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gnabrevol · 6 days ago

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　　　ᯓ. . . 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃

ᯓ. . . PAIRING: bang chan x f!reader

ᯓ. . . GENRE: futuristic x paranormal au, smut, fluff

ᯓ. . . WORD COUNT: 14.2k

ᯓ. . . SUMMARY: Y/n, a 27-year-old woman from the future, suddenly finds herself mysteriously transported back to 2012 Korea — but you keep your memories and age intact. Living with a high-class single mother and one son, you navigates the challenges of a time you don't fully understand.

Strange portals scattered around the town allow limited time travel to a nearby city only a few years ahead, where people strangely recognise you as the time traveler — even though she has no memory of ever being there. As you help the mother, a scholar working to close these portals, you struggle with the desire to return to your own time.

When all portals are sealed except one in a mysterious public bathhouse, Y/n must choose: stay with the family that helped you fix the portals or take a leap back to 2030’s futuristic Seoul.

ᯓ. . . NOTE :: 18+ minors dni. the characters don't represent real people. this is fiction for entertainment purposes only. don't edit, copy, repost or otherwise steal my conten

The first thing you notice is the silence.

Not the comforting kind—the kind that usually wraps around you like a blanket at night. No. This one is dry, buzzing, and oddly empty. The air smells like warm concrete and rain that hasn’t fallen yet. There are no notifications vibrating in your pocket, no whirring of e-scooters zooming past. Just the faint hum of a boxy television from a nearby window and the crackling of a broken streetlamp.

You blink against the sunlight. The pavement beneath your sneakers feels real—too real. Familiar, yet off. You're standing in the middle of a narrow alleyway in Seoul, but it's not your Seoul.

Not your Seoul.

There are no glossy skyscrapers with curved glass facades. No AI-lit billboards flashing your name after scanning your face. No electric taxis weaving soundlessly between lanes.

Just telephone poles. Wires. And a kid on a rusted bike giving you a weird look.

You check your phone, instinctively. Dead. No signal. The date reads: April 15, 2012.

Panic should rise in your throat. It doesn't. You’re too stunned. You stare at the phone for another second, as if numbers might rearrange themselves. But they don’t.

“What the hell…”

You mutter it under your breath. And someone hears.

A middle-aged woman with a perm and a floral apron pokes her head out of a convenience store. “Hey!” she barks in Korean. “No loitering here!”

Your Korean’s rusty, but understandable. You bow quickly and shuffle away, heat crawling up your neck.

As you wander the unfamiliar streets, everything screams past. The phones, the clothes, the cars—everything is a version behind. Even the air feels slower. No hyperconnection. No eyes glued to screens. People actually talking on the bus stops. It’s eerie, like walking through a memory that isn’t yours.

You don’t even realize your feet have stopped moving until you’re staring at a tiny park bench in the shade of an old ginkgo tree. You sit, finally breathing. Your hands are trembling.

You’re in Seoul.

But not your Seoul.

Not 2030. Not electric skylines or holographic K-pop concerts. Not automated cafés or city-wide facial ID.

You're in the Seoul of plastic flip phones. Of bubble tea still being a trend. Of idols still carrying MP3 players and wearing beanies like they’re sacred.

You’re in 2012.

And as the sun dips just slightly behind a dusty apartment complex, you realize one terrifying truth:

You don’t know how you got here. And you don’t know how to go back.

You sit frozen under the shade of the ginkgo tree, arms wrapped around yourself even though it's not cold. Seoul hums around you, alive and distant, like a radio playing in the next room.

Is this a prank? A coma dream? A very elaborate VR simulation?

You pinch your arm. Hard. Nothing changes.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t panic.”

But your voice wobbles. Because this isn’t some immersive exhibit or temporary glitch. You’ve touched the pavement. You’ve heard the tinny ringtone from someone’s flip phone. You’ve seen a kid use cash. Actual paper cash.

You rummage through your backpack, breath catching in your throat. Dead phone. No ID that makes sense in this decade. A power bank—useless. A MetroCard that won’t exist for another eight years.

No one. No idea. No clue.

Why am I here?

Your brain scrambles for logic. You weren’t near any weird tech. No portals. No power outages. Just… your bedroom. A late assignment. A blackout nap.

And now, this.

A harsh wind pulls your hoodie tighter against your arms. You look around. No signs. No explanations. Only a fading poster on a brick wall that reads:

"Big Bang Comeback – ALIVE Tour, 2012"

You laugh, but it’s not funny.

You rise, your legs shaky. A few teenagers in school uniforms pass by, giggling, one of them holding a CD. A CD. You glance at them, wonder if you should ask for help, but… how do you even begin to explain this?

Hi, I think I fell through time, can I borrow your landline?

No.

You walk. Nowhere in particular. Just enough to feel like you're doing something. The buildings blur together, all low and muted and gray, a palette from a forgotten era. You keep expecting a touchscreen bus stop or a vending machine that sells airpods. But you get rusted bicycle racks. Payphones. CRT TVs through windows.

When you finally stop again, you’re near a small convenience store. Your stomach growls. Right. Food. Survival. Time-travel logistics can wait—you’re starving.

You step inside, cautious.

It smells like instant noodles and dust. The ahjumma behind the counter eyes you, suspicious. They probably don't see foreigner around in 2012.

You grab a triangle kimbap with trembling fingers and offer a nervous smile. “Uh… How much.. How much is this?”

She grunts. “800won.”

You fumble for coins. You only have 2030 credits on your smart wallet. Useless.

She glares. “No money?”

Your stomach drops. “I… I’ll come back,” you mumble, backing away, humiliation burning up your spine.

You barely make it outside before your legs give out and you sit on the curb.

Tears prick your eyes, and you wipe them away furiously. You're not someone who cries. You’re practical. Rational. Strong.

But this—this is insane.

You’re in the wrong year, wrong place, wrong life.

And you don’t know if there’s a way back.

That’s when a voice speaks. Low, hesitant. “You okay?”

You glance up, startled.

It’s a boy. Around 15 years old—or maybe younger. Baggy black hoodie, messy dark hair tucked under a snapback. He squints at you, unsure whether to help or walk away.

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at him, wide-eyed, your lips parted in disbelief.

He kneels down, more concerned now. “Hey… do you need help?”

You nod slowly.

But not because you understand anything that’s happening. Not because you know what to ask for. Just because the boy’s voice is the first drop of something calm in the storm still swirling behind your ribs.

“I don’t really know where I am,” you admit, voice fragile and barely above a whisper.

He hesitates for only a second before extending his hand.

“I’m Chan,” he says. “Come on. My house isn’t far. My mum’s home. She can… figure something out.”

Your first instinct is to say no. Stranger. New place. Wrong year.

But you’re hungry, shaking, and nearly out of options. You glance at his face. There’s no threat in his expression. Just worry. Soft, boyish worry.

You take his hand.

He helps you stand gently, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

You walk in silence. The sun’s a little lower now, casting amber shadows between buildings. The streets aren’t busy—just a few neighbors hosing down their storefronts or kids kicking a flat soccer ball against a wall.

Chan doesn’t ask you questions. Not yet. He just walks a little slower than you do, like he’s trying not to rush you.

After a few blocks, you stop in front of a modest, clean apartment building. There’s laundry hanging from balconies and the sound of a drama playing loudly in the distance.

Chan punches in a code at the front door and holds it open for you.

The apartment is small, warm, lived-in. Worn-out slippers by the door. The faint smell of kimchi jjigae lingers in the air.

“Mum?” he calls gently. “There’s someone here…”

A woman appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes land on you instantly. She’s maybe in her late thirties, with soft features and tired but kind eyes.

She takes one look at your disheveled state and her brow furrows. “Oh, sweetie… Are you alright?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too tight.

“She was sitting outside the convenience store,” Chan explains quickly. “She didn’t have money or anything. I thought maybe… I don’t know. You’d know what to do.”

His mother sighs softly, then smiles at you with the kind of warmth that makes your chest ache.

“Well, you did the right thing, Chan-ah,” she says, then turns to you. “Come, come. Sit down. You look pale.”

She gestures toward the low table in the living room. You nod, unsure of what else to do.

Chan disappears for a moment and returns with a bottle of water. You take it with trembling fingers and mutter, “Thank you.”

“So… what’s your name?” his mother asks gently, kneeling beside you.

You hesitate. “Y/N.”

“And… do you know your address? Your family?”

You pause. Eyes flicking to Chan. You can’t say I’m from the future without sounding completely insane.

“I… I got lost,” you lie.

It sounds pathetic, but it’s the closest thing to the truth that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve hit your head.

His mother eyes you carefully, but doesn’t push. “Do you want to call someone?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I—no one’s answering.”

She gives a small sigh, then gently pats your shoulder. “Well. You’re safe here, alright? I’ll make you some food.”

As she heads to the kitchen, Chan sits cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, watching you curiously. Not in a judgmental way—more like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn’t have the pieces to.

