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l1v-jzn · 13 days ago

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˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 & 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐜 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ — 𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐠𝐞𝐮𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐞 𝐱 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐮, 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲, & 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ : 𝐘/𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐦: 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨��, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐦𝐚. 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐲, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞, 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭? 𝐇𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭.

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠-𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐘/𝐍 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞… 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟?

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: "𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 - 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲" ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

𝟎𝟏:𝟓𝟕 ───────●─── 𝟎𝟐:𝟓𝟓

◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤ↻ ❤️

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The hallway glows gold. Not metaphorically—like, it’s actually glowing. Warm light spills from the high vaulted ceiling in golden ripples, dancing across polished marble floors like sunbeams poured from the gods’ own teacup. The air smells faintly of roses and ozone, that electrifying scent that always signals Big Magic is in play. Wisps of cloud cling to your boots as you walk, soft and curling around your ankles like affectionate cats. You’ve been here before, of course training missions, mock assignments but today? Today is different.

Your wings twitch behind your shoulders, nervously folded, the feathers too pristine, too obvious. The white of them catches every shimmer of the light, like they know they’re being watched. You swear they’re sweating. Your heart drums a frantic beat in your chest, like it’s trying to take flight on its own. Because today is The Day. Your Final Field Exam. The last test before you earn your full Agent status with the Department of Matchmaking Magic.

You try to breathe. It comes out shaky.

As you round a towering marble pillar, carved with runes of fate and really unsubtle cherub motifs—you’re greeted by a glowing crystal screen pulsing with your name in delicate cursive. The calligraphy sparkles with a soft lavender hue, but the formal tone of it might as well scream: NO PRESSURE, RIGHT?

Hovering in the air beside it is a painfully pink folder. It levitates just at eye level, flipping lazily in the air like it’s bored. Then like it’s finally acknowledging your presence it zips forward and plops itself into your hands with a theatrical flourish. The corners curl slightly, as if the folder itself is judging you.

You swallow hard. Inside: the target file.

Subject: Final Assignment – Match 143-B

Status: Mortal Realm, Earth Sector #0312

Difficulty: Advanced (Emotionally Complicated)

Tools Provided:

• 1x Standard-Issue Bow

• 3x Heart Arrows (Use sparingly)

• 1x Identity Charm (Single-use disguise)

Goal: Complete a Perfect Match.

Restrictions: Do not interfere with mortal emotion.

Critical Warning: Do NOT fall in love.

Your eyes pause. That last part is underlined twice. A chill tiptoes down your spine, cold despite the golden glow.

You flip the page and freeze. The name on the assignment file flashes up like a punch to the stomach: Geum Seong Je.

You blink. No fucking way. It couldn’t be. Him? Of all people?

Your pulse goes from flutter to full-on bongo drum solo. Every nerve sparks alive. You remember that name. You remember the eyes, those glasses he wears, the way he said your fake Earth name like it mattered. You remember the trouble it nearly caused during Match 45-Z, when you maybe lingered a little too long, maybe watched him punch dudes on the corner of some aesthetic café more than strictly necessary.

Just as you're spiraling into an emotional black hole, a scribbled note catches your attention, inked in sparkly red and underlined in glitter like a warning in lipstick:

“Try not to get distracted by him this time. You do remember what happened with Match 45-Z, right?”

— Sincerely, Aphrodite 💋

Rude.

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. Classic Aphrodite. Dramatic as ever, but annoyingly right.

You close the folder and look down the rest of the hallway. At the end, a gilded archway gleams, already humming with portal magic. You can see the hazy outline of Earth beyond it—gray cityscapes, amber sunrises, and the flicker of candlelight in what might be a corner bookstore.

Your fingers tighten around the folder. Your wings ruffle once, as if bracing themselves. Your mission is simple: find the soul match, aim true, and don’t let your feelings get in the way.

But your gut is already telling you… this match? This one might break all the rules.

The portal chamber hums with ancient magic, a mix of soft harp music and the crackle of raw cosmic power. Golden rings spin overhead, like halos on espresso shots. Cupids-in-training mill around with jittery wings and last-minute pep talks. The air smells like rosewater and nerves.

Min wings you in the shoulder with a heart-shaped pillow, her expression somewhere between smug and motherly. “Girl, an all-girls school on Earth? You’re gonna combust the second someone offers you iced coffee and drama.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s practically a flight maneuver, but a smile sneaks out anyway. There’s warmth here—deep, unshakeable warmth. The kind forged in glitter-drenched battle drills and wing-mending circles, in whispered gossip under celestial covers and synchronized eye-rolls at mandatory harp solos. These are your people. Your chaos cohort.

Hyeri sidles up, eyes serious, voice low. “Be careful, okay? Mortals don’t play fair.”

You tilt your chin, heroic and maybe a bit dramatic. You're playing it cool, like you're not already internally spiraling about the Geum Seong Je thing. “Please. I’ve read every mortal romance novel twice. I’m invincible.”

