where to look will mention a name that rarely appears in public briefings and has never once spoken to press: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

If the name rings familiar, it’s with good reason. The daughter of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Team Principal Toto Wolff, Ana has carved out her own reputation in Formula 1—but not as a figure of legacy or PR-ready dynasties. Instead, she’s quietly become one of the most respected hybrid systems specialists in the sport. Ask anyone in Brackley, and you’ll get the same answer:

“She thinks in algorithms and speaks in fuel flow regulation,” one senior Mercedes engineer said. “And she doesn’t just find problems—she solves the ones we haven’t seen coming. She’s the one you call when nothing makes sense anymore."

Born in 1997 during Toto’s brief time living in Moscow, Ana’s early life is something of a blank spot in public records. Her mother reportedly left her with Toto when Ana was just eight years old, after which she was raised between Vienna and international boarding schools. Engineers who’ve worked with her joke that she was “built, not born”—a dry reference to her analytical mind and emotionally guarded nature.

Wolff holds two degrees from Cambridge—including a doctorate in applied systems modelling and energy optimization.

Ana joined the Mercedes engineering team in 2021 under no publicity whatsoever. At first, her presence raised questions—was this nepotism, or genuine talent?

Those questions didn’t last long.

Within weeks, she’d flagged a heat sync inefficiency in the MGU-H system that multiple dyno tests had missed. By 2023, she was the youngest systems engineer in the hybrid integration team. By 2024, she’d rewritten parts of the simulation interface used in PU calibration protocols.

Though officially listed as a Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer at Mercedes since 2023, her influence reaches further than her title suggests. She was a key figure in the early development phases of the 2026 engine, with internal reports noting that her predictive load balancing models improved early sim efficiency by 14%.

Now, in 2025, she’s one of the lead architects behind Mercedes’ 2026 engine concept.

Quietly, ruthlessly, brilliantly—Ana Wolff has become indispensable.

“She doesn’t say much,” one senior technician at Brackley told RaceTech. “But when she does? You shut up and listen.”

Wolff is known for her intensely private nature. She has no public social media, rarely appears in team media content, and is reportedly allergic to press days. The few glimpses fans get of her are through Susie Wolff’s Instagram stories, often in the background at her younger brother Jack’s karting events.

But it’s not just her engineering brilliance that makes Ana Wolff so fascinating—it’s the quiet distance she keeps from everything else.

She doesn’t give quotes to broadcasters. She doesn’t smile for TikToks. She doesn’t do post-race dinners or Sunday night afterparties. But make no mistake: she is one of the most formidable minds in Formula 1 today—and increasingly, one of its most fascinating enigmas.

Within Mercedes, Ana is known for her near-pathological precision, her deep loyalty to the team, and her absolute refusal to tolerate inefficiency, small talk, or anything resembling emotional vulnerability.

“She once restructured our entire hybrid module overnight because the error margin annoyed her,” said one Mercedes performance engineer. “When she finally sent the email, it just said: ‘Fixed this. Don’t make me do it again.’”

She also wrote a dissertation on thermal load management so technically dense that even some Cambridge professors reportedly asked her to “add more words that weren’t math.”

She is seen most often in Brackley, rarely at races. Asked once by a journalist during an off-record paddock event if she was dating anyone, she reportedly replied: “I have a data array that needs validation. That’s all the emotional commitment I have time for.”

She’s not here for the headlines. She’s not here to smile for sponsors.

She’s here to build something that works.

And with Mercedes' 2026 power unit already being called “a potential generational leap,” Dr. Ana Wolff is no longer just the quiet brain in the back room.

She’s the one everyone’s watching now.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025

Kimi hadn’t expected anything more than cafeteria pasta and a politely awkward twenty-minute lunch break.

It was one of his first visits to Brackley as a full-time driver. Just a logistics day — meet the engineers, try not to knock over anything priceless, remember names. He was still figuring out where the espresso machine was when popped up beside him.

“You hungry?” Bono asked, as casually as if they’d had lunch every week since 2019.

Kimi blinked. “Um… yeah?”

“Good,” Bono said. “Come on. You’re with us.”

He followed. Because… well, Bono. You didn’t say no to Bono. He had a weirdly Jedi energy.

What Kimi didn’t expect was to be led down a back hallway, into a side conference room that had been half-transformed with foldable chairs, a battered wooden table, and four mismatched mugs already waiting.

And then he saw her.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

Legs crossed. Elbows on the table. Glasses on. Tablet closed.

Ana looked up. “He brought the new one,” she said to Valtteri, as if he weren’t standing right there.

Valtteri Bottas, seated beside her and halfway through a coffee, grinned.

“Fresh blood,” he said. “Finally.”

Bono grinned and pulled out a chair. “Welcome to Tuesday Lunch Club.”

“What?” Kimi said. “There’s… a club? I thought this was lunch?”

“This is lunch,” Bono said, already halfway through unpacking his tabbouleh. “This is the best lunch.”

“There is a club,” Ana said, deadpan.

“We’ve been meeting here since… what, 2020?” Bono offered.

“2021,” Ana corrected. “Valterri was grandfathered in,” Ana added.

“And now you’re here,” Valterri said cheerfully. “Poor you.”

Kimi looked around the table. Three terrifyingly competent adults. One overwhelmed teenager.

“Who—who else is in this club?”

“Just us,” Valtteri said. “It’s exclusive.”

Bono leaned in conspiratorially. “We all hated being social, so we made a social group where we didn’t have to be.”

“We don’t talk unless we want to,” Ana added. “We don’t take questions. And if you bring someone unvetted, they get exiled.”

“I’m unvetted,” Kimi pointed out.

“Exactly,” Ana said. “One wrong move and you’re out.”

“Do I get a trial period?”

“This is your trial,” Bono said. “Valtteri voted to adopt you after your third simulator session.”

“I did,” Valtteri confirmed. “You drive like a man who knows pain.”

Kimi stared. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Ana passed him the bread. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kimi stared at them.

Ana went back to her tablet. Bono opened a bag of crisps. Valtteri took a bite of his sandwich and offered no comfort whatsoever.

No one said anything for a full minute.

And weirdly… Kimi didn’t hate it.

It was the first moment all day that no one asked how he felt about being Lewis Hamilton’s successor. No one asked about media duties. No one tried to make him prove he belonged.

They just let him eat.

After a few minutes, Ana slid a second cookie onto his tray without looking up.

“Ground rule one,” she said. “No PR speak.”

Kimi blinked. “Okay.”

“Two,” Valtteri added, “no talking about George unless it’s to complain.”

Ana raised a brow. “And three—if you leak this lunch club to anyone in marketing, we will feed you to Toto.”

“This is… every Tuesday?”

“Yes,” Ana said. “No media. No meetings. No George.”

“That last one is important,” Bono muttered.

Kimi looked around at the trio — a brilliant, terrifying engineer, a suspiciously caffeinated Finn, and an overqualified race engineer who kept group minutes on laminated cards.

He took a bite of pasta.

“…I think I love it here.”

Later, when he left the room an hour later — full of surprisingly good food and existential career advice from Bottas — he realized something strange:

He felt calmer.

Like maybe this wasn’t just a lunch. Maybe it was infrastructure.

Maybe this was how Mercedes stayed sane.

By putting the smartest, driest, most overqualified people in a room once a week and letting them pretend they weren’t all secretly holding the team together with sarcasm and espresso.

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: bro i just had lunch with ana wolff valtteri and bono

Oliver: you WHAT

Kimi: they have a club. a secret lunch club. every tuesday. i’ve been conscripted.

Oliver: what do you MEAN “conscripted” was there hazing? do you need rescue?

Kimi: no they gave me tabbouleh and existential advice

Oliver: this is the most mercedes thing i’ve ever heard you okay?

Kimi: they don’t speak unless they want to they don’t allow george they passed me bread and stared at me in silence for like 3 full minutes i think i passed some kind of ancient test

Oliver: sounds like a cult but with more espresso

Kimi: ana gave me a second cookie and said “no PR speak” valtteri told me i drive like a man who knows pain

Oliver : are you sure you didn’t just hallucinate this during media day burnout

Kimi: they threatened to feed me to toto if i told anyone in marketing so if i disappear tell my story

Oliver: noted. i’ll light a candle in the sim room

***

FIA Press Conference Transcript

Location: Suzuka Circuit, Japan Date: April 2025 Participants:

Toto Wolff (Team Principal, Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team)

Fred Vasseur (Team Principal, Scuderia Ferrari HP)

Andrea Stella (Team Principal, McLaren Formula 1 Team)

Tom Clarkson: We’ll go next to a question from Giorgio Rossi at La Gazzetta.

Giorgio Rossie´: Thank you. Question to all three—how are preparations going for the 2026 engine regulations, and there are already whispers that Mercedes might be ahead of the curve. Care to comment?

Toto Wolff (smiling, guarded): I think everyone’s working hard. It’s a big change—electrification, new fuel, new balance of performance. I’m confident in the people we have in Brixworth and Brackley. But I wouldn’t say we’re ahead. That’s a dangerous assumption in Formula 1.

Fred Vasseur: Come on, Toto. We all hear the same rumours. Mercedes is three months ahead of the rest of us, and everyone’s too polite to say it.

Fred: I tried to poach his systems engineer three times this year, by the way. The woman behind half his magic.

(Laughter from the media.)

Andrea Stella (grinning): Only three?

Toto: You what?

Fred: I did! I emailed her directly. Asked if she’d be interested in hearing about our power unit project in Maranello.

Tom: And what happened?

Fred: She sent me a copy of her birth certificate the third time. No message. Just a scan. (beat) I took the hint.

(Laughter breaks out across the room. Toto shakes his head, trying not to grin.)

Toto (completely deadpan): That sounds like Anastasia, yes.

Tom (grinning): Just to clarify, Fred, you're talking about Toto’s daughter, Ana Wolff?