“You really don’t know where you’re going?” You shake your head.

“Were you… running away?" You look down at your hands. “Not exactly.”

He nods slowly. Like he understands not knowing where you’re supposed to be.

“You can stay here tonight,” he says quietly. “We have a spare futon. My mum’s like that—she takes people in.”

You glance up at him again. There's something in his eyes that doesn’t belong to a fifteen-year-old. Something kind. Something steady.

You don't know how long you’ve been sitting there, curled up on the corner of the floor mat, the mug of barley tea now lukewarm in your hands. The apartment hums with soft domestic sounds—cooking, a TV murmuring in the other room, Chan rummaging through his school bag.

Everything feels still. Almost too still. Like the universe is holding its breath.

Chan’s mother places a plate of warm rice and rolled eggs in front of you with a smile that feels like it could thaw an entire glacier.

"Eat slowly," she says. “Your hands are still shaking.”

You whisper another quiet thank you and begin nibbling. She sits across from you, folding her legs under herself gracefully.

“Chan-ah,” she calls gently, raising her voice just a touch. “Go do your homework.”

He grumbles from down the hallway. “I helped! I deserve a break!”

“You’ll get one after your assignments are done.”

A groan, followed by slow, defeated footsteps. He trudges out with a dramatic sigh and a final glance at you, like he’s trying to memorize your face.

You manage a small smile before the door to the small bedroom clicks shut behind him.

Silence, again—but a different kind. Softer. Private.

The woman takes a sip of tea and studies you. Not coldly. Not even suspiciously. Just… like a mother who’s seen too many things to ignore what doesn’t make sense.

“You speak Korean,” she says calmly. “But you don’t sound local.”

You swallow. “I’m… not.”

“You’re not just lost, are you?”

The tea turns bitter in your mouth.

You shake your head, barely.

“I didn’t think so,” she says quietly, setting her cup down. “It’s okay. I won’t ask you to tell me everything. I just… I’d like to know if you’re in danger.”

You look up sharply. “No. I mean—I don’t think so.”

She nods slowly, her eyes dark and thoughtful. “Then maybe… it’s fate.”

You blink. “Fate?”

A tired smile tugs at her lips. “That you ended up here. In this time. In this city.”

You freeze. In this time.She said in this time.

She watches your expression carefully, then leans in just slightly.

“I work in a lab at the university. It’s very… classified, but you seem like the kind of person who already knows something’s wrong.”

You say nothing. She continues.

“There have been strange phenomena happening across Seoul. Shifts in pressure. Light distortions. Places that don’t behave as they should. Temporary tears in the world.” She pauses. “We call them portals. Crude ones. Fragile. But real.”

Your breath catches. The warmth of the tea leaves you instantly.

“You’ve seen them, haven’t you?” she asks.

You nod, slowly. “I think… one brought me here.”

For a moment, the weight of the secret you’ve been carrying alone lifts slightly—just enough for air to return to your lungs.

She sits back. Her expression doesn’t change. No disbelief. No fear.

Just quiet acceptance.

“I thought so,” she murmurs. “You’re not the first anomaly I’ve seen. But… you’re the first to sit at my dinner table.”

You grip your cup tighter. “Do you… know how to send someone back?” The smile that had danced at the corner of her lips fades.

“Not yet,” she says. “But I’m trying.” The apartment seems to exhale around you.

She picks up her tea again. “Until then, you’re safe here. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Chan.” You glance toward the closed door of his bedroom.

“You raised a good kid,” you say quietly.

That makes her laugh. “Too good, sometimes. Brings home lost girls off the street like we’re a soup kitchen.”

You laugh too, surprised by how easy it feels. “I’ve never seen him help someone like that,” she adds. “He must’ve sensed something. Some kind of connection.”

You look down at your tea again, unsure how to respond to that.

After dinner, Chan disappears again—this time, headphones in, scribbling into a notebook in the corner of the room. You’re curled up on a floor cushion, arms around your knees, watching the news flicker quietly on the old TV.

Chan’s mother clears the table and disappears down the narrow hallway. You hear a door open. Then a pause.

And then: “Y/N, would you like to see something?”

You glance over your shoulder. She’s standing halfway inside a dim room at the end of the hall, holding the door open with one hand. There's a look on her face that’s half invitation, half warning.

You follow her.

The room is small but packed—shelves full of binders, rolled-up maps, and what look like scientific instruments you couldn’t even name. A laptop from another decade sits on the desk, humming softly. On the wall, pinned like museum pieces, are printed photos: blurry snapshots of empty alleyways, tunnels, parking lots… all marked with glowing red pen circles.

She closes the door behind you.

“I work as a physicist,” she begins, flicking on a desk lamp. “Not many people know that. They assume I’m just a lab assistant or an administrator. But I’m part of a government-backed research team focused on spatial instability across Seoul.”

You blink, slowly. “Spatial… instability?”

She nods. “The scientific explanation is still developing, but—do you know string theory?”

You shake your head, embarrassed.

“In short, everything—every atom, every particle—is made of tiny vibrating strings. And those strings can exist in multiple dimensions. What we’ve discovered,” she says, reaching for a folder, “is that sometimes, very rarely, those dimensions rub against ours. And if the conditions are just right—when pressure, location, and timing align—a ruptureforms.”

She flips the folder open.

Inside are diagrams—rough sketches of spatial coordinates, time stamps, thermal readings. She taps one of the maps: a quiet neighborhood in Mapo-gu, circled in red.

“This is one of our hotspots. We’ve recorded at least six ruptures in this area over the past eighteen months. Temporary openings. Most last less than a minute. But some… stay open longer. And we’ve seen what they do.”

You stare at the map. “And you think… that’s what happened to me?”

“I’m certain of it,” she says, firmly. “But the strange thing is, most people who accidentally pass through a rupture don’t remember. Or they come back changed—confused, incoherent, sometimes completely unaware time passed.”

You look up at her. “But I remember everything.”

“Yes.” She studies you. “Which makes you different.”

You run a hand through your hair, trying to make sense of it all. “So… these ruptures… are they natural? Or man-made?”

She hesitates.

“That’s the question. Some of us believe they’re part of the Earth’s natural electromagnetic behavior. Others think something—or someone—has interfered. That these are weak spots being exploited.”

Your skin prickles. “By who?”

“We don’t know. Not yet.” She lowers her voice. “But three months ago, we found evidence of engineered interference. Someone built a structure inside a rupture. Like they were trying to stabilize it permanently.”

Your breath catches. “What kind of structure?”

She opens another drawer and pulls out a printed photo. It’s dark and grainy, but you see it—what looks like a metal arch, half buried in concrete, covered in wires and carved symbols.

“We found this under an abandoned movie theater in a rural town south of Seoul,” she whispers. “The portal there remained active for nearly seven hours.”

You go cold.

You know that place. You saw it in the future.

“Have you ever… gone through one?” you ask quietly.

She shakes her head. “No. And I don’t intend to. It’s too unpredictable. The person who built this might be from another time—or another version of this time. We can’t be sure. But you, Y/N…” She narrows her eyes. “You came through intact. That’s never happened before.”

You swallow. “So what does that mean for me?”

She looks at you, something heavy and almost maternal in her eyes.

“It means you’re not just a traveler. You’re a key.”

The word key hangs in the air like static.

You stare at her, heartbeat throbbing in your ears.

A key? You? You’re just a student. You cry when the coffee machine breaks down. You still need GPS to find your way out of Gangnam. You're no one special.

And yet here she is—this kind, mysterious woman with gravity in her voice—telling you you're part of something bigger.

She watches your reaction without judgment. Then, after a pause, she closes the folder with a soft snap and folds her hands on the desk.

“Y/N,” she says gently, “you could try to survive here. Alone. No identity, no money, no access to this world. You could keep lying, hiding, waiting for something to open again… or—”

She pauses, carefully.

“You could stay here. With us. And work with me.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“I have access to the locations. The dates. I don’t have clearance for field testing, but I do have access to ruptures when they appear.” She leans forward slightly. “You’re the only one we’ve ever seen return with full cognition. That means something.”

You blink, heart thudding. “You want to use me?”

She shakes her head. “No. I want to trust you. To partner with you.”

You hesitate. “Doing what exactly?”

Her eyes don’t waver. “Helping us monitor and stabilize the ruptures. Entering ones we can’t send drones through. Bringing back intel. Clues. Evidence. Whatever you can find.”

You stare down at your hands. They’re still trembling faintly. This is insane. Unbelievable.

And yet… it feels right.

“Where would I stay?” you whisper.

“Here,” she says without hesitation. “We have space. I’ll handle the identity issue. Say you’re a distant cousin. A transfer student from Australia. No one questions a tired middle-aged woman with complicated family stories.”

You almost laugh. But your eyes burn.

“You’d really do that for me?”

She smiles softly. “I have a son who brought you in off the street without a second thought. Clearly, kindness runs in the family.”

You bite your lip, trying to ground yourself.

“What about Chan?”