Min snorts like a disbelieving goddess. “That’s exactly what Match 77 said before she caught feelings for a barista who gave her oat milk unprompted.”

Okay, that’s fair.

But before you can lob back a snarky comeback or, y'know, beg to switch missions, the magic flares.

The scroll in your hand glows hot. The Identity Charm snaps into action. There's a rush of light, a cool blue and white color and your wings dissolve into nothing, feather by feather, like snowflakes on a summer sidewalk. The folder seals itself and disappears in a puff of glitter that smells like cotton candy and impending doom.

You barely have time to breathe.

The marble floor beneath your feet gives out like someone pulled a trapdoor in reality. The world tips. You're falling.

It’s not like a mortal fall—this is cleaner, sharper, like being sliced from one realm to another. Time and space whirl into a tunnel of color and stars and ancient lyrics you can’t quite remember. Your heartbeat tries to match the rhythm but fails. You clutch the charm against your chest like it might anchor you to something real.

Landing in the mortal realm isn’t exactly smooth.

You crash into Earth’s atmosphere with a sparkly thud, like a meteor that shops at glitter boutiques. There’s a rush of wind, a whoosh of ancient magic, and then darkness.

When you wake up, you’re sprawled on a twin mattress in a room roughly the size of a celestial storage closet. The overhead light flickers like it’s afraid of you. Your back is sore, your wings are gone, and you’re in a plaid skirt and an itchy mortal sweater vest that smells aggressively like static cling and someone else's lavender dryer sheets.

The school is just as chaotic in its elegance.

An all-girls private academy tucked into the misty mountains just outside Seoul. The buildings are old, like really old—stone corridors, arched windows, and whispers in the walls. It smells like freshly sharpened pencils, perfume that costs more than your wingspan, and centuries of untold tea just begging to be spilled.

This school might just be its own kind of battlefield.

You spend the first few days blending in like a socially awkward chameleon with your made up name “Park Yu Na”. You study how the girls talk—half gossip, half poetry. They say things like, “He liked my post but didn’t comment, which means he’s either emotionally repressed or already dating Soojin.” You take notes. You practice in the mirror. You get really good at pretending to be confused by physics and pretending to be way too interested in cafeteria menu changes.

The other students accept you. Mostly because you keep your head down, laugh at the right times, and fake being terminally obsessed with the school’s unofficial boy ranking list (you’re sorry, but "Hotness Olympics" shouldn’t have its own spreadsheet).

But deep down? You’re bored. Bored like only an undercover divine being who hasn’t shot a heart arrow in five days can be.

Because where is your target?

Where is Geum Seong Je?

You check the scroll every night in the bathroom stall with the best Wi-Fi signal. The little golden map still blinks. Still shows he’s nearby. But no name, no photo, no beacon. Just a pulsing dot that refuses to move past “You’re close. Wait.”

You consider launching an arrow at random, just to see what happens. But Aphrodite's “DO NOT FALL IN LOVE” warning plays on loop in your brain like a cursed ringtone.

It’s not until Friday afternoon, halfway through a rainy music class, that the air finally shifts.

Your hands grip the rusted rooftop railing, metal biting into your palms. The clouds overhead twist like they're holding their breath. And below you, chaos dances.

Seong Je stands in the middle of the alley like he owns it, blood on his knuckles, defiance in his spine. The kind of boy mortals write poetry about and then immediately regret dating. His shirt’s half-untucked, his lip split and already healing with the stubborn pride of someone who’s been through worse and decided to smile anyway like he is enjoying it.

The two guys flanking him—also in uniform, also bloodied—look like they just realized this isn’t going to end well for them.

And they're right. Because Seong Je doesn’t hesitate. He swings.

It’s fast, brutal, controlled. His fists speak their own language—one of warning, maybe history, or don’t touch what’s mine kinda. You recognize it. Not because you’ve seen it in your training, but because something deep and ancient in you responds to it.

He moves like a storm.

And yet when he looks up after he finishes beating up the two men, when his eyes land on you, everything stops. Like the world hit pause just for him to breathe in your presence. He freezes, for a second.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a slow, knowing smirk. The kind that says trouble recognizes trouble.

“Who are you?” he calls out, voice edged like a switchblade and smooth like honey-drenched sin. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, half-lit. His uniform blazer draped like a cape, and one side of his lip is bruised. He is the very image of “do not engage.”

Your scroll lied. This is not a soul match. This is a slow-motion disaster.

Because Seong Je isn't some innocent mortal with tragic eyes and a soft heart. He’s not waiting for love. He’s the top dog of Ganghak High. Part of the Union—a syndicate of student delinquents with iron knuckles and loyalty tattoos. The kind of group that writes their homework in blood and uses lockers like coffins.

“You spying?” he asks, tone amused, but there’s something sharp under it. “Or just lost, angel?”

You flinch, not physically. Just internally. He said angel. A coincidence, probably. A joke. Right? It is.. I guess.

You force yourself to speak. “I-I’m not spying. I just.. needed some air.”