Fred: Oui. I made the mistake of thinking I could lure her away with red overalls. Apparently not even the Pope could manage that.

Toto (mildly): The Pope drives a Mercedes, actually.

(more laughter)

Fred: Touché.

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romerona · 6 months ago

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Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

2K notes · View notes

mingiatz · 22 days ago

Text

You’ve been in love with San since freshman year—at least, that’s what you thought. But when Hongjoong, your quiet and perceptive friend, offers to help you win San’s heart, you never expected to discover that maybe your crush wasn’t so right after all. Or that you’d fall for the wrong guy in the process.

Pairing: Kim Hongjoong (Ateez) x Reader

Tropes: Friends to lovers, Mutual pining (but they’re both idiots), Wingman turns love interest, Jealousy and realization, Emotional and physical slow burn (with payoff)

Genre: College AU, Fluff, Smut, Angst (but with a happy ending)

Featuring: Ateez as their chaotic Friends, Two OCs as Y/ns best friends

Masterlist

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The campus café was alive with the low hum of chatter and clinking mugs. Y/N sat cross-legged on one of the faded leather couches, her laptop precariously balanced on her knees as she scrolled through lines of code.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, squinting at the error message on her screen. “Where are you even coming from, you little—”

A hand suddenly snatched the laptop from her lap.

“Y/N, it’s Friday night,” Wooyoung announced dramatically, holding her laptop above his head like a prized trophy. “This thing? Illegal. Banned. Outlawed.”

“Wooyoung!” Y/N scrambled to her feet, making a feeble grab for her laptop. “I’m debugging. Give it back!”

“Debugging? More like self-destructing.” He waved it at arm’s length as if it might bite him. “You need a break. You’re going to fry your brain at this rate.”

Across the table, San chuckled—low and warm—the sound that had been living rent-free in Y/N’s head since their first group project freshman year. He was leaning back in his chair, dark hair slightly tousled like he’d just run a hand through it. “He’s right, Y/N. You’ve been staring at that thing all afternoon.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t the first time San had said her name, but somehow it still made her stomach flip every single time.

“I’m on a deadline,” she protested weakly, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward as San shot her a teasing grin.

“Deadlines are temporary. Eye strain is forever,” added Seonghwa with mock solemnity from beside him, sipping his tea.

Y/N’s best friends, Jisoo and Hana, exchanged amused glances on the other couch.

“Y/N, come on,” Hana urged. “You’ve been working nonstop all week. Just hang out for once.”

Before she could protest again, Hongjoong’s voice cut through softly but firmly. “They’re right.”

She turned to where he was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, notebook open across his knees. His pencil paused mid-note as he looked up at her, eyebrow raised. “You’ll work better after a break.”

Y/N sighed dramatically and let herself flop onto the couch next to Jisoo.

“Fine. But if my codebase explodes, it’s on all of you.”

The group settled into a comfortable rhythm as the evening wore on. Someone put on music—Yeosang’s playlist, which somehow managed to mix lo-fi beats with hyperpop—and Jongho started a heated debate with Jisoo about pineapple on pizza.

San moved from his chair to sprawl across the rug, tossing a throw pillow under his head. He was laughing at something Wooyoung said, dimples flashing as he covered his mouth.

Y/N tried not to stare.

She failed.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been aware of him before—they’d been friends since freshman orientation, after all. But somewhere between late-night group study sessions and movie marathons, her feelings had slipped from platonic warmth into dangerous territory.

She liked the way he always made room for her on the couch without thinking. How he’d grab her coffee order without asking if he was already in line. How he remembered small details—her favorite snack, the stress-induced eye twitch she got during finals.

She wondered if he noticed her the same way.

“Hey, Y/N,” San said suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts. He was propped up on one elbow now, eyes sparkling. “You’re coming to the spring fair next weekend, right?”

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, of course.” She tried to sound casual, but her voice came out a little higher than intended.

His grin widened. “Good. You’re on my team for the scavenger hunt. We’re gonna win.”

“Oh no,” Wooyoung groaned theatrically. “San’s turning this into a competition again. Run while you still can, Y/N.”

She laughed nervously, hugging a pillow to her chest.

Hongjoong, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, glanced up from his notebook. His gaze flicked briefly between her and San before returning to his scribbled melodies.

As the night wound down, the group began to disperse—some heading back to dorms, others lingering in pairs or trios. Y/N found herself walking beside Hongjoong as they exited the café into the crisp evening air.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she said softly.

He gave her a small smile, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just listening.”

There was something about the way he said it—simple, unassuming—but it made her chest feel strangely warm.

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The group had trickled out of the café in pairs, laughter fading into the night air as they parted ways.

Y/N walked between Jisoo and Hana, their boots clicking softly against the pavement. The three of them shared a comfortable silence for a few blocks, their breath visible in the crisp spring air.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Hana finally said, nudging Y/N gently with her shoulder. “More than usual.”

“Was I?” Y/N tugged her coat tighter around her and kept her eyes on the sidewalk.

“Yes,” Jisoo confirmed with a knowing smile. “And I think I know why.”

Y/N froze mid-step. “What?”

“You were practically glowing every time San looked at you,” Hana teased, her grin widening.

“I was not!”

“You so were.” Jisoo linked arms with her on the other side. “Y/N, you’ve had the same crush since freshman year. When are you going to do something about it?”

“I don’t—” Y/N started, then sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is,” Hana said. “You’re cute, you’re smart, you’re literally the sweetest person I know. Why wouldn’t he like you back?”

Y/N shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “You don’t get it. San… he’s just—” She struggled for the right words. “He’s out of my league.”

There it was. The truth she hadn’t said out loud before.

“I mean, look at him,” she continued, voice soft. “He’s funny, confident, good-looking. People are drawn to him. And then there’s me… I’m not exactly the kind of girl guys like him fall for.”

“Y/N…” Jisoo’s tone turned gentle. “That’s not true. You’re amazing. He already adores you—he just doesn’t realize it yet.”

Y/N gave a small, sad smile. “It’s sweet of you to say, but I’m fine. Really. I’m happy being his friend. I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

Hana sighed dramatically, tossing her hair. “Fine. But I’m calling it now: one day, you’re going to regret not saying anything.”

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, glancing up at the night sky. The stars were faint against the city glow, but still there if you looked hard enough. “But it feels safer this way.”

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What none of them noticed was the faint sound of footsteps behind them.

A few meters back, Hongjoong and Yeosang walked in unhurried silence, having taken the same route home.

Hongjoong’s head was slightly tilted, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He hadn’t meant to overhear—but he had. Every word of Y/N’s soft, self-deprecating confession had carried easily in the quiet street.

He hated how familiar it sounded.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Yeosang’s voice broke his thoughts.

Hongjoong blinked at him. “Thinking about what?”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb. I can practically see the gears turning in your head.”

“I’m not—” Hongjoong started, but Yeosang cut him off with a dry chuckle.

“You’re absolutely planning something. Don’t.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Joong.” Yeosang’s tone was firmer now, though not unkind. “You know how you get. You always think you can fix things for people. But this? This isn’t one of your songs. You can’t just… compose a happy ending for her.”

Hongjoong looked away, jaw tight. “I wasn’t going to interfere.”

“Good,” Yeosang said simply. Then, after a beat, he added, “She’s a sweet girl. Don’t get yourself in too deep.”

The warning lingered in the cool night air between them.

But Hongjoong couldn’t shake Y/N’s words from his mind.

„I’m happy being his friend.“

He didn’t believe her. Not for a second.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Why are there this many snacks for eight people?” Y/N asked, eyeing the mountain of chips, candy, and soda covering Hongjoong’s coffee table.

“Because Wooyoung came shopping with me,” Seonghwa said dryly as he handed her a bowl of popcorn.

“Hey!” Wooyoung popped his head out from behind the couch, already halfway through a bag of gummy worms. “It’s called being prepared, thank you very much.”

San plopped down next to him, balancing a soda on his knee. “It’s called overkill, but no complaints.” He reached for a handful of gummies, dodging Wooyoung’s exaggerated groan.

Y/N settled onto the floor with Hana and Jisoo, pulling her hoodie sleeves over her hands as she watched the group’s easy chaos unfold.

“You’re not sitting on the couch?” San asked, flashing her that grin—the one that always seemed a little too effortless.

“I’m good here,” Y/N replied quickly, her heart giving a traitorous little skip. Sitting too close to him would just make it harder to pretend she was unaffected.

“Suit yourself.” San leaned back and kicked his legs out, still smiling.

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The opening credits rolled as everyone found their spots. Hongjoong had taken the armchair in the corner, notebook open but untouched on his lap. His pencil rested against the page, though he hadn’t written a single note.

He wasn’t watching the movie, not really. His eyes drifted occasionally to Y/N—curled up in her blanket between Hana and Jisoo—and then to San, who was laughing loudly at Wooyoung’s bad impressions on screen.

Now that Hongjoong knew about her crush, he saw the signs more clearly. The way her laugh softened around San, the way she seemed just slightly more animated when he was speaking. It wasn’t obvious—San himself didn’t seem to notice—but it was there.

Hongjoong didn’t feel anything in particular about it. He wasn’t surprised. San had always had that magnetic sort of energy that drew people in. Y/N’s feelings made sense.

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“You’re staring again,” Yeosang murmured from beside him, keeping his voice low so the others couldn’t hear.

“I’m not staring,” Hongjoong replied, glancing down at his untouched notebook.

Yeosang gave him a knowing look. “You’re analyzing.”

Hongjoong let out a quiet huff of air. “Maybe a little.”

“Joong.” Yeosang’s voice dropped slightly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t get involved. Don’t start… fixing things.” Yeosang leaned back against the couch cushion, his tone calm but firm. “She likes San. That’s her business.”

“I’m not planning anything,” Hongjoong said lightly, though his mind tugged at the edges of an idea.