“I won’t tell him. Not yet. Unless you want to.”

You exhale, your chest tight and fluttering all at once. It's terrifying—but also the first time since arriving here that something finally makes sense.

The future you came from doesn’t need you anymore. But this one might.

You look up. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay. And I’ll help you.”

Her expression softens, and for a moment, she just looks at you—not as a puzzle piece, or a scientist’s anomaly—but like someone she’s proud of.

“Then we start tomorrow.”

You glance back toward the living room, where Chan is still mumbling song lyrics under his breath, pencil tapping against the table.

He has no idea.

But somehow, you know he’ll find out—sooner or later.

And when he does, nothing will ever be the same again.

The morning is ordinary.

That’s the strange part.

Chan munches on toast across from you at the table, legs bouncing under the kotatsu. The television plays a rerun of a variety show in the background. His mother is by the sink, humming softly as she rinses dishes, the steam from the kettle curling in the sunlight.

Ordinary. Mundane.

And yet, you’re about to walk through a rip in time.

“You doing anything today?” Chan asks between bites, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. “Mum said you might go to the university?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking to his mother, who meets your gaze just a second too long before casually drying her hands.

“Yeah,” you reply carefully. “Just helping her organize some research files. Nothing exciting.”

He nods. “Better you than me.”

You smile, but your chest is a knot. Because it will be exciting. And dangerous. And real.

And he has no idea.

The lab isn’t what you expected.

It’s hidden in a dull, concrete annex behind the university’s main building, accessed through a side entrance that requires fingerprint clearance. You walk behind his mother—Dr. Bang, she told you to call her here—down a narrow hallway lined with security cameras and dull beige walls.

Inside, the lab hums with cold, humming life. Computers from another era whir beside strange, hand-modified machines. There's a faint scent of ozone and metal in the air, like a storm trapped in a box.

She hands you a coat, an old utility model with hidden pockets and a reinforced collar. “Wear this. It’s heat-insulated and time-buffered. A rupture will mess with your body temperature—some go frigid, others feel like stepping into a microwave.”

You slip it on. It’s heavy. Real. Not some dream anymore.

She gestures to a small black wristband with blinking red lights.

“This will track your vitals and anchor you to this time. If the rupture gets unstable, or if you start to lose orientation, press here—” she taps the small side button, “—and you’ll eject. It’s a forced pull. Painful, but instant.”

You swallow hard. “So… where am I going?”

She pulls down a projector screen and clicks through a few slides. A fuzzy black-and-white image appears.

“A neighborhood in Dongdaemun. This rupture opened two nights ago in a condemned laundromat. According to field agents, it links to a Seoul variant from approximately 1996. It’s open intermittently—about every 11 hours, for 7 minutes. That window opens again in…” she glances at her watch, “twelve minutes.”

You stare at the screen.

1996.

That’s four years before you were even born.

“Is there something specific I’m looking for?” you ask.

“Anything out of place,” she says, “but mostly: anything from the future in that space. We’ve seen objects bleed through—bottlecaps, wrappers, old phones that shouldn’t exist yet. If the portal’s unstable, it may be leaking data through time.”

You nod, breath quickening.

Dr. Bang places a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N. This isn’t a test. If you don’t want to do it—”

“I do,” you cut in. “I need to do this.”

Her eyes soften. Just a little. “Then suit up.”

The laundromat is dead quiet.

The building is collapsing in on itself—dusty windows, a broken neon sign, and cracked tile floors that echo under your boots.

Dr. Bang checks her scanner. “It’s about to open. You’ll feel a pull. Don’t fight it.” You nod, heart pounding in your ears. Then, it happens.

The air splits—not like lightning, but like fabric, torn down the middle. It shudders open like a curtain being yanked too hard. There’s a low thrumming, like bass in your bones. The air grows sharp. Thin. Your breath fogs.

And before you can speak—

You’re through.

It smells like summer rain and coal smoke.

You’re standing in the exact same building—but cleaner, alive. A woman in a perm sweeps outside. A boy runs past with a Game Boy clutched in his hands.

It really is 1996.

Your wristband beeps softly. Timer: 06:58.

You don’t have long.

You begin to walk. Quiet, fast, observing everything. A flyer on the wall reads World Expo ‘93. There’s a calendar still flipped to June.

You peek through a doorway and stop short.

There, on a table covered in tools, lies a smartwatch.

2027 model. Matte black. Glowing faintly.

How the hell did that get here?

You grab it, slipping it into your coat just as your wristband starts flashing red.

01:12.

The portal is closing.

You run.

The air thickens again, pressure dropping like your ears are popping underwater. Time bends—warps—and suddenly—

You’re back.

Dr. Bang catches your arm.

“Did you see anything?”

You hold out the smartwatch.

She goes very, very still.

And you realize: this isn’t just about you being lost in time anymore.

Someone is leaving things behind. And it’s not by accident.

These missions started to be a routine, and you even forgot at some point how long you were away. You start to think that maybe, you will never go back because there's no point in that.

You are stuck in 2012.

The city below sleeps—if you could call it that. Seoul, even in 2012, glows. Faint neon signs hum in the distance. Car lights blink like fireflies. The apartment building where you’re staying is quiet, its halls dim, its rooftop cold against your bare feet.

You didn’t mean to end up there. One second you were lying awake, restless. The next, you were standing outside, the breeze tugging at your hoodie, drawn upward like something inside you had been waiting for the silence of this hour.

A crackle. Your wristband—always calm, always stable—gives a sharp pulse. You flinch. Check it. No rupture detected. No anomaly. Just… a spike in your heartbeat.

The air feels wrong. Not dangerous, not even hostile. Just… aware.

You step to the edge of the rooftop, peer down into the streets. Everything looks real. Concrete. Noise. Life. But your body feels two seconds too slow for the moment. Like you're lagging in your own time.

Then— A voice.

“Y/N?”

You freeze. Turn around slowly.

Bang Chan stands halfway out the stairwell door, barefoot in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, eyes blinking in the dim rooftop light. His hair's a mess, sleep still clinging to his features. But his voice is sharp with worry.

“What are you doing up here?”

You blink once, twice. No excuse comes. Your voice is too small. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He studies you quietly, lips parted like he wants to say something else. But then he nods once, stepping fully out into the open.

“It’s kinda dangerous, you know,” he murmurs, glancing toward the ledge.

You’re still staring at him. At how real he looks. At how he’s from this time, but feels like an anchor in yours.

“I think… I just needed air,” you say finally.

Chan walks over, his steps slow, cautious. Like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. He stops a few feet beside you, leans over the edge too. Silence stretches. For a moment, it’s like you’re just two strangers who found each other in the quietest part of the night.

“I thought I heard something weird. Like the lights flickering downstairs,” he says softly. “Then I saw the front door click. You came up here alone?”

You nod. Your wristband buzzes again. He notices the light from it and frowns.

“What is that thing?”

You panic.

“It’s… kind of a… monitor. For sleep,” you lie.

He looks unconvinced, but doesn’t push.

Instead, after another pause, he whispers, “Do you ever feel like… this world doesn’t make sense?”

You flinch, startled. “…What do you mean?”

Chan looks out into the skyline. “Sometimes I dream things that haven’t happened. Places I haven’t been. But I wake up and they’re real. Like I remember something I never lived.”

Your heart pounds in your ears. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. And yet…

You whisper, “I think maybe you’re remembering something from… a different version of yourself.”

He tilts his head toward you slowly, really seeing you now. “Is that what you are?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer.

He doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he just sits beside you on the rooftop floor, shoulder brushing yours gently.

The silence stretches, but not uncomfortably. Just enough to let the breeze speak for a while.

Chan's legs are pulled up to his chest now, arms wrapped around them. You’re lying back, fingers splayed over the cool rooftop concrete, eyes on the stars. You haven’t seen stars like this in a while. Even in 2030, light pollution had a way of swallowing them whole.

He breaks the silence.

“You’re different,” he says, voice low. “You talk like… you’ve already lived everything I’m still waiting for.”

You smile a little, lips curving toward mischief.

“I have,” you murmur. “I’ve survived two failed governments, the tragic death of social media as we know it, and at least five disappointing K-dramas in a row.”

He chuckles, looking over at you. “Seriously, though.”

You roll your head to face him, grin growing. “Seriously, you’re kind of hitting on a 27-year-old.”

He chokes. “What?”

“I mean.” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m flattered, really. But you’re what—fourteen?”

He sputters. “I’m fifteen in, like, two months!”

“Ohhh,” you mock-gasp. “My bad. That changes everything.”

He throws a cushionless glare your way. “That’s not—! I’m not hitting on you!”

You hum thoughtfully. “Says the boy who followed me onto the rooftop in his pajamas.”

“I heard something weird!”

“And found me instead. So tragic.” You’re enjoying this way too much. His ears are bright red now.

He groans, tipping his head back. “I take it back. You’re definitely 27. You’re mean.”

You grin. “You haven’t even seen what I’m like with coffee.”