“On a rooftop. With eyes that look like they’ve seen gods.”

He blows out smoke. It coils upward, brushing the invisible string between you.

Your heart is not beating fast because of him. It’s the altitude. The weather. Definitely not the way his voice wraps around your name like he already owns it.

You should leave. You have to leave. This is not what Cupid agents do. This is not how you pass a field exam. This is exactly how Match 77 ended up crying on a Vespa in Milan.

But you don’t move. Because something in your chest has clicked out of place.

Just down below, Seong Je doesn’t look away. Maybe he remembers you too.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky is bruised with clouds and insomnia. It’s just past midnight when you sneak out of your dorm.

You slip out of the dormitory around 12:15 a.m., hoodie over your head and anxiety practically bouncing off your sneakers. The scroll won’t stop pulsing. The identity charm is hot against your chest. You haven’t slept in two nights and your celestial brain is short-circuiting over this stupid, emotionally-complicated mortal.

You need food. Sugar. Instant noodles. Maybe something deep-fried and emotionally supportive.

So you make your way to the neighborhood convenience store—the kind that hums under flickering fluorescent lights and smells like squid chips and low-stakes rebellion.

The 24-hour convenience store glows like a portal at the end of the empty street. It buzzes softly, like it’s trying to stay awake with you. Seoul’s night air is cool, humming with traffic in the distance and the quiet loneliness that only creeps in during mortal after-hours.

You push open the glass door. The bell above the frame jingles. Just like that. There he is.

Leaning against the counter like the universe owes him a favor. Messy hair, his back half-turned, the cold light painting shadows on his face. He's dressed in black, again. Hoodie, jacket, a silver chain just barely peeking out from under his collar. He’s holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and glaring at the clerk like the guy just insulted his ancestors.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Well you could back out and go to another convenience store, or you could pretend you’re here for tampons and run, or just teleport. No, wait. You’re mortal. Too late. He turns around to face you.

You froze at the spot. His eyes lock on yours and he recognizes you immediately.

“You stalking me?” He says it flatly, like it’s a fact. Not a question. While pocketing the cigarettes like he's daring you to say something about it.

You force a laugh, totally casual, definitely not panicking and definitely gonna pretend you don’t recognize him. Even though your stomach just did a backflip. “...No?” You wince at how unconvincing that sounds. You walk past him to grab the honey butter chips on the shelf.

He doesn't smile, but he doesn’t look away either. He leans a little against the counter like he has all the time in the world and nowhere better to be. The clerk behind the register is so tense you think he might actually burst into confetti.

He cocks an eyebrow. You hate how good he looks under this cursed lighting. “So it’s just a coincidence you’re here. Alone. At 12:17 A.M. In the exact same store I’m in.”

“I just wanted honey butter chips.” You hold up a bag like it’s holy proof of your innocence. Your hand is literally shaking. Not because you’re scared. Just match jitters. Totally normal.

He narrows his eyes. Then smirks. “Park Yu Na, right? Transfer girl from the fancy dead-girl school up the hill.”

Your mouth goes dry. How does he know your name? You haven’t told anyone. “You know my name?”

“You’re loud.” He shrugs, already walking past you, brushing your shoulder with a heat that makes your skin buzz. “And you stare. A lot.”

You spin to protest, but he’s already at the drink fridge. Grabs a coke with casual aggression. “You always walk around alone this late?” he says over his shoulder, tone unreadable. “This street is not exactly safe after midnight. Even for angels in hoodie.”

That word again. Angel. Is it a joke? Does he know? Is the veil slipping or is he just... uncannily observant and unfairly hot?

You clear your throat. “Are you always this dramatic in front of carbonated drinks?”

He snorts. For the first time, it feels like his guard lowers a millimeter. Just enough to see something flicker in those storm-colored eyes.

He pays in cash, doesn’t wait for change. As he passes—the scent of tobacco and danger trailing behind him, he pauses at the door. “See you around, transfer girl.” then he glances back over his shoulder, “Try not to get caught staring next time.”

The bell jingles. He’s gone. And you’re standing in the snack aisle with a bag of honey butter chips, a cursed scroll vibrating in your pocket, and a heart that’s beating like it just failed an ethics test.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s the next day. Seoul’s sun is doing her most, all golden and dramatic like she knows something’s about to happen.

You’ve tracked Seong Je halfway across the city using a very not-suspicious divine scroll hidden in your mortal physics textbook.

He’s walking through a narrow side street, earbuds in, head down, looking like he’s halfway between ditching class and starting a turf war.

And beside him was your opportunity: a girl from his school. She’s walking his way. She’s cute, definitely crushable, and technically a match-compatible soul. This is your chance.

You duck behind a vending machine. The divine bow shimmers into your hand, cloaked from mortal eyes. You notch one of your three heart arrows. This time, you’re focused. Calm and unshakable.

This is it. The shot. Cupid's gonna be proud. You’re gonna make the match, pass the exam, and forget about that smirk he gave you at 12:17 A.M.