“Good,” Yeosang replied. “Because I’ve seen how you are when you decide to ‘help.’ This isn’t like organizing a showcase or editing someone’s demo track. It’s not clean. It’s not predictable.”

“I know.” Hongjoong’s gaze shifted briefly back to Y/N, who was laughing at something San had whispered to her.

Yeosang followed his line of sight and sighed. “Just… don’t overstep. Let people figure their own hearts out.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond, but a small crease formed between his brows. He wasn’t planning to interfere. Not yet. But something about the quiet determination in Y/N’s voice the night before—“I’m happy being his friend”—kept replaying in his mind.

He wasn’t sure he believed her.

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By the time the credits rolled, half the group was scrolling through their phones lazily while the other half had drifted off to sleep.

Y/N helped Jisoo gather empty snack wrappers, her voice low so as not to wake Jongho, who was curled up on the couch like a cat.

“Thanks for hosting, Joong,” she said with a small smile as she passed by him.

“Anytime,” he replied simply, tucking his pencil into his notebook without opening it.

She gave a quick wave before leaving with Hana and Jisoo.

Yeosang waited until the door clicked shut before turning to Hongjoong.

“You’re thinking about it again.”

“I’m not.”

Yeosang’s look was flat. “Joong, trust me. Don’t.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer.

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The late afternoon sun spilled lazily across the lounge windows, turning dust motes into glitter. The group’s hangout had stretched into early evening, pizza boxes scattered across the table while San and Wooyoung argued over which Marvel movie had the best fight scene.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor beside Hana and Jisoo, her laugh quieter now than it had been earlier. She tugged nervously at her hoodie sleeves, fingers playing with the frayed edges.

Across the room, San leaned casually against the snack counter, his easy grin in place as a girl from his sociology class laughed at something he said. Y/N wasn’t staring—at least, she was trying not to—but her eyes drifted there anyway, drawn like a magnet.

It wasn’t that San was doing anything wrong. He wasn’t flirting back—his answers were polite, a little distracted even—but still, the scene twisted something tight in Y/N’s chest.

“Y/N? You good?” Hana nudged her gently with an elbow.

“Yeah.” She forced a small smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

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From his spot by the window, Hongjoong noticed.

It wasn’t pity that tugged at him—it was just… awareness. He’d heard enough the other night to recognize what that quiet, slightly brittle smile meant.

Later, after the group had begun to disperse, Hongjoong found himself walking beside Y/N as they headed back toward the dorms. The air was cool now, the faint scent of cherry blossoms hanging between them.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said casually.

Y/N glanced up, startled. “Oh. Yeah, sorry. I’m just… tired.”

He nodded, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. They walked a few more steps in silence before he spoke again.

“You know,” he began carefully, “I’m not trying to pry, but… I overheard you the other night. When you were walking with Hana and Jisoo.”

Y/N froze mid-step. “You… what?”

“Not on purpose,” Hongjoong said quickly. “Yeosang and I were walking behind you. I didn’t hear everything. Just enough to know about… San.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her cheeks were warm, and she had the sudden urge to crawl into the nearest bush.

“You don’t have to explain,” Hongjoong added gently. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. “I… it’s not like it’s a big deal. It’s just a stupid crush.”

“Doesn’t sound stupid to me,” Hongjoong said.

Y/N gave a small, humorless laugh. “That’s because you don’t know how bad I am at… all of this. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Maybe I can help.”

Her head whipped toward him. “What?”

“I mean, if you want. I could be your wingman.” He gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Help you figure out how to get his attention. You know, tips, practice, moral support.”

“You’re serious?”

“Sure.” He glanced at her with an easy smile. “We’ve been friends for years. If I can make your life a little easier, why not?”

Y/N bit her lip. “I don’t know… That sounds kind of scary.”

“Scarier than doing nothing?”

She looked down at the pavement, her sleeve cuffs nearly covering her hands. “I guess not.”

“Think about it,” Hongjoong said as they neared the dorm steps. “No pressure. Just… if you want someone in your corner, I’ve got you.”

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The campus café was quieter than usual, the low murmur of voices blending with the hiss of the espresso machine. Y/N sat across from Hongjoong in a corner booth, stirring her iced latte absently.

“So… I thought about what you said,” she began, her fingers fidgeting with her straw wrapper.

Hongjoong set his notebook aside and gave her his full attention. “Yeah?”

“I think…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I think I’d like your help. If you’re still offering.”

His expression softened. “Of course I’m still offering. No time like the present, right?”

Y/N let out a nervous laugh. “I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to throw you into the deep end,” Hongjoong said lightly. “We’ll start small. Figure out what works for you.”

She nodded, feeling a little spark of excitement—tempered by nerves, but still there.

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Later that evening, back at their shared apartment, Yeosang leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Hongjoong sketch melodies into his battered notebook.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Yeosang said suddenly.

Hongjoong glanced up, pencil paused. “Did what?”

“Whatever it is that’s been on your mind since movie night. You offered to help her, didn’t you?”

There was no point denying it—Yeosang could read him too well. Hongjoong sighed. “She agreed. She wants me to help her get San’s attention.”

Yeosang pressed his lips into a thin line. “I knew it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hongjoong asked, brows knitting.

Yeosang set his tea mug down with a quiet clink. “It means I know you, Hongjoong. You’re not the type to stay neutral in things like this. You get involved. You care too much.”

“This isn’t like that,” Hongjoong said calmly. “She’s my friend. I’m just… helping her out.”

“Sure.” Yeosang’s tone was light, but there was a weight behind his words. “You don’t feel anything now. But what happens when you do?”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that.” Yeosang’s gaze softened slightly, but his voice stayed steady. “You’re going to spend all this time with her—helping her, listening to her, seeing sides of her San probably never will. You’ll get in too deep, Joong. You always do.”

Hongjoong looked back down at his notebook, suddenly aware that his pencil hadn’t moved in minutes.

“I’m not trying to ruin your plans,” Yeosang added quietly. “But if you’re not careful, this is going to hurt. For both of you.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Hongjoong said, though his voice was quieter now.

Yeosang didn’t press further. He simply picked up his mug and left Hongjoong alone at the table, the faint sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in the small apartment.

Hongjoong sat still for a long moment, staring at the blank page before him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Do you ever sit still?” Y/N asked with a laugh as Hongjoong darted between his kitchenette and the living room, balancing a tray with mugs of tea and a small plate of sliced fruit.

“Not if I can help it,” he replied lightly, setting the tray on the coffee table. “Sorry, it’s not much. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

“Tea’s perfect.” She settled cross-legged on his couch, tucking a pillow into her lap. The apartment was small but warm, scattered with notebooks and stacks of vinyl records near the turntable. A soft lo-fi beat hummed in the background.

Hongjoong handed her a steaming mug before taking a seat across from her, one knee drawn up on the couch.

“So,” he began, resting his elbow on the back cushion, “where do we start?”

Y/N stared into her tea like it held all the answers. “I don’t even know. I feel ridiculous just… talking about this.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so high school, isn’t it? Pining after someone in our friend group like some romcom protagonist.” She tried to laugh, but it came out a little strained.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Hongjoong said simply. “It’s human.”

Y/N peeked up at him, caught off guard by the earnestness in his voice.

“Crushes happen,” he continued with a small shrug. “And besides, you’re not asking me to pull some cinematic confession scene. You just want to figure out how to be… noticed, right?”

“Right.” She wrapped her hands tighter around the warm mug. “But where do I even start? I’m not exactly the most confident person.”

“Well, first we figure out what kind of attention you want from him. Is it the ‘Whoa, she’s hot’ kind or the ‘Wow, I can’t stop thinking about her’ kind?”

Y/N blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Hongjoong smirked faintly. “I have sisters. I’ve heard this conversation more times than I can count.”

She laughed, the sound easing the tightness in her shoulders. “Definitely the second one. I don’t want to be… I don’t know. A momentary distraction. I want him to actually see me.”

“Then let’s work on that.” Hongjoong leaned back, his pencil tapping a beat on his knee. “We’ll start small—confidence boosters, subtle things you can do without feeling like you’re pretending to be someone else.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like… next time we hang out, sit closer to him. Start a conversation about something he likes. And try to hold his gaze a little longer when you talk to him.”

Her eyes widened. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Not really. You’re already friends. It’s just… making the friendship feel a little more charged.”

Y/N pressed her lips together, unsure. “I don’t know if I can pull that off.”

“You can,” Hongjoong said, his tone calm and sure. “You don’t have to change who you are. You just have to believe that who you are is enough.”

The words sank into her like warm sunlight, and for the first time all day, the tight knot in her chest loosened slightly.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” Hongjoong smiled—not wide or showy, but the quiet kind that made people feel safe.

An hour later, after more brainstorming (and two more cups of tea), Y/N left Hongjoong’s apartment with a small piece of paper in her pocket—a hastily scribbled list of “Mission: San” ideas.

Hongjoong watched her go from his spot by the window, sipping the last of his now-cold tea.

“Already too involved,” Yeosang’s voice floated from the hallway.

Hongjoong didn’t turn. “She’s a friend. I’m just helping her out.”

Yeosang leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Maybe.” Yeosang’s gaze softened slightly, though his words stayed careful. “But just remember—helping her get San’s attention also means helping her fall harder. Don’t get caught in the crossfire, Joong.”

Hongjoong let out a quiet sigh, his fingers drumming idly against the windowsill.

“I know.”

But Yeosang wasn’t sure he did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“This is officially the most indecisive I’ve ever seen you,” Hongjoong said, leaning against the shop’s dressing room wall with his arms folded.

“I’m not indecisive,” Y/N’s voice floated through the curtain. “I just… don’t usually shop for stuff like this.”