Chan side-eyes you, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m not hitting on you. But… I still think you're cool.”

You pause, teasing smile softening. Your voice is gentler now. “Thanks. That actually means a lot.”

For a few seconds, the night is quiet again—comfortable. Familiar.

Then, you nudge his shoulder lightly. “Just remember. If we meet again in 2030 and you still want to flirt, I might consider it then.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again.

You don’t give him time to answer.

“Anyway,” you say with a stretch, “this time-traveling cougar has a mission tomorrow.”

Chan blinks. “Wait.”

You freeze mid-stretch. “…Hm?”

His eyes narrow, brain gears clearly shifting. “You said when we meet again in 2030.”

Shit.

You try to brush it off with a light laugh. “Did I?”

“Yeah. You did.” He sits up straighter now, expression hard to read. “You definitely did.”

You swallow, the humor evaporating from your face. “Slip of the tongue?”

“No.” His voice is firm. “No, no—you said 2030. That’s eighteen years from now. That’s not a random number, Y/N.”

You look away, eyes flickering toward the stars like they could offer you an escape.

He leans in. “Tell me the truth. Where are you really from?”

“Chan—”

“Who are you?” His voice isn’t angry. It’s confused. Hurt. “You just… showed up. Out of nowhere. You talk weird. You know things you shouldn’t. And now you’re saying stuff like ‘when we meet again in 2030’?”

You hesitate. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Then, softly, “You wouldn't believe me.”

“Try me.”

You let the silence stretch until it feels unbearable. Until it forces you to speak.

“I’m not from here,” you whisper. “Not from this time.”

Chan stares at you like you’ve just punched the air out of him.

“I’m from 2030,” you say again, voice barely above the rooftop breeze. “Twenty-seven years old. Arrived here by accident through one of the temporal portals your mom studies. I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t even know where I was at first. But I’m stuck now. Working for her until she finds a way to send me back.”

He just blinks. You can practically see him recalculating everything—every interaction, every weird phrase, every look you gave him.

“You’re serious,” he finally says, voice hollow. “You’re actually serious.”

You nod.

He lets out a breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Holy shit.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Your mom didn’t want anyone to know—especially not you.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, eyes fixed on you, he says softly, “I knew you weren’t like the people here. But I didn’t think you were from the future.”

You smile a little. “Technically, I’m still cooler than you.”

He huffs. “You’re also really annoying.”

“But still cooler.”

“…Barely.”

You both laugh—soft, shaky, but real.

Then he looks at you seriously. “So… you go back someday? To your time?”

“I hope so,” you whisper. “But I don’t know when.”

“…Will I be there?”

You blink. That wasn’t a question you expected.

You turn your head toward him. “Do you want to be?”

Chan doesn’t answer. He just looks at you—and somehow, you already know the answer. He smirks, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wait a second… if you’re from 2030 and you’re 27 now, that means I’m older than you?”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Older? You wish.”

He laughs. “Yeah, well… you’re stuck here, right? So right now, I’m older than you.”

“Oh, please.” You grin. “You’re still fifteen, Chan. I’m twenty-seven. Right now, I am older.”

He leans back, pretending to consider this. “Okay, but fast forward to 2030… you're still 27, and I’ll be…”

You cut in, mockingly enthusiastic, “Thirty-three.”

His eyes widen. “Whoa, six years older? That’s a gap!”

You nudge him playfully. “Better start practicing your ‘older boyfriend’ moves, then.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

"You can find me in university if you wanna look for me," you wink playfully. They both grin, the rooftop suddenly feeling a little less lonely and a lot more like the start of something unexpected.

Chan’s smile fades just a little as he leans forward. “There’s this one portal at the old cinema—the one they’re trying to shut down.”

You blink, suddenly curious. “Wait, which one?”

Chan shrugs, eyes narrowing. “What? Isn’t that your next mission?”

Your heart skips. “M-my next mission?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. You didn’t know?”

You shake your head, unease creeping in. “No… I mean, I thought your mom told me everything.”

Chan frowns. “Maybe not everything.”

You bite your lip, the realization sinking in. “You think she’s hiding something?”

He shrugs again, but you catch the hesitation in his eyes. “Could be.”

You stare out over the city, mind racing. If the woman you’re supposed to be working for isn’t telling you the whole truth… what else don’t you know?

The clock ticks in a steady rhythm as you step into the modest kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes and faint hum of a fan filling the silence. Chan’s mother stands at the counter, stirring something in a metal pot. The scent of soybean paste and green onions lingers in the air.

“Mrs. Bang,” you say, gently, not wanting to startle her.

She turns, eyes warm as always, but sharper now—sharper ever since she realized you weren’t just some lost girl.

“Y/N,” she greets, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’re back early. Everything alright?”

You nod slowly, stepping closer. “I just… wanted to ask you something. About the cinema.”

Her hands pause mid-motion. “Cinema?”

“The old one. Chan mentioned there’s a portal there—one that’s being shut down?”

For a flicker of a second, she doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. Then, with forced calm, she sets the towel down.

“Ah. That one. It’s unstable,” she says. “Dangerous. I didn’t want you near it.”

“But it’s real,” you press gently. “It exists.”

She meets your eyes then, steady and unreadable. “Yes. It exists. But some doors don’t need opening. That one in particular… it’s different.”

You tilt your head, slowly. “Different how?”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “It’s not just a passage through time, Y/N. That portal leads to a place where the fabric between timelines is fragile. There’s a reason we’ve sealed every other one but left that one last. It’s complicated.”

You furrow your brows. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you with something you couldn’t fix yet,” she says, stepping forward. “You’re still adjusting. Still learning. If I gave you everything at once, you might’ve gotten lost in it.”

You stay quiet for a moment, weighing her words.

“I want to help,” you say, firm but not unkind. “But I can’t do that if I’m kept in the dark.”

Her eyes soften then, and for the first time, she looks… tired. “You're right. I suppose you’ve already seen more than I thought you would.”

“So what else haven’t you told me?” you ask, voice low.

There’s a long pause. Then:

“The portal at the cinema… it’s not just a door. It’s a decision.”

You frown. “A decision?”

She only nods. “One day soon, you’ll understand. But when you stand in front of it… be sure you know which version of yourself wants to walk through.”

The house is silent, the kind of silence that makes every creak of wood sound like thunder.

It’s late—well past midnight—when you wake with a start. You’re not sure what stirred you at first, but then you hear it. Voices. Soft, muffled, coming from down the hallway.

You slip out from under the blanket, bare feet padding silently across the cool floor. The door is already cracked open a sliver. You press your ear against it.

It’s Chan’s mother.

“She’s getting too curious,” she says, voice firm but quiet. “I’ll shut it down tomorrow. Before she finds it.”

Someone murmurs in response—maybe a colleague on the phone—but you can’t hear them. All you catch is her next line, low and final:

“That portal was never meant for her.”

Your stomach turns. It’s not just about protecting you. She’s hiding something—maybe from everyone. You don’t even wait for the conversation to end. You’re already dressing, pulling your hoodie over your head, slipping into shoes with your heart pounding so loudly you’re afraid it’ll give you away.

The apartment door shuts softly behind you.

The streets are dim and quiet. The cold air bites at your cheeks. You glance at the crumpled, hand-drawn map Chan gave you once—"Just in case you get lost," he’d said with a grin.

The cinema’s circled in red ink.

Your legs carry you there before you can think too much. Every shadow makes your heart race. The old building looms in the distance like something out of a dream—half-forgotten, with crumbling tiles and crooked letters above the entrance: 영화관.

You step inside, flashlight shaking faintly in your grip. Dust swirls in the beam of light. Rows of broken seats stretch out before you like a graveyard of time.

And then you see it.

Near the back of the old cinema, past a rusted “STAFF ONLY” door, there’s a bathroom. Cracked tiles. A broken mirror. The air in there hums.

Your flashlight flickers.

You feel the pull before you even step inside. A low, almost imperceptible buzz in your bones. It’s real. It’s here. And it’s not closed. Not yet.

Your breath catches.

She wanted to shut this down before you could find it.

But now that you have… There’s no turning back.

You take one trembling step back from the doorway.

The air is vibrating. Not with sound, but with pressure—like the space itself is holding its breath. The broken mirror in front of you is fractured in strange angles, reflecting pieces of your face that don’t quite belong together. You feel wrong here. Small. Shaky.

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly overwhelmed.

What the hell are you even doing?

You’re not trained for this. You’re not a scientist. You’re not a hero. You’re just a girl who slipped through time and started folding laundry in a stranger’s apartment, who memorized old maps and pretended not to notice how Chan’s mother always smiled too softly when she said, “you’re special.”

This portal wasn’t meant for you.

And maybe that’s what scares you most.

You turn—slowly—about to back away, to pretend you never saw it, when—

“Go.”

You freeze.

The word is gentle. A little broken.

You turn around.