You draw back the bowstring and just as you release the string, The girl sidesteps. Right at the last second.

And you realize, with the slow-mo horror of a Greek tragedy, you just fired an enchanted love arrow directly at Seong Je’s hoodie. And the universe, because she’s petty, makes him turn around.

Your arrow whizzes past his cheek like a divine mosquito.

He catches a flicker of pink light. His eyes narrow.

You dive behind a recycling bin like a gremlin with poor decision-making skills. The bow vanishes just as he stalks toward the alley where you definitely are not hiding.

Too late. He turns the corner and stops. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Confusion and suspicion battling on his stupidly handsome face. “You,” he says. “You’re literally following me again.”

You blink up at him like a raccoon caught with a cursed glowstick. “What? No. I-I was just… checking on the structural integrity of this recycling bin.”

“With jazz hands?” he continued.

You look down. Yep. Your fingers are still twitching from the leftover spellcast. Glittery.

You clear your throat and try again. “You’ve got a very punchable aura, okay? I needed to make sure you weren’t going to ruin the vibe of this alley.”

He blinks. Then he chuckles. Actually chuckles. Like, deep and low and unfair. Like someone just whispered a secret to his ribcage. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.”

You scramble to stand, heart thumping like a drumline inside your ribs. “You haven’t met enough girls.”

His smile—fucking hell. It’s half amused, and entirely illegal under celestial law.

The sun hits him just right. You hate it. You love it. His whole face glows like a problem you want to write essays about.

For a second, he just looks at you. “Park Yu Na…” he says slowly, like he’s tasting it. “Whatever planet you’re from, stay on it. It’s entertaining.”

He turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, leaving you standing there with one less arrow and a matchless mission.

You have two shots left and also maybe a problem.

Because your heart? Well It’s probably not listening to the scroll anymore.

You return to school like nothing happened. No bow. No arrow. No rooftop flashbacks or inconveniently attractive gang leaders in your dreams.

Just you, “Park Yu Na,” the totally average, definitely-not-a-divine-being student from Class 2-B, sipping banana milk and trying not to panic.

You slip into the last class of the day, but it’s too late. Ms. Hwang, your history teacher (and mortal stress monster), pauses mid-lecture and narrows her eyes.

A chill runs down your spine like someone just cursed your GPA.

After class, she calls you over. Her tone? Ice. Her vibe? Well, betrayed middle-aged warrior queen.

“Miss Park,” she says, voice low and stern. “I checked the attendance log. You’ve missed four periods today. Without a pass. Without explanation.”

You try to improvise. “I-uh-got lost…in my thoughts?”

Well she does not laugh. Instead, she hands you a slip of shame-colored paper with nine bold letters at the top: D-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N.

“You’ll be cleaning the gymnasium. Alone. After class.”

“Maybe while you’re scrubbing the floor, you’ll remember how to stay in school.”

You nod solemnly, clutching the paper like it personally offended your ancestors.

As you walk away, a single thought runs through your head: “Cupids, give me strength.”

After school, the hallways empty out like the soul of a group project. Laughter echoes from outside where normal students are escaping into freedom, phones out, uniforms unbuttoned, homework forgotten.

But not you.

Nope.

You push open the creaking gymnasium doors, and the smell of floor polish and faint embarrassment hits you like a divine slap.

The gym is big and echoey—high ceilings with faded championship banners drooping like tired ghosts. Dust motes spin in the slanted rays of golden hour sunlight. The silence is so loud, your footsteps sound like drumbeats.

You grab a mop from the corner, roll up your sleeves, and start scrubbing the floor like it’s responsible for your emotional damage. The echo of your own footsteps is your only company. Well—your footsteps, and the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket that is definitely not enchanted but you desperately wish it was so you could clean this place in one divine snap.

There’s something weirdly therapeutic about it. The repetitive motion. The squeak of rubber shoes. The way the sun slowly drips down the walls, turning everything a soft amber.

You curse the teacher who noticed your disappearance. Curse the scroll. Curse Seong Je and his stupidly dodgeable presence. You’re half-convinced the gods are watching this like a telenovela.

“Clean the gym,” they said.

“No powers,” they insisted.

“Reflect on your actions,” they scolded.

You're reflecting, alright. You’re reflecting on how incredibly not smooth you looked eating floor after that arrow fumble.

You’re halfway through grumbling about Seong Je ruining your life when you hear it. A sound that is barely there. The door creaking open.

You straighten your posture, heart skipping. “Sorry, gym’s closed,” you call out, not looking.

“Didn’t ask,” a voice replies. It was low, unbothered, a little amused and a little TOO familiar.

You spin around, mop still in hand. And there he is, Geum Seong Je. In your school gym. Like some delinquent prince who got lost on his way to a street fight and decided to visit your personal hell instead.

He's wearing that same loose uniform jacket, slouched over one shoulder like the laws of gravity don’t apply to him. His hands are in his pockets. His hair's messy, like he either just woke up or just won a fight.