“It’s a campus spring fair, not a runway. Wear what feels good.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. ‘Everything-I-Wear-Looks-Effortlessly-Cool.’”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

The curtain rustled, and Y/N stepped out, tugging at the hem of a soft linen blouse paired with light wash jeans. It wasn’t a drastic change from her usual hoodies and joggers, but the lighter colors softened her whole look, and her hair—loosely tied back—let a few strands fall around her face.

Hongjoong blinked.

For the first time, he noticed the small constellation of beauty marks near her left cheekbone. How her eyes, under the warm shop lights, were a surprising shade of amber—like sunlight filtering through honey. When she smiled uncertainly at him, the movement deepened faint dimples he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

She looked… nice. Not just nice. Beautiful, in a way he hadn’t taken the time to notice.

“Too much?” she asked, tugging at the blouse’s sleeves.

Hongjoong shook himself slightly. “No. Not too much.”

Her brow furrowed. “Not enough?”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “It suits you.”

As she turned back toward the mirror, Hongjoong ran a hand through his hair, scolding himself inwardly.

Get a grip. You’re her wingman, not her admirer. Focus.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A little later, they roamed the aisles of a small accessories shop. Y/N held up a delicate necklace with a tiny sun pendant, turning it in her fingers.

“Do you think something like this would be weird?” she asked.

“For you? No,” Hongjoong said honestly. “It’s simple, but it’ll catch the light. San might notice.”

She smiled softly and set it in the basket.

As they waited in line, she turned to him.

“Thanks for coming with me. I’d probably have panicked and bought another hoodie otherwise.”

Hongjoong smirked. “I wouldn’t have judged.”

“You might’ve.”

“Maybe a little.”

She laughed, and it was an easy, unguarded sound that tugged at something in his chest—not in the sharp, startling way of attraction, but in a quiet way that said you like seeing her happy.

On the walk back to campus, Y/N swung the shopping bag lightly in her hand.

“Do you think… San’s been noticing more?” she asked hesitantly.

Hongjoong nodded. “He has. You’re more confident. People notice that.”

She ducked her head, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “That’s… good. I think.”

“You’re doing great,” Hongjoong said simply. “Just keep being yourself.”

She glanced at him, her amber eyes catching the last rays of the setting sun.

And for a fleeting moment, Hongjoong had the strange thought that San wasn’t the only one noticing her.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The spring fair was alive with color—rows of stalls lined the quad, paper lanterns swaying gently overhead as music from a nearby student band floated through the air. The scent of candied nuts and fried dough mixed with cherry blossoms on the breeze.

Hongjoong trailed a few steps behind the group, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching as Wooyoung darted ahead to challenge Jongho at a ring toss booth.

His eyes, almost against his will, kept drifting to Y/N.

She walked beside San, her light linen blouse fluttering in the wind, her hair pulled back in the way it had been during their shopping trip. He noticed—again—the faint cluster of beauty marks near her cheekbone, the way her amber eyes seemed to catch every flicker of lantern light, and the small dimple that appeared when she smiled at something San said.

It was strange. He’d known Y/N for years, but only recently had he started really seeing her.

🌸 Flashback – Two Days After the Shopping Trip

“You’re terrible at compliments,” Hongjoong said with a grin as he leaned back against the couch.

“I’m not terrible!” Y/N protested, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. “I just… don’t know how to make them sound natural.”

“Okay. Try again. Pretend I’m San.”

Y/N groaned. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Humor me.”

She bit her lip, then blurted, “Uh… I like your… hair?”

Hongjoong snorted. “Flawless delivery. He’s swooning already.”

“Shut up!” She threw the pillow at him, laughing as he caught it easily.

Now, at the fair, Hongjoong watched as Y/N tilted her head back in laughter, her earlier nerves nowhere to be found. She seemed lighter these days—more at ease in her own skin.

It was… nice.

At the cotton candy stand, he hung back with Yeosang while the others ordered.

“You’ve been quiet,” Yeosang observed, his sharp eyes following Hongjoong’s gaze.

“Just tired,” Hongjoong said, forcing a casual shrug.

Yeosang hummed. “Right. Tired. Or maybe watching her like she’s a song you can’t get out of your head.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure.” Yeosang’s voice was light, but there was weight in it. “Just don’t forget why you’re here. You’re the wingman, remember? You’re supposed to be rooting for her and San.”

“I am,” Hongjoong said too quickly.

They caught up with the group near a booth where San was helping Y/N aim at a shooting game. She leaned slightly forward as she tried to line up the shot, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Like this,” San said, placing a hand lightly on her elbow to adjust her aim. “There. Perfect.”

When Y/N finally hit the target, she let out a small cheer, and San grinned, ruffling her hair.

“See? You’re a natural.”

“You think so?” she asked shyly, her cheeks pink from the cool air—or maybe from his words.

“Definitely. You look great today, by the way,” San added casually as he handed her the small plush prize she’d won.

“Thanks,” Y/N murmured, clutching the plush to her chest, her smile bright and a little bashful.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Something twisted sharply in Hongjoong’s stomach.

He told himself it was nothing. Just the satisfaction of seeing their plan working, of seeing Y/N grow more confident.

But he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable tightness in his chest as San leaned a little closer, his grin easy and warm.

Yeosang sidled up beside him again.

“You keep looking at her,” he said quietly.

Hongjoong didn’t respond.

Yeosang’s gaze was calm but piercing. “Don’t. Not like that.”

“I’m not,” Hongjoong muttered.

“Then stop staring like you are.”

The group moved on, laughter echoing as Wooyoung dragged Jongho toward a food stall. Hongjoong forced his feet to follow, but his eyes lingered on Y/N and San walking a few steps ahead, their shoulders nearly brushing.

You’re her wingman. That’s all, he reminded himself firmly.

So why did it feel like he was starting to lose something he hadn’t even realized he wanted?

The neon glow of the karaoke bar spilled onto the sidewalk as the group filed inside, laughter bouncing off the walls. Y/N clung to Jisoo’s arm, already giggling as Wooyoung and San darted ahead to fight over the song list.

“Do we trust them to pick the opening number?” Hana asked wryly.

“Absolutely not,” Yeosang deadpanned.

Hongjoong followed at the rear of the group, hands tucked into his pockets. He wasn’t usually one for loud, chaotic nights like this—but lately, he found himself saying yes more often. Saying yes to group hangouts, to late-night bubble tea runs, to hours spent in quiet corners of the library with Y/N as she nervously mapped out conversations she might have with San.

He wasn’t sure when it had started feeling less like he was helping her and more like… he just enjoyed her company.

By the time they crowded into the private karaoke room, snacks and drinks already covering the table, Y/N had claimed a spot on the couch beside Hongjoong. She flopped down with a content sigh, pulling her knees up.

“You’re getting comfortable,” he teased lightly.

“Your fault,” she shot back with a grin. “You’re too easy to hang out with.”

Hongjoong let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

🌸 Flashback – A Few Nights Ago

“You’re actually funny,” Y/N said, laughing as she tried to beat Hongjoong at a mobile game they’d downloaded on impulse.

“I’m hilarious,” he corrected, smirking.

“I didn’t realize how much you smile when you’re not in Serious Music Genius Mode.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Back in the karaoke room, San scrolled through the song list with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Alright, Y/N. You’re up.”

She sat up straighter, eyes wide. “What? No, no way. I don’t sing.”

“Everyone sings in karaoke,” Wooyoung said sagely, already handing her a microphone.

“Come on,” San urged with a grin. “We all want to hear.”

Y/N shot Hongjoong a pleading look, but he only lifted his hands innocently. “Don’t look at me. Peer pressure is a powerful thing.”

“You’re all terrible,” she muttered, but her lips quirked upward as she reluctantly took the mic.

The opening chords of a ballad filled the room.

And then Y/N sang.

Her voice was clear and warm, with a soft, emotional edge that pulled the room into a rare hush. It wasn’t loud or showy, but it was… beautiful. Honest.

Hongjoong’s brows lifted slightly as he watched her. He’d heard plenty of good singers in his program, but there was something about Y/N’s voice that felt different—like she wasn’t trying to impress anyone, just… sharing a piece of herself.

When the song ended, the room erupted into cheers.

“Where the hell have you been hiding that voice?” Wooyoung demanded.

“I told you I don’t sing!” Y/N said, flustered but laughing.

“You do sing,” San countered with an easy grin. “And you’re amazing.”

Y/N flushed, hugging her knees to her chest.

Hongjoong smiled faintly, watching her as she waved off more praise with shy laughter.

She looked radiant—her amber eyes sparkling in the neon lights, dimples deepening as she smiled.

Something in his chest shifted. Not sharply, not all at once. Just a quiet tightening.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Later, as the group’s energy settled into easy chatter and half-hearted duets, Y/N leaned her head briefly against Hongjoong’s shoulder.

“Thanks for not rescuing me back there,” she said wryly.

“You didn’t need rescuing,” he replied. “You were great.”

She hummed softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Across the room, Yeosang caught Hongjoong’s gaze, his expression unreadable.

But Hongjoong didn’t look away. Not yet.

The night air was cool and still, the streets lit by the soft glow of streetlamps as Yeosang and Hongjoong made their way back to their shared apartment.

Yeosang walked with his hands in his pockets, his pace unhurried. Beside him, Hongjoong was unusually quiet, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve been smiling a lot more lately,” Yeosang said casually, his voice low in the hush of the empty street.

Hongjoong blinked at him. “Have I?”

“You have. Especially around her.”

There was no need to clarify who her was.

Hongjoong let out a faint, self-conscious laugh. “She’s easy to be around. That’s all.”

“Mm.” Yeosang’s tone was neutral, but his eyes—sharp and knowing—flicked sideways to study him. “Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Helping her. Getting involved.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, the soles of his shoes whispering against the pavement.

“I don’t regret helping her,” he said finally. “She’s happier now. More confident. That’s what she wanted.”

“But?” Yeosang prompted softly.