Chan stands just outside the doorframe, lit faintly by the flickering hallway light. He’s in a hoodie, hair messy, hands buried deep in the pockets like he was just... out for a walk. But his eyes—they’re wide. Glassy.

You blink. “Chan—”

He steps closer, voice shaking slightly. “I knew you’d come here.”

You can’t speak. Your throat tightens.

“I was waiting. I just—” he swallows. “I didn’t want you to be alone if… if you decided to go through it.”

You shake your head. “But I—I don’t even know what’s on the other side. It could be dangerous, or it might not even—”

“I know.”

“But why are you here?” Your voice cracks. “Why would you follow me?”

He takes another step in. Then another. Until he’s right in front of you, and you can see the way his eyes dart across your face, like he’s memorizing you.

He shrugs, a breathless laugh escaping. “Because if you left without saying goodbye, I’d lose my mind.”

The tears are hot in your eyes before you can stop them.

“Chan…”

“I don’t know what your life looks like in 2030,” he says, softly. “But I know you're from there. I knew before you said anything. You walk like you’re looking for the future. You talk like the world already happened.”

You lower your gaze, lips trembling. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

“Don’t be. I would’ve still waited. I would've still looked at you like this.”

You laugh through a sob. “You’re fifteen, Chan.”

“Not when I see you again,” he says gently. “And not right now, either. Not really. You’re standing in front of a door that leads through time. And I’m standing in front of you.”

Your chest caves in around the weight of it all. “What if I don’t come back?”

“Then I’ll wait,” he whispers. “I’ll look for you. Like you dropped something, and I can't stop checking the floor.”

You shake your head, biting your lip so hard it stings.

“You can’t—”

“I can.”

“I know I’m just a footnote in your story right now,” he murmurs, “but you… you’ve changed everything in mine.”

That breaks you.

You cry, chest rising and falling with messy, quiet sobs.

Chan reaches out then—just a hand, just resting it over yours like an anchor—and says, so softly:

“Go, Y/N. If that’s your path, go.”

You look over your shoulder. The mirror is glowing now—dimly. Unnaturally. The light pulses like a heartbeat.

You turn back to him. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know.” He smiles, but his voice trembles. “But if you do... make sure I know it’s you this time.”

You nod. One last tear rolls down your cheek. You reach out—fingertips brushing his.

And then you step into the mirror, it swallows you like a breath held too long.

And Chan is left alone in the silence, one hand still lifted, like he’s still holding yours.

You don’t fall. You land.

Your feet hit the pavement with a jolt and the world rushes up to meet you in a blur of lights and sound and color.

You're on a street. A city street. No—Seoul.

But not the Seoul you left behind.

Everything around you is bright, loud, alive—holographic signs flicker above buildings that tower into the clouds, drones hum overhead delivering packages, people in sleek clothes walk past like they’re late for the future. A tram glides silently down the road, no wheels, just light.

You spin.

And spin again.

Your breath catches. The air smells different. Sharper. Cleaner. Artificial almost. There’s a billboard the size of a building flashing news in five languages at once. A child runs by holding what looks like a floating tablet. Above, the sky is sliced by moving light-rails and semi-transparent ad planes.

Your knees nearly give out.

You're home. You're in 2030.

You fall to the ground on your knees and let out a gasp that turns into a laugh. A loud, wild, disbelieving laugh that bursts from your chest like you’re exorcising every doubt, every fear.

Your hands hit the pavement and you just stay there for a second, breath hitching, shoulders shaking.

“Holy—” you wheeze out, “I’m back—I’m really—back—oh my god—”

You tilt your head to the sky and laugh again, wind tangling your hair. People pass by, some glance, some don’t. You're just another strange girl on the street.

But to you?

Everything feels like it’s spinning. The lights, the towering structures, the gentle hum of technology wrapped around the world like a second skin.

Tears prick your eyes—laughter still bubbling in your throat.

You pull out the little pouch Chan gave you. It's still there. A small marble from his slingshot. A silly thing he’d handed you “just for luck.”

You clutch it in your hand. The world spins around you. But you— You’ve never felt more real.

You’re still crouched there, gripping the pavement like it’s going to float away, trying to make sense of the neon lights, the impossible skyline, the fact that you made it back—when—

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

Your phone.

You blink. For a moment, it doesn’t register. You forgot it even existed. You forgot what pockets were. What buzzing meant.

BZZZ.

Fumbling, your fingers dig into your coat. It’s still there, screen glowing against your palm like a lifeline.

"your friend is calling..."

And then—

"y/n!!! where tf are u?""1 missed call – GROUP CHAT: Uni Wreckers 🔥🪩""8 new messages."

You answer, your breath still ragged.

“H-Hello?”

“Y/N?!” your friend's voice is shrill in your ear. Oh god how you missed it. “Are you okay?! You're late, babe! Class started twenty minutes ago!”

Another's friend voice cuts in from the background: “Tell her if she doesn’t get here in ten I’m telling the professor she got abducted by a K-pop group.”

“I—I’m—” You look around again, still crouched on the pavement like a lunatic. “I was—” time traveling, you almost say. “I’m—on my way!”

“You sound like you ran a marathon—what, did your electric bike explode again?”

You pause.

The bike. The snowboarding rail. The portal. Chan. His voice echoing—“Go.”

Your chest tightens.

“No,” you murmur, soft. “It didn’t explode.”

“Then run, bitch!”

You end the call.

Your heart’s still racing, still caught between two timelines—between a boy who told you to go and a future that somehow still wants you in it.

You shove the phone back into your pocket, wipe your face, and laugh again under your breath.

And then, slowly, you stand because you're Y/N. You're twenty-seven. You time-traveled to 2012. You came back. And you have class in nine minutes.

Time to go.

Your boots slap hard against the pavement, the city blurring past in a kaleidoscope of neon and glass. Seoul isn't the city you left. It was so rougher and vivid in your memories. Now everything it's louder. Brighter. Bigger.

The buildings scrape the clouds now. AI billboards flicker with holograms that track your eyes. A drone buzzes overhead delivering iced coffee, and the pedestrian crosswalk talks in five different languages.

Everything is happening too fast.

You’re panting. Laughing. Half-crying still. But moving, because your friend will actually kill you if you don’t make it before the professor takes attendance.

You skid to a stop at the corner, breath clouding in the air, and scan the street. You spot a row of gleaming electric bikes docked in a neat little lineup under a flashing blue sign that says: “RENT N’ RUN – Just Tap & Go!”

You sprint over, nearly stumbling.

Your watch vibrates as your trembling fingers hover over the sensor.

“Confirm Ride: KRW 3,500 – Pay with GalaxyLink?”

You slam your wrist against the scanner. BEEP. ACCESS GRANTED. The bike unlocks with a satisfying click.

You jump on, barely adjusting the seat, and push off from the curb. The electric motor kicks in, smooth and quiet beneath you. And then you're flying.

You weave through commuters, street stalls, and sleek self-driving taxis, wind hitting your face, the rush of it all curling in your chest like a scream you never let out.

You made it back.

But why does it feel like a part of you didn’t?

Your eyes sting again. You blink fast, biting your lip, and speed up. And you think— Somewhere, right now, he’s 33 years old. And he remembers you.

You're almost there.

Almost.

The university skyline stretches just ahead, its new glass towers gleaming under the early sun, and you can already hear the low hum of campus life stirring to life. You smile through your shallow breaths, gripping the bike handles tighter.

And then— CLANK.ZRRRT.

The electric motor sputters. The front wheel jerks.

You feel the whole thing lurch sideways.

“No, no, no—don’t you dare—”

CRACK.

The chain snaps mid-turn. The whole bike wobbles violently, and you throw one foot down, skidding into a rough stop with a sharp gasp as you nearly eat the sidewalk.

Your heart’s pounding like it wants out of your chest.

You hop off, staggering backward. The display on the handlebars flashes a blood-red “ERROR – SYSTEM FAILURE”, followed by a very unhelpful: “Contact your nearest repair hub.”

You squint at it, hands still shaking from adrenaline. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You glance around, about to start swearing in three different languages—when something catches your eye.

Across the plaza, just a few meters away, a familiar glowing blue light pulses from a sleek silver tunnel mouth built into the pavement.

The metro.

You nearly cry.

The station sign hovers in the air above the entrance, the words rotating in smooth projection: “Gyeongdae Central Stop – Line 3 – Arrivals in 1min.”

Your legs are already moving.

You sprint across the pavement, dodging a couple of office workers and a delivery bot that zips by with a chirp. The metro’s platform doors hiss open below, a faint ding echoing from underground. You're almost laughing again—because of course. Of course the universe throws you off a bike only to shove a miracle in your face five seconds later.

You leap down the escalator, two steps at a time, ignoring the warning signs. You’ve still got time. You have to.

And as you reach the sleek metro platform, breathless and dazed, you look up—

And think you see him.

Standing a few meters away. Leaning against a silver beam. A hood pulled over dark hair. Looking right at you.

But the train arrives.

And when the doors slide open—

He’s gone.