Your throat goes dry. “What are you doing here?” you hiss, trying to look casual while holding a mop like a confused magical girl.

He shrugs, walking in like he owns the place. His eyes flick lazily across the gym, then settle on you. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood?” you echo. “This is a private girls’ school. You’re not even allowed on the sidewalk.”

“Guess I’m breaking more than just hearts now.”

You nearly drop the mop on the floor. He smirks. Like he knows. Like he’s teasing you. Like this is a game and you’re already losing—dang it, he is right.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say again, but quieter now. The gym feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Unbearably so.

He takes another step forward. His boots squeak softly on the waxed floor. There’s something unreadable in his gaze now—no smirk, no jokes. Just this quiet, curious look.

“You looked pissed earlier,” he says. “Didn’t like seeing you that mad. Figured I’d check on you.”

Your brain short-circuits. Because Geum Seong Je—Ganghak’s top dog, Mr. I smoke under streetlights and fear nothing—is here. In your school. After hours. Because of you.

“So you stalked me this time,” you say, desperate to deflect the panic in your chest.

“Maybe,” he says. “But at least I didn’t bring a bow.”

Your face heats up. You want to crawl into a locker and never return. “I wasn’t trying to shoot you,” you mutter, returning to the floor like it’s safer to mop than to feel things.

There’s silence. Then a soft footsteps. He walks closer. Closer still. Until you feel him behind you—close enough that your heartbeat does the Macarena.

“You’re weird,” he says again, voice quieter this time. “But you’re not boring.”

And then, just like that he’s gone. Like the smoke from his cigarettes. Like the ghost of a rooftop stare.

You’re left in the gym, mop in hand, floor half-cleaned, heart absolutely losing its damn freaking mind. And outside, the sun finally sets.

Later That Evening. The gym smells like sweat and lemon disinfectant, and your limbs feel like noodles left too long in boiling water. You mop through the final square foot of parquet flooring like a war veteran scrubbing trauma into the floorboards.

As the last light fades behind the bleachers, you drag yourself toward the hallway—sore, hungry, and still trying to figure out what just happened. Did Seong Je really show up? Did he say he was worried? Nah, there’s no way he will be worried about you. Your thoughts are full of ONE incredibly illegal boy with sinfully good looking face who definitely should not have shown up today, but somehow did. You try to shake it off. You’re a celestial agent. A divine intern. A professional. You are here for one reason, and that reason is not the slow curve of Seong Je’s grin.

So why is your heart doing pirouettes?

You make your way to the third-floor corridor where the dorm lockers are—dimly lit, quiet, that weird echo of sneakers and whispers long gone. Your school bag’s right where you left it, tucked neatly inside Locker #413. You yank open the creaky metal door and then you see it.

Something’s there. Sitting right on top of your books, perfectly centered, like it’s meant to be noticed.

It’s not flashy. No glitter, no love note, no magical sparkle. Just a single bottle of banana milk. Your favorite brand. Chilled. Still sweating from the cold. With a folded scrap of paper taped to the side, messily ripped from a math workbook.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. Your fingers feel too clumsy as you peel it off and unfold it, revealing just three short words in jagged, all-caps handwriting:

“EAT SOMETHING, WEIRDO.”

— SJ

Because the handwriting is sharp and angular—like someone who doesn’t write things down unless it’s detention-worthy.

Because he watched you mop a gym for an hour and said nothing, then vanished. Because you know. You just know. Your fingers tighten around the note.

The banana milk feels like it’s pulsing with meaning. Like this silly, stupid can is the heaviest thing in the world.

You glance around the hallway—but it’s empty. Silent. Like the world is holding its breath.

Somewhere outside, the wind picks up. A door creaks. The universe winks and for a moment, you’re not a Cupid on assignment.

You’re not “Park Yu Na.” You’re just a girl in a hallway with a fluttering chest and the tiniest, quietest smile. You tuck the note into your skirt pocket.

Hold the banana milk like it’s sacred. And walk back to your dorm room in a daze, head full of nothing but echoes of a smirk, a voice like honey and knives, and three handwritten words that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow already do. You’re supposed to be making a match. Instead, it feels like you’re the one being hunted, by a boy who doesn’t believe in rules. A boy with a lighter in his pocket and danger in his smile. A boy who just left a piece of your heart in your locker.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The Next Morning. You wake up still clutching the banana milk like it’s your emotional support potion. The note’s under your pillow. Your dreams were a weird montage of gym floors, smirking gang leaders, and mop handles turning into bows.

You try to play it cool at breakfast. Try not to replay the moment he looked at you like you were a puzzle wrapped in glitter and defiance. Try not to think about the way the note still smells faintly like cigarette smoke and bubblegum.

Try not to feel anything. You successfully failed in it.

By the time second period rolls around, you’re fully zoning out, doodling tiny bows in the margins of your literature notebook when Sun Hee (your mortal friend) slides into the seat beside you like she’s carrying government secrets.