“But…” Hongjoong hesitated. “I didn’t think about what it would mean for me.”

Yeosang didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch between them.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Back at the apartment, Hongjoong shed his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. Yeosang disappeared into his room without another word, leaving Hongjoong standing in the dim kitchen, staring at nothing.

What am I even feeling?

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. Watching Y/N and San together didn’t make him angry or bitter—it just left this… hollow ache in his chest.

He liked seeing her happy. He liked seeing her confident. And yet, there had been a moment at the fair—when San had complimented her, when her face had lit up with that shy, radiant smile—where something had twisted deep in his stomach.

He’d told himself it was nothing. Just the natural protectiveness of a friend.

But was it?

Hongjoong’s fingers itched for his notebook. He grabbed it and a pencil, retreating to the small desk in his room.

The pencil hovered over the blank page for a long moment before he pressed it down.

A melody formed first—slow, gentle, bittersweet. The kind of tune that felt like it should be played in the quiet hours of the night when no one else was awake.

Lyrics followed in hesitant fragments.

I helped you reach for the sun.

Didn’t notice when I burned.

Smiles I gave you were safe once.

Now they hurt.

The words sat on the page like a confession he wasn’t ready to make—not even to himself.

Hongjoong set down his pencil and rubbed his eyes, letting out a long breath.

This is nothing. It has to be nothing.

But the song said otherwise.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The city streets were busy as usual, students weaving between cars and cyclists in the late afternoon rush. Y/N and Hongjoong walked side by side, their bags swinging gently as they chatted about possible “next moves” for Operation San.

��So you’re saying I should casually mention that I like hiking?” Y/N asked, raising a skeptical brow.

“Why not? You heard San talk about that trail near the lake last week,” Hongjoong said. “It’s an easy way to create a shared interest.”

“But I don’t actually like hiking.”

“Then fake it till you make it.”

She laughed, nudging his arm playfully. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m strategic,” he corrected, grinning faintly.

They were halfway across a crosswalk when a car horn blared, startling Y/N. She froze, just as a cyclist darted out from behind a turning car.

“Y/N—!”

A strong hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her firmly back onto the curb. She stumbled, colliding into Hongjoong’s chest as the cyclist zipped past with a curse.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, tight with concern, his hands steadying her at her shoulders.

Y/N’s heart thudded wildly—not just from the near miss. She could feel the warmth of his chest even through his jacket, could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne.

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He was close. Too close. His dark eyes searched hers for a moment longer before he seemed to realize it too and took a small step back, letting his hands fall.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to grab you so suddenly.”

“No, it’s okay. Thank you,” Y/N replied, hugging her bag strap to her chest to steady herself.

By the time they reached the café, her pulse had finally calmed. Mostly.

The little corner café was warm and cozy, ist windows fogged slightly from the spring chill outside. Hongjoong chose a table by the window while Y/N excused herself to the restroom.

When she returned, she froze in the doorway.

A girl stood by their table, effortlessly pretty with sleek hair and a confident smile. She leaned slightly on the edge of the table, her voice low and playful as she spoke to Hongjoong.

He was smiling back—not his polite smile, but the small, crooked one she’d started recognizing as genuine.

Y/N felt something twist unexpectedly in her stomach.

It wasn’t anger. Not really. But it was… something. A tightness in her chest that made her fingers clench around her bag strap.

She forced her feet to move.

“Hey,” she said lightly as she approached, her voice sounding too bright to her own ears.

Hongjoong’s head turned, his smile softening into the familiar one he always gave her. “Hey. All good?”

The girl glanced at Y/N, her gaze assessing before she gave Hongjoong a flirty little wave. “See you around, Joong.”

“Yeah. Take care,” he said easily, watching her leave without a flicker of lingering interest.

Y/N slid into her seat, forcing a smile. “Friend of yours?”

“Not really. We… used to hang out a bit. Nothing serious,” Hongjoong said with a small shrug, already turning his attention back to their menu.

“Oh,” Y/N said, trying to keep her tone neutral.

But her stomach still felt strange. She didn’t like how easily that girl had smiled at him—or how easily he’d smiled back.

As Hongjoong rattled off possible “conversation openers” for her to use with San, Y/N found her focus slipping.

She told herself it was nothing. Just surprise. She was used to seeing Hongjoong as her friend, her partner in this silly little mission. She’d never thought about him… like that.

And yet.

She brushed the thought away and forced herself to nod along.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Hongjoong observed gently. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking,” Y/N said with a small smile. “What were you saying about shared hobbies?”

But even as he started talking again, she felt that odd tightness in her chest linger.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The apartment was silent when Hongjoong returned, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. He slipped out of his jacket and let it hang limply on the back of a chair before making his way to his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone where her number still sat at the top of his recent calls.

Minseo.

She’d always been… easy. Easy to laugh with, easy to spend time with, easy to let things get messy without ever labeling them.

Before, he might’ve leaned into her smile when she’d stopped by the table. He might’ve let the familiarity pull him into another half-hearted round of whatever it was they’d had.

But today?

He hadn’t felt it.

He’d looked at her, at her perfectly styled hair and confident little smirk, and felt… nothing.

Except a flicker of irritation that her timing had been so inconvenient—coming in the middle of his afternoon with Y/N.

Y/N.

He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing.

She’d come back from the restroom just as Minseo had leaned in. Hongjoong remembered the brief flicker in her amber eyes—the way her smile had faltered for the tiniest second before she smoothed it over.

He wasn’t sure why that moment stuck in his chest like a thorn.

And then there was earlier—on the street.

The way she’d stumbled into him, her hands clutching his jacket like a lifeline, her face tilted up to his in surprise. For a heartbeat too long, he’d felt the soft warmth of her body pressed against his chest, her hair brushing his chin.

He’d stepped back quickly, almost too quickly.

Not because he was embarrassed. But because he was afraid of what might’ve happened if he didn’t.

When had this started?

When had Y/N stopped being just his friend? When had her laugh started lingering in his head long after they parted ways? When had her quiet determination—the way she’d bloomed over the past few weeks—started tugging at his heart?

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He’d promised himself this wouldn’t happen.

His guitar rested against the wall, a silent witness to his unease. He pulled it into his lap and let his fingers drift across the strings, coaxing out a soft melody.

Lyrics came unbidden, falling from his lips in a low murmur.

You’re not mine to hold.

But your laugh sounds like home.

And I don’t know when that changed.

He paused, staring down at his hands.

The pencil sat on his desk beside his notebook. He grabbed it before he could second-guess himself, scrawling the words down in messy, uneven handwriting.

You’re not mine to hold.

But your laugh sounds like home.

His chest ached.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Y/N stirred her tea absently, watching the steam curl into the air as Hana and Jisoo exchanged glances over their pastries.

“You’ve been… weird lately,” Hana said finally, her tone teasing but her eyes sharp.

“Weird how?” Y/N asked, feigning innocence.

“Weird like you’re lost in your own head every five minutes,” Jisoo said. “And don’t say you’re just tired. We know you.”

Y/N let out a long sigh and set her spoon down.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I am… a little confused.”

“About San?” Hana leaned forward eagerly.

“That’s the thing,” Y/N said, her fingers curling around her mug. “I thought I was focused on San. But now…” She trailed off, unsure how to put the tangle of feelings into words.

Her mind replayed the scene from the other day—the way Hongjoong’s arm had pulled her back onto the curb, the feel of his hands steadying her, his voice low and tight with concern.

And then later, in the café, watching Minseo laugh easily with him, her hand brushing his arm. That strange pang in her chest still confused her.

She shook her head. “It’s stupid. I think I was… jealous? But I don’t know why.”

Hana and Jisoo exchanged another look.

“Y/N,” Jisoo said carefully. “Are you sure it’s just San?”

“Yes! I mean—I’ve liked San for ages. Everyone knows that.”

“Sure,” Hana said lightly. “But crushes can fade. Especially when there’s someone else making you feel seen.”

“It’s not like that with Hongjoong,” Y/N insisted quickly. “We’re just… friends.”

“Friends don’t always make your heart race when they catch you,” Hana pointed out with a little smirk.

“Or make you jealous when they talk to someone else,” Jisoo added.

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“We’re not. We’re just asking,” Hana said softly. “Do you really like San? Or was it just easy to think you did?”

That question settled like a stone in Y/N’s stomach.

She did like San… didn’t she? She still felt nervous around him, still wanted his attention. But lately, those feelings seemed quieter, less sharp.

And then there was Hongjoong.

His steady patience. His crooked little smiles. The way he’d been her anchor through all of this.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted in a small voice. “I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

“Then figure it out before someone gets hurt,” Jisoo said gently.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The park was alive with the sound of laughter and spring birdsong as the group settled onto picnic blankets under a sprawling oak. Wooyoung had brought an absurd amount of snacks, and Jongho was already arguing with Hana about the “proper” way to make s’mores.

Y/N sat cross-legged beside San, their knees almost brushing as he animatedly described his plans for a summer hiking trip. She smiled and nodded, letting him talk, but inside… something felt off.

She should have felt the familiar thrill. The heart-fluttering excitement she’d carried for so long. But instead, her thoughts kept drifting elsewhere—to quiet late-night chats over tea, to the sound of soft laughter in a small apartment, to dark eyes watching her with patient focus.

To Hongjoong.

Across the blanket, Hongjoong leaned back on his hands, his gaze fixed on the blue sky above as he forced himself not to watch them.

But he was failing.

Every time San’s grin widened at something Y/N said, every time she laughed and tilted her head that certain way—it twisted something sharp in Hongjoong’s chest.

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

He was the one who’d encouraged her, coached her, watched her bloom. He should feel proud.

So why did it feel like he was unraveling?

“Joong.”

Hongjoong blinked as Mingi dropped down beside him, offering a bottle of water.

“You okay? You’ve been zoning out a lot today.”

“Just tired,” Hongjoong murmured, forcing a smile.