He’s not a boy anymore.

You see that instantly.

The figure leaning against the silver beam isn't the awkward, curious teenager who handed you a towel and asked if you were okay years ago.

No. He’s carved now—broad shoulders filling out a black asymmetric shirt that dips slightly off one side, the fabric clinging in all the right places. The sleeves pushed up his arms only draw more attention to how effortlessly strong he looks now. His hair is still a mess of dark waves, slightly damp like he’s just stepped out of something intense—sleep, rain, maybe a workout—but this time, it’s intentional. Grown.

He glances toward you. Just once.

That same face, that same slanted smile—dangerously soft at the corners, but sharper now. Confident. His eyes scan the crowd with focus, landing on you like gravity. For a second, your knees actually buckle.

A silver hoop glints at his ear. His jaw tightens as he straightens up, and the way he moves—slow, deliberate, unhurried—screams a kind of strength that doesn’t beg for attention anymore. It just exists. Commands the space around him.

You could swear he was taller. Or maybe it’s the way he stands now—shoulders squared like someone who's learned to carry the weight of years.

Seven of them.

Your throat dries.

But the moment flickers like a candle in the wind. The metro arrives in a whisper of chrome and sound, and when the doors slide open, he vanishes. Gone with the crowd.

You don’t know if you saw a ghost or a prophecy. But something in your chest aches—because if that was him…

He’s beautiful. And time has turned him into someone unforgettable.

The next metro sighs onto the platform like nothing ever happened.

You’re supposed to be in class. You’re supposed to be halfway across the city in some smart building with touch-glass walls and A.I. professors who already marked you absent.

But instead… you’re frozen.

Because he was here. He was right here.

You press a trembling hand to your chest.

“What the hell am I doing?” you whisper, eyes flicking to the edge of the platform where the metro doors had swallowed him whole.

You’re not even sure it was him. It could’ve been a lookalike, a stranger with the same hair, the same sharp smile, the same way of carrying the world like it owed him nothing. But your gut says it was him. And your gut hasn’t been wrong about him in almost two decades.

You swallow.

“This is crazy. This is actually—insane.”

Your watch buzzes again. Another missed call. A message: “Where are you???” You mute it.

��I haven’t seen him in eight years. Eight. And now I think I can just follow him through a metro station like it’s a movie?”

You glance around—no one notices you. Seoul never notices anyone. You exhale shakily, legs moving before your brain catches up.

The next metro glides up. And without thinking, without weighing logic or risk or reality, you step on.

The doors close behind you with a soft click. Final. Definite.

Your breath catches.

“God, I’m really doing this,” you murmur under your breath, gripping the pole with clammy fingers. “I’m actually chasing a man through a city of fifteen million people. A man who might not even remember me.”

You pause. Your heart slams against your ribs.

“…Who might not even be him.”

But it doesn’t matter. Because deep down—beneath the panic, the chaos, the what-the-hell-am-I-doing spiral—you know it is.

You felt it.

And if there’s even a one-in-a-million chance that he turned around after those doors closed... You have to find him.

Even if it’s stupid. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it breaks you all over again.

Because some people don’t leave your bones. And he’s lived in yours for eight years.

The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that feels heavier than it should.

Your shoulders sag. The city still buzzes outside — glowing, alive, too fast to care that you spent the whole day running through its veins chasing a shadow that never turned back.

Shoes kicked off. Bag dropped. You stand in the entrance like a statue, like maybe if you don’t move, time will freeze with you.

“Finally.”

Your friend’s voice cuts through the stillness like a blade.

You wince.

“Where have you been?” she asks, standing up from the couch, phone in hand, frown already etched deep. “I’ve been calling you since this morning. Class? Gone. Group meeting? You ghosted. Are you—what, okay? Dead? Time traveling? Give me something.”

You freeze at that last word. Time traveling. If only she knew how much it wasn’t a joke.

You rub your face with both hands, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Your friend walks up to you, arms crossed. “Sorry? Babe, you disappeared. Again. No warning, no messages, and when I try to check on you, nothing. Do you know how scary that is?”

You try to speak. Nothing comes out. Not the metro. Not the portal. Not the fact that he was right there and then he wasn’t.

“I thought maybe it was one of your episodes again,” she continues, gentler now. “That something… triggered you. I almost called your mom.”

Your head snaps up. “Please don’t.”

She sighs. “Then talk to me, Y/N. Please.”

But you can’t. Not about this. Not yet. Not when you don’t even believe it yourself.

Instead, you shake your head, voice barely a thread. “I was just… trying to find something. Someone. It’s stupid.” Your friend stares at you for a long moment. And then, finally, she moves. Wraps her arms around you like she knows you’re lying, but she won’t push. Not tonight. “You’re not stupid,” she whispers. “Just really, really reckless.”

You laugh, wet and tired. “Tell me about it.”

You peel yourself out of her hug slowly, fingers twitching as if holding onto something invisible — maybe a thread of time, maybe just your sanity.

“I… I saw someone,” you mumble.

Your friend, who was already making her way back to the couch, spins on her heel so fast it’s almost comedic. “Wait. What?”

You hesitate. But the pressure inside you is unbearable, like a secret cracking your ribs open. “There was a boy,” you say quietly, eyes on the floor.

Dead silence.

“…A boy?” she repeats, voice rising. “Now you decide to tell me this?”

“I didn’t mean to see him—he just… he was there. And then I lost him.”

Your friend gasps, dramatically throwing herself onto the couch like this is a soap opera. “Oh my god. You skipped class and disappeared into the city because of a boy? Who is he? What does he look like? Is he hot? Are we talking ‘steal your heart’ or ‘steal your kidneys’ energy?!”

You blink at her. “I—what?”

She sits up, eyes wide and glittering like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. “Is this some parallel universe soulmate situation? Is he from Earth? Do I need to start planning your wedding?!”

You let out a groan and bury your face in your hands. “No! I mean, yes—I mean—I don’t know!”

She squeals. Actually squeals. “YOU DON’T KNOW?! Oh this is even better.”

You collapse onto the couch beside her, staring up at the ceiling, defeated. “He was… from the past.”

Her head whips toward you. “Excuse me?”

Your voice is quieter now. “Twelve years ago. I met him in 2012.” You weren't kidding, you met him in 2012, just not like she imagine, not like anyone would imagine it.

Silence.

“…Okay, you need to stop watching K-dramas at night.”

You laugh, but it’s tight and short and a little sad. “I’m not kidding.”

She’s staring at you like you’ve grown another head, and honestly, you don’t blame her. How do you even explain everything? The portals. The rooftop. The look in his eyes when he told you to go. The ache in your chest that still hasn’t left.

But your best friend just sighs and pulls your legs over her lap like always. “Fine. Tell me everything. Every little detail. And if this guy has main-character energy, I swear to god, Y/N, you better let me be the comedic relief in your sci-fi romance saga.”

You finally smile. “Deal.”

You sit cross-legged on the couch now, your hands tugging at the hem of your oversized hoodie as you try to think of how to describe him.

Your friend is waiting—eyes locked on yours, like this is an interrogation. Or a Netflix series. Probably both. “So…” she begins. “This 2012 boy. Spill.”

You swallow. “He was… young. But not too young. Maybe around my age, back then? I think he was sixteen? Seventeen? I don’t even know anymore.”

Your friend leans in, eyes narrowing. “Okay, but like. Is he cute now?”

Your cheeks burn. “He is—he is more than cute. He has that kind of dreamy energy. Like… that quiet confidence? The kind you only notice after a few seconds, and then it’s like—boom. It hits you.”

She gasps. “Don’t do this to me. You’re describing a fanfic boy. Like the soft-spoken type who would offer you his umbrella in the rain.”

You nod slowly, breath catching. “Exactly. But also the kind who would probably fix a radio for fun and not tell anyone. His voice was kind of raspy, and—God—his eyes. They were warm. Like… they saw through me.”

Your friend lets out a dramatic scream and throws a pillow at you. “YOU WERE IN A TIME-TRAVEL ROMANCE AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN TEXT ME?”

You burst into laughter. “I wasn’t exactly getting signal in 2012!” Which still, true, but she doesn't know that was literally your yesterday and not... eight years ago.

She clutches the pillow to her chest. “Okay, okay, okay—wait—so he is hot.”

You groan into your hands. “Yes.”

“And mysterious.”

“Yes.”

“And sweet???”

You hesitate. Your heart tugs. “Yeah… he helped me. He was so… gentle. But then he teased me too. Like. The playful kind. Not mean. Just enough to make me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.”

Her jaw drops.

“I’m going to need you to stop. RIGHT now.”

You grin despite yourself.

She leans forward, deadly serious. “What was his name?”

Your lips part—and then close again. “I… never asked.” Lie, but she doesn't have to know that right now.

She screams. “YOU FELL FOR A TIME-TRAVELING DREAMBOY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS NAME?!”

You groan. “I didn’t fall for him!” But you’re a terrible liar and oh she knows, she sees it in your eyes.