She leans in, eyes wide. “You will not BELIEVE what I just heard.”

You blink, brain definitely already malfunctioning. “Is it about me? Wait, is it about Seong Je? Wait—no. Don’t tell me.” You told yourself.

She tells you anyway. Because best friends are built for betrayal. “So apparently one of the girls from Class 3-A saw this dude sneak into the school yesterday after class. Tall. Wearing a glasses. Definitely not regulation uniform. She said he climbed over the west wall and bribed the janitor with a carton of Marlboros and a packet of Choco Pies.” You drop your pen on your desk after Sun Hee stopped talking.

Sun Hee’s eyes narrow. “Why do you look like someone just slapped you with destiny?”

You stare at your desk, brain buffering.

Because of course. Of course Seong Je didn’t walk through the front gates like a normal person. Of course he scaled a wall like a delinquent Spider-Man and bribed the janitor like it was nothing.

Your mind flashes back to last night: the casual way he leaned in the doorway. The perfect timing. He didn’t stumble across you.

He planned it. He knew where to find you.

That’s when it hits you—harder than any arrow you’ve ever fired, he asked around. He probably knew exactly what room you’d be cleaning. Probably watched the sunset from some rooftop just waiting for everyone else to leave. Probably dropped the banana milk into your locker after you went to shower.

And now? Now your heart is a war zone and your face is 90% blush.

Sun Hee pokes your cheek. “Are you okay? You look like you're having a slow-motion anime realization.”

You shove your notebook into your bag, whispering under your breath, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Because this was supposed to be an assignment. A mission. No interference. No EMOTIONS.

And yet somewhere in between missed shots and banana milk, Seong Je has gone from target to threat level swoon.

And worst of all? You only have two arrows left and you can’t waste those two for now. You can’t fail.

Classes had just ended, and while some students headed back to their dorms, others left campus to take a walk or do their own thing. You gave a wave to Sun Hee and Mi Rae as they made their way to their dormitory, while you stepped off campus, planning to visit that bookstore you had discovered during a stroll through the neighborhood.

A few minutes ago, it started to rain when you got out of the book store. Not the gentle, romantic kind either—the full-blown "sky had a breakdown" kind. Sheets of water hammer the pavement as thunder rolls low, like the heavens are warning you that you're about to do something very stupid.

Which checks out. You duck into the nearest open place: a tiny, grimy convenience store with flickering lights and a faint smell of wet cardboard and boiled egg.

You're soaked, shivering, and very, very aware of the fact that your divine assignment is still very unfinished.

That’s when you see him, sitting at the back ramen bar, hood down, hair damp from the rain, sleeves pushed up. He’s slouched like the chair offended him, one knee bouncing. The steam from his instant noodles curls around him like smoke around a dragon.

You freeze in the aisle, half-hidden behind a rack of seaweed snacks. But it’s too late. He sees you.

His lips pull into a lazy smirk. “Sit. I don’t bite.”

You arch a brow. Your hair drips onto your collar. “Liar.”

Still, your legs betray you. You sit. Across from him. Because there are no other open seats.

He eyes your soaked sweater vest and plaid skirt like it’s some kind of comedy show. “Do you always show up looking like a drowned honor student?”

You look down at your soggy uniform, then deadpan, “Only on days when fate curses me with your presence.”

He laughs through his nose, takes another bite. then slurps the noodles.

You fold your arms, cold and snarky. He’s warm and smirking. It’s unfair.

“Why do you always glare like that?” he asks, mouth half-full. “You look like you’re about to report me to the principal.”

You rest your chin on your palm. “Only if the principal takes bribes in cigarette packs and misplaced rage.”

That does it. He chokes. Mid-slurp. Noodles halfway to his mouth. He coughs, actually startled, and you blink, watching him hack up his pride as he slams his chopsticks down and wheezes out, “You–what?”

You blink innocently. “Sorry, too much truth?”

And then he laughs, really laughs. Loud, full-body, real laugh. Not the smug chuckle. Not the polite scoff.

This one? This is real. Teeth. That gummy smile he has. Head tilting back slightly, like your words genuinely tripped him up.

And your heart? Your divine, professionally detached, this-is-just-an-assignment heart? Yeah, that bitch goes: oh no.

Because in that one laugh, you can see the boy behind the title. Not “Top Dog of Ganghak.” Not “Target 143-B.” Just a guy. Eating instant noodles at 11 P.M in a convenience store that smells like despair and bad life choices.

And the way he’s looking at you now? Like you caught him off guard.

He taps his chopsticks on the table, leaning forward just a bit. “Park Yu Na, huh? You’re not as soft as you look.”

You smirk, mimicking his posture. “And you’re not as scary as you act.”

He hums at that. His foot bumps yours under the table—definitely not by accident.

Lightning cracks outside.

But inside? There’s a strange kind of truce.