But his eyes betrayed him, flicking back—again—to where Y/N was now laughing at a joke San whispered in her ear.

Mingi followed his gaze, his grin faltering slightly.

Later, when the group packed up and started heading back to campus in clusters, Yeosang hung back with Hongjoong.

“You’re quiet,” Yeosang said.

“I’m fine.”

“Joong.”

The weight in Yeosang’s voice made him stop walking.

“I warned you,” Yeosang said softly. “You’re in deep now. And it’s written all over your face.”

Hongjoong let out a quiet, humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Yeosang’s expression softened slightly. “But what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Hongjoong admitted. “She still likes San.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Hongjoong’s brows furrowed. His gaze drifted back to where Y/N walked ahead with Hana and Jisoo, her laugh ringing out.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Hongjoong’s apartment smelled faintly of chamomile tea and clean linen. Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, cradling a mug as Hongjoong moved around the kitchenette, wiping down the counter with practiced ease.

“You keep this place way too clean for a college guy,” she teased.

“Genius thrives in order,” he replied with a faint grin, tossing her a glance over his shoulder.

The words sat heavy on her tongue, but she let them out anyway.

“So… I’m going on a hike with San this weekend.”

Hongjoong’s hands stilled on the dish towel.

“Oh.”

She smiled nervously. “Yeah. He invited me when we were walking back from the picnic. I figured… it’s a good chance to hang out one-on-one, right?”

“Right.” He forced a smile—tight around the edges, but she didn’t seem to notice. “That’s great, Y/N. Sounds like progress.”

“Thanks. I mean, I’m nervous, but… it feels like a step forward.”

“Yeah.” He turned back to the counter, scrubbing at an already clean spot as something twisted deep in his chest.

In his head, Hongjoong wanted to say so many things.

Don’t go.

He doesn’t see you the way I do.

What if he breaks your heart?

But all he said was, “You’ll do fine. Just be yourself.”

After dinner, Y/N stood and stretched. “You cooked, so I’m cleaning. Fair’s fair.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shh.” She shoved him lightly toward the table. “Sit. You’re my guest in your own kitchen.”

He laughed despite himself and leaned back against the counter, watching as she rolled up her sleeves and started rinsing dishes.

“Move over,” he said after a moment, stepping beside her. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“Excuse me?” she said with mock offense. “I’ve been washing dishes since I was twelve.”

He reached around her to grab a plate, their shoulders brushing.

“You still missed a spot.”

“Liar.” She bumped his hip with hers, and he chuckled softly.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, hands moving in easy rhythm. The small kitchen felt impossibly warm—the hum of running water, the clink of dishes, the quiet closeness of two people standing just a little too close.

At one point, their fingers brushed when she handed him a glass.

Neither of them pulled away immediately.

Y/N felt a strange jolt—tiny, almost imperceptible, but there. She glanced up at him, catching the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones under the soft overhead light.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

His eyes flicked to hers for half a second before he forced a small smile. “Anytime.”

But inside, Hongjoong felt like he was splintering.

She was so close, and all he could think about was how easily she fit into this quiet space with him. How much he didn’t want her to go on that hike.

But he said nothing.

Because he wasn’t hers to say it to.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The trail wound gently uphill, dappled sunlight filtering through budding spring leaves. Birds chirped overhead, and somewhere nearby a creek gurgled over stones.

It was the perfect day for a hike.

So why did Y/N’s chest feel tight?

“This was a great idea,” San said cheerfully, adjusting the straps of his backpack. He glanced back at her with that easy, sunlit grin. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Yeah, of course,” Y/N replied, forcing a smile as she stepped over a root.

She should’ve been thrilled.

She’d imagined this exact scenario countless times—her and San alone, sharing inside jokes and maybe, just maybe, him realizing he liked her back.

But now?

Her heart wasn’t racing. Her stomach wasn’t twisting in nervous excitement.

Instead, there was just… quiet.

“Are you okay?” San asked after a while, his tone softer now.

“Huh?” Y/N blinked up at him.

“You’ve been really quiet since we started. Not your usual bubbly self,” he said with a small, concerned smile. “If you’re tired, we can take a break.”

“No, it’s not that,” she said quickly.

“Then what is it?”

She hesitated, her boots scuffing against the gravel path.

How could she explain? That she’d spent so long believing her feelings for him were everything—real, deep, unshakable—only to realize, here and now, that they weren’t?

It wasn’t that she didn’t like San. He was wonderful—funny, kind, easy to be around. But… that was it.

Just easy.

No thrill. No butterflies. No heat rushing to her cheeks.

She felt more nervous handing Hongjoong a clean dish than she did standing here with San.

“I think…” Y/N started, chewing on her bottom lip. “I think I’ve been… distracted lately.”

“By school stuff?” San asked gently.

“Something like that.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

That simple kindness only made her chest ache more.

The rest of the hike passed in easy conversation—about classes, upcoming summer plans, nothing heavy. And Y/N realized, with a strange mixture of sadness and relief, that she was comfortable with San.

But not in love with him.

As they reached the trailhead and San held back a branch for her to pass, he smiled again.

“I’m glad we did this,” he said.

“Me too,” Y/N said softly. And she meant it. Just… not in the way she thought she would.

They found a bench near the trailhead, nestled under a cluster of maples where the breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers.

San stretched his legs out, tipping his head back to soak in the sun. “Feels good to stop for a second.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said softly, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

She could feel the words bubbling up inside her, threatening to spill over. Maybe it was the quiet, maybe it was San’s kind eyes—or maybe she was just tired of carrying it alone.

“San?”

“Hmm?” He turned to her, his easy smile fading slightly at her serious tone.

“There’s… something I need to tell you.”

She took a deep breath.

“I… used to have a crush on you.”

San blinked. “You—what?”

“For a long time,” she admitted, staring down at her hands. “Since freshman year. But I never said anything because I thought… I thought someone like you wouldn’t ever see me that way.”

“Y/N…” San’s voice was quiet, surprised but gentle.

“And then Hongjoong started helping me. He overheard me talking about it once, and he offered to give me advice. How to be more confident, how to get your attention. That’s why I’ve been… acting different, I guess.”

San was silent for a moment, his brows furrowed slightly in thought.

“I had no idea,” he said finally. “But… I’m flattered. Really. You’re amazing, Y/N. Anyone would be lucky to have you like them.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “Thanks. But that’s the thing… I don’t think I like you like that anymore.”

San tilted his head. “No?”

“I thought I did. For years, I was so sure. But today… it just felt different. Like… you’re still amazing, but not in a way that makes my heart race anymore.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “And I think… I think I might have feelings for Hongjoong now.”

San’s eyes widened slightly, then softened as a small grin tugged at his lips.

“Wow,” he said. “So my wingman stole your heart, huh?”

Y/N covered her face with her hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen!”

“Hey, hey.” San gently tugged her hands down. “Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault how your heart feels. And honestly… Joong’s a great guy.”

Y/N blinked at him. “You’re not… upset?”

“Why would I be upset?” San asked with a laugh. “You’re my friend, Y/N. And I want you to be happy. Whether that’s with me or with Joong—or with neither of us.”

Before she could respond, he pulled her into a hug.

It was warm and comforting, the kind of hug that felt like safety—not butterflies.

“You’re braver than you think, you know that?” San murmured.

“Not really,” she said against his shoulder.

“Really,” he insisted. “And I’m proud of you.”

When they pulled back, Y/N felt lighter somehow. Like a weight she hadn’t even noticed was gone.

“Thanks, San,” she said softly.

“Anytime,” he replied with that familiar grin. “Now, are you ready for snacks? I’m starving.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Hongjoong sat on his couch, fingers idly strumming his acoustic guitar. The same four chords repeated over and over, their sound hollow in the quiet apartment.

He couldn’t seem to finish the song.

Couldn’t seem to finish anything lately.

The knock on his door startled him.

“Hyung? You home?” It was Wooyoung’s voice, followed by a chorus of familiar ones.

“Yeah. Door’s open,” he called.

The guys filed in—Wooyoung, Yeosang, San, Mingi, and Seonghwa—bringing with them the smell of takeout and the comforting buzz of easy camaraderie.

“You’re too quiet these days,” Mingi said as he dropped onto the couch opposite him. “Weirdly quiet. That’s saying something for you.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Hongjoong said lightly, setting his guitar aside.

“Liar,” Wooyoung said with a grin, but his eyes softened.

Yeosang crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been in your head for weeks now. Want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine,” Hongjoong insisted again.

But his words lacked conviction, and they all knew it.

San, perched on the arm of the couch, tilted his head. “This about Y/N?”

Hongjoong froze.

San’s expression was unreadable—neither accusatory nor teasing, just calm. “I know you’ve been helping her a lot lately. She mentioned it once.”

Hongjoong swallowed. “How was your hike?”

San’s brows furrowed slightly. “It wasn’t a date, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t—”

San’s voice softened. “Joong. Are you… jealous?”

The word landed like a stone in Hongjoong’s chest.

He stared at his hands for a long moment, then let out a slow breath.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I think I am.”

The room fell silent.

Yeosang was the first to speak. “So you like her.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Hongjoong said, his voice tight. “I was just trying to help her. She liked someone else, and I thought… I thought I could handle being the guy on the sidelines.”

His laugh was quiet and humorless. “But somewhere along the way, I fell for her. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“Does she know?” Seonghwa asked gently.

Hongjoong shook his head. “She still likes… someone else. I can’t put this on her. It wouldn’t be fair.”

San’s eyes softened. “Joong, you’re not as invisible to her as you think.”

Hongjoong looked up, startled.

But San didn’t elaborate. He just gave him a small, knowing smile.

Wooyoung nudged his shoulder. “So what’s the plan? You can’t just sit here and mope forever.”

“I don’t know,” Hongjoong said honestly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I just… let her be happy.”