Her expression softens. “You miss him.”

You look down. A nod. “…I think he might’ve followed me,” you whisper.

That’s when your friend grabs your shoulders and stares deep into your soul.

“Oh my god. I need popcorn. You better find him. I’m not letting you live in this apartment if you don’t chase this soft-spoken rooftop timeboy down and make him yours.” You laugh again, full and breathless. For the first time, the ache in your chest feels a little lighter. Maybe this isn’t just some fever dream after all.

It’s the next day.

You’re clutching a coffee you don’t even remember buying, headphones in but not playing anything, body on autopilot as you cross the courtyard toward your lecture hall. The sky is too bright, the air too loud, and your mind is still reeling from yesterday.

From him.

Every time you blink, you see his eyes again. That soft intensity. That voice. The way he looked at you before you stepped through the portal — like he wanted to stop you. Like he knew he’d see you again.

You shake your head. No way. It’s a dream. A glitch. A chemical imbalance, maybe.

You pass through the gate of the humanities building, moving fast now, weaving between students—

And then your shoulder collides with someone.

Hard.

Your coffee sloshes. “Shit—!”

“Ah—wait, I’m sor—”

The voice makes your whole body freeze.

You turn.

He’s already looking at you.

Hair darker than before, styled effortlessly, a plain black hoodie and jeans, glasses perched on his nose, and that same startled, wide-eyed look like he can’t believe you’re real either.

Your breath gets knocked out of your chest like someone pulled gravity from under your feet. “…You,” you whisper.

His lips twitch upward slowly, like a secret unfolding. “Hey.”

You blink rapidly. “Wh—what are you—how—”

He scratches the back of his neck. “You said Yonsei.”

You stare.

He shrugs. “I remembered.”

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest.

“You enrolled in Yonsei because I mentioned it once?” your voice cracks at the end.

He lifts his eyes to yours again, and suddenly it’s like the years collapse between you.

“I had twelve years to prepare,” he says softly. “I wasn’t gonna miss my chance.”

The world spins a little. You want to laugh. Cry. Grab him. Or just sit down right here on the pavement.

You manage a shaky breath. “You’re real.”

“So are you.”

There’s a pause, thick with everything unsaid.

Then he grins. “You still drink caramel lattes with cinnamon?”

You gape. “You remember that?”

He nods, eyes bright. “You told me. Once. When you were nervous.”

You laugh—because of course he remembered. Of course he listened even when you thought no one was paying attention. Even when he was sixteen and the world was too big and time was a one-way street.

Except now it isn’t. Now he’s standing right in front of you. And you don’t have to run anymore.

You’re sitting across from him now at a quiet corner café on campus, your half-drunk latte trembling slightly in your hands.

He’s talking about something—some class he’s taking? Or was it a professor? You have no idea. Because all you can focus on is the fact that this is him.

But like—not 2012 him.

Not rooftop hoodie boy with the soft voice and curious eyes.

No.

This is grown-man version.

The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up, revealing forearms that should be illegal. His jaw is sharp now, stubbled just barely like he hasn’t shaved in a day, and there’s this calm, unshakable aura around him. His hair is darker, slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it before leaving the house, and his voice—deeper now—hits your spine like a drumbeat every time he speaks.

And the glasses?

Unfair.

Absolutely, criminally unfair.

He glances up mid-sentence and pauses. “Are you even listening?”

You blink. “Huh?”

He smirks—slow, dangerous. “Caught you staring.”

You scramble. “I was not!”

He leans forward slightly, eyes glinting. “So what were you doing then?”

Your brain malfunctions. You let out a breathy laugh, trying to wave it off. “I—I was just… I mean, you—you look—”

“You can say it,” he teases. “I glowed up.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “God, I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says easily, taking a sip of his drink like this isn’t the most unhinged coffee date in the history of ever.

You peek through your fingers and see him smirking behind the rim of his cup.

And yeah, you’re definitely giggling now. Like full-on, soft laugh, shoulder-shrugging, can't-look-at-him giggling.

Because wdym he waited twelve years, chased your memory, and then showed up to university looking like the final boss of your type?

This is insane.

You lower your hands, cheeks on fire. “Okay, I’ll admit it. You grew up really… really well.”

He sets his cup down, eyes holding yours, “You haven’t changed at all,” he says gently.

You tilt your head. “That’s not true. I’m—”

“No,” he interrupts softly. “You’re still the girl who looked at a stranger in 2012 and changed his entire life.”

Your breath catches and just like that, the flirty haze fades into something real again.

He means it. You look away, heart thudding. “…I missed you,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says, his voice barely audible over the café hum. “Because I never stopped looking.”

You both walk out of the library as the sun starts dipping low behind the tall buildings, bathing the courtyard in gold.

He walks beside you, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other loosely gripping a water bottle. The air between you is quiet but charged. Like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter every time he glances over at you.

“You always read that fast?” he asks, bumping your shoulder gently.

You smirk. “You always ask dumb questions?”

He laughs, the sound deep and low, and you feel it echo somewhere in your ribs.

You both stop at the steps leading down to the main walkway. For a moment, you just look at him. That calm confidence is back, but so is the boyish glint in his eyes—the one from the rooftop. The one that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “you’re very distracting.”

His brow arches. “Yeah?”

You nod, biting back a smile. “I was trying to focus, and you kept doing that thing with your glasses.”

“What thing?”

“That little push-up-your-nose thing. Like some kind of hot professor.”

He laughs again, this time with a touch of embarrassment. “Oh wow. I’ll take that as a compliment?”

“You should,” you say. “I don’t hand them out for free.”

He turns to face you fully now. “Guess I should work for it then.”

Your breath catches.

You tilt your chin up just slightly. “You think you can handle it?”

He grins—fully now, the kind that makes your knees wobble a little. “You’re the time traveler. I already chased you through twelve years of history. I think I can handle a few compliments.”

You laugh, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That was smooth.”

“I’ve had time to practice,” he says, voice low.

There’s a pause. The air hums. For a second, he just looks at you—really looks—and it’s like the rest of the world fades into a slow, warm blur.

“You know…” he murmurs, stepping just a little closer, “you’re even prettier in 2030.”

You blink up at him. “You thought I peaked in 2012?”

He chuckles, soft and wrecking. “You peaked the second you landed in my world.”

Your heart’s doing a full gymnastics routine now.

You smile, trying to keep it together. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, smug. “I’m just getting started.”

warnings: bold touches, slightly nsfw, semi-public sex? it's smut but it's not smut... not super descriptive? I tried.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the golden hue of the hallway light bleeding in from under the door. A thunderstorm rolled in outside, low rumbles echoing between the tall buildings of Seoul. Inside, the air buzzed not with the weather — but with you two.

You and Chan sat on the floor, legs crossed, an abandoned movie paused behind you. Their half-empty mugs of tea had long gone cold, forgotten as conversation spiraled into deeper territory.

Memories. Futures. Regrets. Glimpses of things unsaid.

He was sitting closer than usual tonight.

His thigh brushed yours just barely, but neither moved. His hair was messier than your remembered, and his eyes — god, they looked tired, but warm. Like they’d been holding something back for too long.

You look at him as he spoke, but this time you weren't just listening — you were watching him. The way his mouth curved when he laughed. The dip in his voice when he whispered something a little too close. The callused fingers nervously tapping against his knee.

"You keep doing that," he said suddenly, voice low.

You blinked. “Doing what?”

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

Chan licked his lips, slow. “Like you already know what happens next.”

The words hit you straight in the chest. And you didn’t know if he meant the future they might share… or what would happen right now.

“I don’t,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know. But I want to.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. And then—

His hand cupped your jaw, gentle, testing. Your breath caught.

"You sure?" he asked.

You nodded, and it was all he needed.

Your lips met in a quiet crash, soft and searching, like you’d been writing this scene with every missed moment, every near confession. His kiss was warm, reverent — like he'd thought about it for weeks. He tasted like mint and tea and tension finally breaking.

Your hands slid up his arms, gripping at his shoulders like he might disappear if you didn’t hold him here. Chan leaned in more, pressing your back gently until your spine hit the couch, and he hovered above you, fingers trailing under the hem of your shirt.

When you shivered, he paused.

“You okay?”

You pulled him closer. “Stop asking.”

Clothes came off slowly. Not rushed — explored. As if each layer was a secret you’d been aching to learn. His hands worshipped your curves, moving over your soft stomach, along your waist, like you were art and he had all the time in the world to admire it.

“You’re so…” he whispered against your collarbone, trailing kisses, “…real. I thought maybe I imagined all of it. The portals. The years. You.”

You let out a shaky laugh, gasping when his mouth found the spot behind your ear. “You didn’t. I’m here. I’m—oh god—real.”

Your bodies moved like you already knew each other — and in a way, you did. Across timelines, across years. His touch was both familiar and brand new. Every gasp from your lips made him bolder. Every moan, a reward.