Steam rising between you. Warmth spreading slowly and beneath it all, that one last arrow still burns quietly against your spine—like it’s waiting. Like it knows: You’re in trouble.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s a lazy Sunday, and the city is humming like a half-sung lullaby. Neon lights haven’t fully flickered on yet, and the sky is a soft, pale gray—clouds hanging low like the world’s keeping a secret.

You didn’t mean to run into him.

You were just grabbing mandu from that tiny shop by Hongdae Station with your friend Sun Hee, the one that smells like heaven and deep-fried regret.

Just walking. Minding your own divine business. Hoodie up, earphones in. Mortal camouflage at full power. That’s when you spotted him.

He’s dressed in that casual, slouchy way that still somehow screams danger—black cargo pants, black hoodie, chain peeking out. The kind of boy your mother would tell you to avoid but your heart writes poetry about anyway.

He’s not alone. A few other boys hover nearby—also in black, shoulders heavy with Union swagger. One’s laughing. Another’s passing a soda can. Someone’s talking to him. Every single one of them radiates that “we-run-this-side-of-Seoul” energy.

And yet—he stands out, out of all men in this country. Even when he’s silent. Even when he’s doing nothing at all.

Leaning against a railing like it’s a throne. Cigarette in one hand, loose and forgotten. Expression unreadable. Hair ruffled—ahh fuck. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses.

You panic. Not because you’re scared. But because something in your stomach flips the second you see him. So you do what any undercover magical agent would do: You pretend not to see him. Head down. Hoodie up.

You cross the street like he’s just any random boy, you would stumble upon to. Just anyone. Like your heart didn’t do the cha-cha the last time he called you “weird.”

You’re walking through an alley shortcut behind a fried chicken place when Sun Hee stops to check her phone. You didn't even look up to take a glance at him, just kept your head down.

But he’s not listening on the others. Because his eyes are on you. The second you look up, he sees you and for a breathless, shattering second, the whole street slows.

When Sun Hee stops checking her phone, she drags you along with her. Your feet keep walking—barely. You force your expression to stay blank. Pretend you don’t see him. Pretend your heart didn’t just short-circuit. Pretend you didn’t replay that banana milk note seventeen times last night.

Just turns his head slowly and tracks your steps like he’s memorizing your path. Like you’re the only thing in his line of sight. Like everything else around him—the noise, the gang, the world—has gone fuzzy. And even though you’re not looking straight at him, you feel it.

The weight of his gaze. The invisible string pulling taut between you in that crowded street.

The fluorescent lights above the little shop buzz faintly, casting a sleepy warmth on the steaming trays of odeng and the rows of bottled drinks lined up like soldiers.

You and Sun Hee squeeze into the corner booth with barely enough space for your trays and elbows. She’s halfway through a sweet potato hotdog and mid-rant about your group project partners being “criminally unserious.”

You mostly nod, trying to focus, but your mind’s already drifting again—thinking about arrows and assignments and a certain boy with bed eyes—help and that annoying smirk that lingers in your thoughts way too long.

Sun Hee finally leans back with a sigh, tapping her chopsticks against her empty bowl. “You sure you’ll be okay getting home by yourself?”

“It’s fine,” you say with a weak smile. “Just need to catch a cab. I’ll text you when I’m back.”

She zips up her pink hoodie and gives you one last suspicious squint, then pulls you into a hug that smells like tteokbokki and vanilla shampoo. “You’ve been acting weird lately. Like… staring into space, sighing dramatically, blinking slow.”

“I blink at a totally normal speed.”

“Liar.”

“Text me, or I’m calling the cops. I mean it.”

You laugh, squeezing her tighter before she jogs off into the crowd, waving with both hands like you’re shipping off to war. Her voice echoes faintly, “BYE, YUNA!! DON’T GET KIDNAPPED!!”

The shop quiets after she’s gone. The crowd thins. The warmth fades.

You step out into the street, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The night has turned cold, the rain thinning into mist. Your phone refuses to load the taxi app.

You’re standing alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, phone held high like it’s a prayer to the cab gods. But it’s late, and the Seoul sky is dark and sulky. Every car zooms past without slowing. The cold has started to creep under your cardigan, and your patience is two seconds from cracking.

You sigh, stepping closer to the curb. That’s when the growl of an engine pulls up beside you. Your breath catches before you even see him.

And there he is. Seong Je, in a black windbreaker and helmet slung on his wrist. His eyes meet yours beneath the glow of the streetlight, unreadable—but curious. Annoyed. Maybe a little amused. “What, you just gonna stand here ‘til sunrise?”

You stiffen, trying for dignity despite the shivers in your knees. “I’m waiting for a cab.”

He glances up the street. Empty. Predictable. “No cabs come here this late. You’ll freeze your wings off.”

Your stomach tightens at wings. You almost ask if he knows—but his tone is still casual. Teasing. “Romantic,” you say, voice dry. “I was hoping a rich vampire would adopt me.”

He swings a leg off the bike, kicks the stand down.