Yeosang sighed, his expression as calm as ever. “Or maybe you finally let her see you.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer.

But the thought lodged itself deep in his chest.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Okay,” Hana said, dropping her smoothie onto the table with a thud. “We need to talk about you.”

Y/N blinked from across the café table. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Jisoo said, arching a brow. “You’ve been walking around like a romcom protagonist in denial for weeks. Spill.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Why are you two like this?”

“Because we care.” Hana leaned forward, her grin softening. “Come on. Tell us what’s going on.”

“I…” Y/N hesitated, her fingers twisting in her hoodie sleeves. “I think I might like Hongjoong.”

The words felt strange—like they’d been lodged in her chest for so long that finally saying them out loud left her breathless.

Hana’s grin widened. “Knew it.”

Jisoo sipped her drink with a little smirk. “Called it weeks ago.”

“What? No, you didn’t—”

“Y/N,” Hana said gently. “We’ve been watching you. The way you light up when you get a text from him, how you talk about him like he hung the moon. It’s not subtle.”

Y/N let out a small, nervous laugh. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was so focused on San for so long. And then Joong was just… there. Helping me. Listening to me. Making me feel… I don’t know. Like I could be more than just the shy girl on the edge of the group.”

She remembered the warmth of his hands steadying her on the street, the soft sound of his laugh when she bumped his hip in the kitchen, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her.

And then there was the pang in her chest when she saw Minseo leaning close to him in the café.

“That day… when I saw him with Minseo. I felt jealous, and I didn’t understand why.”

“Because you like him,” Jisoo said simply.

“But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s just… gratitude? Or me clinging to him because he was there when I felt invisible?”

“Y/N.” Hana reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You know your heart better than anyone. So tell me—when you think about him, when you’re with him, does it feel… different?”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again.

It did.

With Hongjoong, she didn’t feel the pressure to perform, to be witty or charming. She just felt safe. Seen.

And maybe that was scarier than butterflies.

“I think I’m in trouble,” Y/N whispered.

“No, honey.” Jisoo gave her a soft smile. “I think you’re finally figuring it out.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The dorm was packed, music thumping faintly through the walls as clusters of students gathered around card games, snacks, and mismatched couches.

Y/N hovered near the kitchen counter with Hana and Jisoo, sipping cautiously at a fruity cocktail.

She told herself she wasn’t looking for him.

But her eyes found him anyway.

Hongjoong stood across the room, chatting with a girl Y/N vaguely recognized from his music program. She was gorgeous—long hair that framed her face perfectly, laughing easily at something he said.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew Hongjoong could talk to whoever he wanted. She wasn’t even sure what they were to each other.

But that didn’t stop the little sting when the girl touched his arm, her smile warm and bright.

“You good?” Jisoo asked, eyeing her over the rim of her cup.

“Yeah,” Y/N said quickly. “Fine.”

She wasn’t fine.

She was sipping her drink faster than she should have been, hoping the sweet burn would quiet the restless ache in her chest.

Hongjoong leaned against the doorframe, nodding politely as the girl from his composition class told him about her latest project.

But his attention kept drifting.

To Y/N.

He could see her across the room, laughing too loudly at something Wooyoung said, her cheeks flushed from more than just the alcohol.

Something was off.

Her usual soft smiles were brighter, sharper now—like she was trying too hard.

And when her gaze flicked toward him and the girl he was talking to, there was a flash of something in her amber eyes that made his chest tighten.

“Joong?” Mingi’s voice pulled him back.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been staring,” Mingi said gently.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Yeosang cut in from nearby, his tone quiet but firm.

Hongjoong’s jaw tensed. “She’s drinking more than usual. I’m just… making sure she’s okay.”

“Uh huh,” Wooyoung said with a knowing smirk.

Across the room, Y/N was laughing again, her head tipped back as Hana tried to pry the cup from her hand.

Hongjoong’s fingers twitched at his side.

“She’s fine,” San said gently, following his gaze. “But maybe you should check on her anyway. Just in case.”

Hongjoong let out a slow breath. He didn’t want to read too much into her flushed cheeks or glassy eyes.

But something in his gut told him this wasn’t just the alcohol.

And as much as he wanted to keep his distance, his feet were already moving.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The music had shifted into something bass-heavy, the lights dimmer now as the crowd in Hana and Jisoo’s dorm seemed to swell.

Y/N leaned against the kitchen counter, another drink in hand as she laughed at something a guy from their computer science program said.

She didn’t even know his name.

But he was funny enough, charming enough—and more importantly, he wasn’t standing across the room talking to some impossibly pretty music major.

You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. This isn’t about Joong. This is about you having fun. That’s all.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

From his spot by the couch, Hongjoong watched Y/N laugh, her hand brushing her hair behind her ear in a way he’d never seen her do before.

She was tipsy—he could tell by the flush in her cheeks and the slightly-too-loud pitch of her voice. But what confused him more was the guy she was talking to.

It wasn’t San.

And yet here she was, smiling and leaning in just slightly as the guy said something that made her laugh again.

Hongjoong’s chest tightened.

He told himself it was because she was drinking too much, because he was worried she’d regret this tomorrow.

But deep down, he knew it was something else.

“She’s not like that,” he murmured under his breath.

“Like what?” Yeosang asked, suddenly at his side.

Hongjoong shook his head. “Never mind.”

Yeosang followed his gaze, then sighed. “You’re not subtle, Joong.”

As the guy leaned closer to whisper something in Y/N’s ear, Hongjoong’s hands clenched at his sides.

She wouldn’t…

But then she laughed again—soft, tipsy, a little wobbly on her feet as she turned toward the counter to set her drink down.

And her heel caught the edge of the rug.

“Y/N—”

She stumbled, her hand flailing for balance, but before the guy could catch her, Hongjoong was there.

His arm wrapped around her waist as he steadied her, the faint scent of her shampoo hitting him like a punch to the chest.

“Careful,” he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

Y/N blinked up at him, her amber eyes wide and glassy. “Joong?”

“You okay?” he asked, still holding her steady.

She nodded, but her hand was still gripping his sleeve.

Behind them, the guy from earlier frowned slightly before slinking back into the crowd.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Come on,” he murmured to Y/N. “Let’s get you some air.”

As he guided her gently through the throng of people toward the balcony, his thoughts churned.

Why wasn’t it San? Why him? Why does it matter so damn much?

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Hana watched from the edge of the room, her arms folded as her gaze flicked between Y/N and Hongjoong.

“Do you see this?” she muttered to Jisoo, who was perched on the arm of the couch nursing a soda.

“Oh, I see it,” Jisoo replied, eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on prey. “It’s hard to miss.”

Across the room, Hongjoong had just caught Y/N as she stumbled, his arm steadying her with surprising ease.

The way his hand lingered at her waist, the way he leaned down to speak lowly into her ear—it wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, but whatever he said made Y/N nod with a faint, almost shy expression.

“They’ve got it bad,” Wooyoung said under his breath, appearing at Hana’s side with a plate of chips.

“You think?” Hana asked.

Wooyoung gave her a flat look. “Uh, yeah. Joong hasn’t taken his eyes off her all night. And Y/N… well, let’s just say she’s been pretending to be into random computer science dude, but we all know who she’s really thinking about.”

Yeosang, standing quietly nearby, let out a soft sigh.

“They’re both idiots,” he said calmly. “But it’s not my mess to clean up.”

“Agreed,” Jisoo said, though her eyes softened slightly.

San had been watching too, his expression unreadable as Hongjoong guided Y/N gently toward the balcony door.

He’d noticed the way Hongjoong’s jaw had tightened earlier, the flicker of emotion in his eyes every time Y/N laughed a little too loudly with someone else.

Now, seeing them slip outside together, San couldn’t help but smile faintly to himself.

“She’s not as invisible as she thinks,” he murmured.

“You think he’ll finally tell her?” Mingi asked, flopping down onto a beanbag nearby.

“Not tonight,” Yeosang replied. “But he’s getting close.”

“And Y/N?” Hana asked.

“She already knows,” Jisoo said with a smirk. “She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, their gazes lingering on the balcony door.

Through the glass, they could just barely make out Hongjoong’s figure, standing close to Y/N as she leaned against the railing, her hair catching the light.

They weren’t touching anymore. But the air between them seemed charged even from here.

“They’re gonna ruin me with this slow-burn shit,” Wooyoung muttered.

Hana snorted. “Same.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The cool night air hit them as soon as Hongjoong eased the balcony door shut behind them.

“Here,” he said softly, guiding Y/N to the railing. “Breathe. You needed some air.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice wavered slightly.

“Sure you are.” He leaned against the railing beside her, keeping a careful distance. She was flushed from the alcohol, her hair slightly mussed, and her amber eyes glinted faintly in the dim light.

She looked beautiful.

And that was the problem.

For a moment, the only sound was the muffled bass from inside and the faint rustle of leaves below.

Then Y/N spoke, her words tumbling out in a rush.

“You know… I went on that hike with San.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I thought it would be… everything I wanted.” She let out a soft laugh, breath misting in the chill. “But it wasn’t. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Like hanging out with a brother or something.”

Hongjoong swallowed hard. “So… you don’t like him anymore?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t. Not like that.”

His fingers curled tightly against the railing, knuckles white.

“And now,” Y/N continued, her voice dropping slightly, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She bit her lip, her eyes glassy. “Because I hate seeing you with other girls.”

Hongjoong froze.

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless.

“You hate it?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her hand moving almost of ist own accord to rest lightly on his cheek.

Hongjoong’s breath caught. Her palm was warm against his skin, her thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone.

“I feel… like myself when I’m with you,” she said, her voice soft and almost breaking. “And it scares me.”

His heart was pounding so loud he was sure she could hear it.

This was everything he’d wanted to hear—everything he’d told himself he couldn’t hope for.

But she was drunk.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

“Y/N…” His voice was rough, strained.