And when he finally sank into you — slow, deep, like he had nowhere else to be — the world tilted.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You feel.. so fucking good."

And you believed him.

The rhythm found itself naturally, building with every sigh, every grip of fingers in hair, every whispered name.

When you came undone, it was with his name broken on your tongue. And when he followed, trembling and soft, it was with your lips against his, grounding him.

Afterward, they lay tangled in blankets, their breathing slowing, thunder rolling gently outside.

“Still think we’re just friends?” you teased, voice raw, smiling into his neck. Chan chuckled, wrapping his arms tighter around you.

“Not even close.”

The moment you stepped into class, you felt him.

Like gravity realigned itself to make room for him in your atmosphere.

Bang Chan was already seated in the back row, cap pulled low, hoodie slung lazily off one shoulder, like he hadn’t just wrecked your entire universe twelve hours ago. And the worst part?

He smiled. That damn smirk.

Like he knew exactly what he’d done. And what he was about to do again.

You tried to play it cool—walked to your seat, didn’t look at him. But of course, the only free chair left was right next to him. Of course.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured, voice low and sinful, like he hadn’t just ruined your sleep with thoughts of his hands.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when he was already leaning in, his cologne invading your lungs and his fingers brushing lightly—too lightly—over the small of your back as you sat down.

You stiffened.

“Don’t,” you hissed under your breath.

“Don’t what?” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Touch you? Talk to you? Remind you how good you sounded last night?”

You choked on air.

A girl in the row ahead turned around at the sound. You smiled, waved. “Allergies.”

Chan snorted.

The professor began the lecture, but you couldn’t focus. Not with him that close. Not with his thigh pressed right there against yours. Not with his hand slowly inching under the table and resting on your knee like he belonged there.

You shot him a look.

He raised a brow. “What? You cold?”

“You’re insufferable,” you whispered.

“You didn’t seem to mind when I was insufferable between your—”

You elbowed him. Hard.

He grinned, not even a little sorry. “You’re blushing.” His fingers curled slightly on your knee, warm and possessive and you feel Your breath caught.

You couldn’t concentrate. The words on the screen blurred. The professor’s voice faded.

All you could think about was his hand. The way it drifted higher when no one was looking. The way he leaned in during group discussions just to whisper something completely innocent that still made your thighs press together.

This man was dangerous.

And he knew it.

And the worst part?

You were absolutely, completely, utterly wrecked for him.

They weren’t supposed to be there.

Not in the back row of the campus library, buried behind stacks of unread history books and desks no one ever used. It was where people went to nap during finals or make out in a moment of stupidity.

You and Chan? They were doing neither. Well, not technically. The books were open, laptops too, highlighters out.

Except… neither of them had turned a page in thirty minutes.

Chris leaned forward, elbows on the table, pretending to scroll through notes on his tablet — but his gaze kept dropping. To your mouth. Your fingers. The way your legs crossed. That oversized hoodie you wore that belonged to him and barely covered your thighs.

"You’re staring," You mumbled, not even looking up.

“You’re distracting,” he replied, voice barely above a breath.

“You asked to study here.”

“You said we wouldn't get anything done if we stayed at your place.” He smirked. “Was that a challenge?”

You shot him a glare — but it crumbled fast. Because he was doing that thing again: leaning close, eyes hooded, smile smug and slow like he already knew how this would end. You felt the heat coil low in your belly. Your thighs shifted under the table.

"Stop looking at me like that," you murmured, lips twitching.

"Like what?"

"Like you’re thinking of everything but your flashcards."

"I’m thinking about you." His tone dipped lower. “On this table.”

You blinked.

Chan leaned in, voice velvet-dark now. “Quiet… frustrated… trying not to moan too loud because we’re still technically in public.”

Your breath hitched.

"And what would you be doing?" you whispered, feigning composure.

“Worshipping you.” He didn’t even flinch.

A beat of silence. The air between them turned molten.

And then — as if your body moved before your brain could stop it — you slid your chair back. Slowly. Subtly.

Chan’s eyes flicked down.

You stepped over to his side. Sat down in his lap.

“Not gonna lie,” you whispered in his ear, arms snaking around his neck. “Been thinking about you… too. All day.”

His hands gripped your hips. "We shouldn’t—"

"You started it."

"You came in wearing my hoodie."

"And you're hard under your jeans."

He growled softly — more breath than sound — and then his lips were on your neck, greedy and hot. Kisses turned to bites. Bites turned to gasps. Your hands slid under his hoodie, nails scratching lightly down his spine.

"Five minutes," he muttered against your collarbone. "Just… five."

“You won’t last three.”

“Prove it.”

You smirked — and ground down on him once.

His head fell back against the chair with a low groan.

The table shook.

A book dropped to the floor.

Somewhere across the library, a student coughed.

Neither of you cared.

You were lost in each other — skin on skin, breath on breath, desperate and wild and just barely quiet enough to get away with it.

And when you finally pressed your lips to his — tongues tangling, hands tangled in hair and hoodie — it wasn’t just lust.

It was relief.

Because after all that waiting, all that teasing… you two were finally, finally burning.

Together.

They barely made it through the front door.

The moment it clicked shut, Chan pressed you against it, mouth hot on yours, hands already pushing up the hem of your hoodie like he’d been waiting all day — no, weeks — to get his hands on your skin without consequences.

"You were so smug back there," you breathed against his lips.

He grinned. "Still am."

"Good. I wanna wipe that look off your face."

"You can try, baby," he growled, lifting you by the thighs.

You gasped — arms flying around his neck as he carried you, lips never leaving yours, stumbling down the hall toward your bedroom like a man possessed.

Clothes? Gone.

Sense of time? Obliterated.

The second your back hit the mattress, he was over you, trailing kisses down your chest, your stomach, saying your name like a prayer between breaths.

And when he finally slid into you — slowly, deeply, like he knew every part of you already — you both moaned in unison.

“God—” you whimpered, hands clutching at his back. “You feel—”

“I know,” he panted, forehead against yours. “I know.”

It was messy and slow and too fast all at once. Gasps, quiet moans, whispered swears in the dark. Your head tipped back. His name fell from your lips like poetry.

And then—

Click.

The bedroom door creaked open.

“Y/N, did you leave the—” “OH MY GOD—”

Time froze.

Chan scrambled to yank the sheets up, arm flying across your body protectively. Your eyes went wide.

Standing in the doorway, holding a half-eaten popsicle in pajama shorts:

Your best friend.

Mouth open. Jaw on the floor. Popsicle melting.

"...is that?" she blinked. "THE 2012 guy?!"

"Get out!" You squeaked, diving under the blanket. “Why are you even home?!”

“I live here?! And I forgot my charger!” She shut the door but not before yelling, “Use protection, you horny freaks!”

You groaned into your hands as Chan burst out laughing.

The door slammed shut. Silence followed.

For a second, neither of them moved. Just shallow breaths and the sound of blood thundering in their ears.

Then—

"...Wanna pick up where we left off?" Chan whispered, turning to you, eyes dark with something much deeper than mischief.

You blinked, then slowly peeked out from under the covers. “She saw everything.”

“She saw a shoulder and heard, like, three seconds.”

“She saw my soul leave my body, Chris.”

He grinned — full teeth, dimples, eyes still shining with laughter and heat. “I’ll bring it back.”

His hand slid under the sheets, warm and sure, tracing slowly up your thigh. And that was all it took.

Your breath caught. You met his gaze — and any lingering embarrassment dissolved into sparks.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whispered.

“Still want me to shut up?” he asked, voice dipped low.

You bit your lip. “Yes.”

“Then stop being so fucking perfect.”

And with that, he rolled you beneath him again — this time slower, deeper, no rush. Just warmth. Pressure. Skin sliding against skin as you moved together, every touch more confident than the last. The air between them turned sticky, delicious, thick with need.

No teasing now. Just honesty.

Hands on hips. Fingertips dragging down spines. Breathless whimpers against flushed skin. The soft, rhythmic thump of the headboard tapping the wall in a steady beat that said: we’re not done.

Not even close.

He kissed you like he was learning you — memorizing every sound you made, every way you arched, every time your nails dug into his back. You whispered his name like a secret you didn’t want to keep anymore.

And when he came — forehead buried in the crook of your neck, body trembling, arms tight around you — it was quiet. Reverent. Like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

You lay there afterward, tangled in sheets and him, heartbeat finally slowing.

Chan stroked your side absentmindedly, one hand tracing invisible shapes on your skin.

Neither of them spoke for a while. There was no need to.

Until he murmured, lips against your temple:

“Your roommate’s gonna murder me.”

Everything that came out your mouth are laughs, cheeks still flushed.

“She’s gonna make us pancakes,” you said. “And then lecture us.”

“I’d say it’s worth it.”

You turned to face him, fingers grazing his jaw, “You’re definitely worth the trouble,” you whispered. He smiled — quiet, sweet and kissed you again.

This time, soft. No urgency. No teasing. Just… everything.