But before he could say more, she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into his chest. “I don’t even know why I’m saying this.”

He held her carefully, like she might break, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered back.

Her breathing slowed, her weight going slack in his arms.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

She’d fallen asleep.

Hongjoong stared down at her, his heart aching so badly it felt like it might split open.

He should pull away. He should wake her. He should do something—anything—other than stand there holding her like she was his.

But for just one moment, he let himself stay.

Through the glass door, he saw the faint silhouettes of their friends watching from the living room. Yeosang’s knowing gaze met his for a brief second before turning away.

Hongjoong sighed, tightening his hold on Y/N.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered into her hair.

And he meant it.

The night was still as Hongjoong pushed open his apartment door, adjusting his grip on Y/N.

She stirred faintly against his chest but didn’t wake.

His fingers tightened slightly on the hem of her jacket as he carried her to the couch.

Five minutes, he reminded himself. It’s only five minutes away. She needed to get out of that party.

Once she was settled on the couch, he grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and draped it carefully over her.

She looked peaceful like this, her breathing slow, lashes fluttering faintly in sleep.

It made his chest ache.

He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, then forced himself to step back.

Don’t make this harder than it already is.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

But hours later, the faint rustle of movement woke him.

Hongjoong sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes as he heard soft footsteps in the living room.

He grabbed a glass from the kitchen, filling it with water before padding quietly toward the sound—barefoot, dressed only in his boxers.

Y/N sat on the edge of the couch, her fingers twisted in the blanket around her shoulders. She looked up as he crouched down in front of her, holding out the glass.

“You’re awake,” he said softly.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Her breath caught in her throat.

Hongjoong’s hair was mussed from sleep, his dark eyes soft in the dim light as he crouched there—close enough she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the line of his collarbones, the way his skin looked warm and golden in the shadows.

And he was only wearing boxers.

Her heart stuttered wildly in her chest.

“Here. You need water,” he murmured.

She took the glass, her fingers brushing his as she whispered, “Why am I here?”

“You were falling asleep at the party. It was loud, crowded… I didn’t want to leave you there.”

“Oh.”

Memories began trickling back—the hike, the party, the balcony…

Her own words.

“I hate seeing you with other girls.”

“I feel like myself when I’m with you.”

The way her hand had cupped his cheek.

A hot wave of embarrassment rolled through her.

“Joong?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Yeah?” His gaze searched hers, gentle and patient.

“Do you… hate me now?”

His brows furrowed, and for a moment there was only silence between them, heavy and thick.

“Hate you?” he echoed softly, almost in disbelief.

Hongjoong’s thumb brushed over her cheekbone, soft and tentative. His dark eyes searched hers like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“I could never hate you, Y/N,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not now. Not ever.”

The warmth of his fingers lingered against her skin even as he started to pull his hand back, the air between them shifting—heavy, charged, fragile.

But Y/N, heart pounding in her chest, caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pull away from me.”

“Y/N—”

“I like you.” The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and unguarded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I thought I liked San, but it’s you. It’s been you for a while now.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, his gaze locked on hers.

And in that stillness—his fingers warm against her face, the faint scent of him filling her head—Y/N felt herself leaning forward.

She kissed him softly, hesitantly, her lips barely brushing his.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Panic surged in her chest. She pulled back, her hands trembling.

“ I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But before she could finish, Hongjoong’s hands cupped her face and pulled her back to him.

And this time, he kissed her.

Harder. Desperate. Like he’d been holding himself back for too long and finally—finally—let go.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as his thumbs stroked her cheeks, grounding her even as her heart raced wildly.

She barely had time to breathe before he kissed her again. And again.

Short, messy kisses between whispered apologies and soft laughs—both of them trembling, both of them clinging to each other like they were afraid it might all disappear.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” Hongjoong murmured against her lips, his voice rough and low.

“Why?” she whispered back.

“Because I can’t stop.”

She laughed shakily, her forehead resting against his.

“Then don’t.”

And he didn’t.

Hongjoong kissed her like he was trying to memorize her.

Soft at first—his lips moving gently, carefully—but when Y/N’s hands slid up his bare chest, brushing over warm skin and the hard lines of his shoulders, something in him broke.

His fingers tangled in her hair as he kissed her harder, deeper.

She let out a shaky breath when his hand traced down her side, lingering at the hem of her shirt.

“Joong…” she whispered.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and rough.

“I don’t want you to.”

His eyes met hers for a brief, charged second—searching for hesitation. There was none.

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, palms gliding over her warm skin as he pulled her shirt up and off.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed hot as his eyes roamed over her, his hands following as though he was trying to learn her body by touch alone.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

She tugged gently at his waistband, her fingers brushing the line of his hip. He shivered slightly under her touch.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked just a little, his forehead pressing to hers.

Clothes were discarded slowly, deliberately—not rushed. Every new patch of exposed skin felt like a revelation, like trust laid bare.

When she tugged him down with her onto the couch cushions, he went willingly, his body warm and solid against hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even as his thumb stroked her jaw.

“I’ve never been more sure,” she whispered.

His hands roamed reverently, mapping every curve, every soft sigh he coaxed from her lips. When his mouth followed—kissing down her neck, across her collarbones—her fingers fisted in his hair.

Her own hands explored in return—the broadness of his back, the dip of his waist, the flex of muscle beneath smooth skin. She’d never let herself imagine this before, and now she couldn’t stop.

The first time he pushed into her was slow, careful.

Their eyes met—hers wide, his dark with restraint—and he kissed her cheek, her jaw, her lips, whispering her name like a vow.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered back.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried.

It was slow. Gentle. Like they were both finally letting themselves have what they’d wanted all along.

Every movement felt deliberate, every kiss unhurried—like they had all the time in the world.

When they finally collapsed together, breathless and warm under the blanket he’d grabbed earlier, Hongjoong pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“I shouldn’t have waited this long,” he whispered.

She smiled sleepily against his chest. “We didn’t wait. We just… took our time.”

His arms tightened around her, and for the first time in months, his heart didn’t ache.

Because she was here.

And she was his.

The blanket was warm around them, but not as warm as his arms.

Y/N let out a soft sigh as Hongjoong adjusted his hold, tucking her closer against his chest. Their legs were tangled, skin against skin, the weight of his hand resting gently on her hip.

For the first time all night, the room was quiet—no rushed breathing, no whispered names—just the sound of their hearts settling into the same slow rhythm.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” Y/N murmured sleepily, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his ribs.

“Neither did I,” Hongjoong said softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “But I wanted it to.”

She pulled back slightly to look up at him, her amber eyes still glassy with exhaustion and emotion. “Since when?”

He hesitated for only a second.

“A while now,” he admitted. “I kept telling myself I was just helping you. That I could be happy watching you fall for someone else.”

His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her flushed skin.

“But then I realized… I wasn’t helping because you liked San. I was helping because I liked you.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered at his words, and she felt her throat tighten.

“I’m so glad you’re an awful wingman,” she whispered with a watery laugh.

Hongjoong chuckled softly, his nose brushing hers. “Me too.”

They didn’t speak after that, content to simply exist in the quiet together. His fingers traced light, aimless shapes along her back, and she nestled against him, her ear over his heartbeat.

The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was his lips pressing gently to her temple.

When morning came, they were still there—wrapped in the blanket, naked and tangled on the couch, limbs knotted like they belonged there.

For the first time in months, Hongjoong slept peacefully.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Okay, but what if she’s not okay?” Hana whispered as she fumbled with the spare key Hongjoong had given her months ago “just in case.”

“She’s fine,” Yeosang said calmly, standing with his hands in his pockets.

“Are we sure?” Jisoo asked nervously.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “But I do know I’m about to get the tea of the century.”

San rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Maybe we shouldn’t just… barge in.”

But it was too late. Hana had already unlocked the door.

The group filed in, quiet at first.

“Joong?” Hana called softly.

No answer.

“Y/N?”

Still nothing.

Then they saw it.

On the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, lay Y/N and Hongjoong.

Naked.

Very obviously naked.

Hongjoong’s arm was slung protectively over Y/N’s waist, his face buried in her hair. Y/N was curled into his chest, one leg tangled lazily over his.

Hana slapped a hand over her mouth.

Jisoo’s eyes went comically wide.

Yeosang let out the longest, most resigned sigh of his life.

“Called it,” Wooyoung whisper-shouted gleefully.

San turned on his heel so fast he nearly ran into the doorframe. “Nope. I’m not seeing this. I’m not.”

Hongjoong stirred at the noise, blinking groggily.

“Wha—” His voice was thick with sleep as his eyes adjusted. Then they widened in horror.

“OH MY GOD,” Y/N squeaked, clutching the blanket tighter around her chest as she sat up too quickly, nearly toppling off the couch.

The blanket slipped dangerously low, but Hongjoong yanked it back up with lightning reflexes, his face flushing scarlet.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?!” he barked, his voice cracking embarrassingly at the end.

Wooyoung doubled over, wheezing. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is the BEST thing I’ve ever walked in on.”

“Out. Now.” Hongjoong’s voice was sharp, his ears flaming red as he clutched the blanket tighter around Y/N.

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” San said quickly, still facing the door as he waved a hand over his eyes.

Hana was still frozen in place, Jisoo tugging her arm to retreat.

Yeosang, ever calm, glanced over his shoulder as the group shuffled out.

“Congrats,” he said dryly. “Took you two long enough.”

As the door finally slammed shut, Y/N buried her burning face in her hands.

“Oh my God. I’m never going to live this down,” she groaned.

Hongjoong dropped his forehead against her shoulder with a laugh—half mortified, half hysterical.

“Same.”

But even as his laughter subsided, his arms didn’t move from around her.

And somehow, despite the embarrassment, Y/N felt… okay.

Because for once, everyone knew.

And she didn’t have to hide anymore.

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