He jerks his chin toward the alley. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

You have self-respect, training, immortality, and standards. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting on that death trap.”

He shrugs like the universe bores him. “Then walk.”

And he’s already straddling the bike again like he knows you’re going to fold. He starts strapping on his helmet like this is already decided. Like he’s giving you a choice that isn’t one. Like he already won.

You look at the empty road stretching behind you. Then at him. The way his hair curls slightly at his temple. The glint of mischief in his eyes. The open space on the bike.

You curse your dignity and climb on. The leather of the seat is cool beneath you. Your legs tremble as you swing them over—either from the cold or the fact that you’re now effectively hugging a delinquent with a smile that ruins lives.

You don’t look at him when he holds out the spare helmet, and he doesn’t comment when your hands hover—just slightly—before they land on his waist.

You hesitated at first. His voice, low and unbothered, “You’ll fall off if you don’t hold on.”

You grumble under your breath. “Cocky much?” Still, your arms move. Wrap slowly around his waist, and that’s when your heart decides to do parkour. Full flips. Vaulting emotional hurdles.

Landing in full chaos mode.

Because his back is warm. His breath visible in the cold night. And with this closeness, you can feel his laughter when he mutters, “Thought so.”

His windbreaker is warm. His body is even warmer. “This is a mistake.” You think. But your fingers curl around him anyway.

The engine growls to life like a living thing, loud and unapologetic, and your heart immediately launches into a parkour routine you did not authorize.

Wind screams past your ears. Your hair lashes wildly, and the city becomes a blur of neon and shadows. You hold tighter. You have to. For safety.

The city streaks by in blurs of gold and blue. Your hands fist in the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment you forgot just for a second, that you’re a Cupid with rules. With boundaries. With two last arrows that absolutely should not end up in your own ribcage.

Because right now, you're just a girl on a bike, heart loud in her ribs, flying through a night that feels like the beginning of something you were never meant to have.

And maybe that’s why it feels so good.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Just two nights later, you were just trying to clear your head.

The mission’s falling apart. Your bow’s been glitching and the feelings you’re not supposed to have? Yeah, they’re starting to tangle around your ribs like ivy you can’t rip off.

So you took the long way back to the dorms, past the neon signs and fried food carts, blending into the hum of Seoul’s nightlife. Hoodie up, head down, pretending that everything’s fine.

You pause outside a bookstore, pretending to check your phone, when you hear it, footsteps. Then a hand wraps gently, just barely, around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.

You turn, and he’s there. Seong Je. Backlit by a flickering streetlamp. His shadow stretching long across the pavement. One hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other still holding you—loose, like he’s giving you a choice to pull away.

But you don’t.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the ghost of smoke on his collar, that soft scent of citrus and street asphalt and something unplaceable—something him.

His eyes catch yours, and they are so, so dark. He says it. “You trying to disappear on me, Yu Na?”

Soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he’d yelled. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a dare wrapped in velvet.

Your throat tightens. Your heartbeat goes sprinting somewhere north of logic. “I wasn’t–” you start, but your voice catches like a record scratch. “I wasn’t disappearing. I just…”

He quirks an eyebrow. Just a little. The tiniest smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You saw me that day on the street,” he says, voice calm, eyes unreadable. “I was with people,” he adds, tone casual, but there's a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “Didn’t think I had to call your name just to get you to look at me.”

You feel your cheeks heat, the shame crawling up like fire under your skin. “I was in a hurry–”

“Bullshit.”

Your breath hitches. He steps just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. You’re cornered now—physically, emotionally, celestially. There’s a wall at your back, him at your front, and nowhere to run that won’t take your heart with it.

“You looked scared,” he says quieter now. Like it costs him something to say it. “Not like... scared of me. Just scared. Like you were running from something.”

He pauses. His jaw flexes once. “I don’t like when people run.”

For a second, his expression cracks. You see it: the flicker of something real. Concern, maybe. Interest, also maybe. Something soft that has no business living behind a gaze like his.

Your lips part to answer, but the words don’t come. Because he’s still watching. Because the world is holding its breath around you.

And then he lets go of your wrist. Slowly. Like he didn’t really want to. Like it meant something.

He glances down the alley once, then back at you. “You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he mutters. “Especially not in this part of town.”

He starts to turn, pulling up his hood. Then stops. Looks back at you one last time. “If you’re gonna run, Yu Na… run toward me next time.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that. Into the night like a whisper you’ll replay a thousand times. You’re left staring at empty space, heart pounding, hands shaking, soul spiraling and suddenly, nothing about this mission feels simple anymore.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The school bell rings like it’s mocking you. Clear, loud, and entirely too cheerful for someone who just had a borderline soul-shaking encounter with Seoul’s most beautiful delinquent boy in a back alley under questionable lighting conditions.

You sit down at your desk. You pull out your notebook. You take a deep breath. “It’s not a crush,” you whisper to yourself like a girl possessed.

Sun Hee glances over from her seat beside you and squints. “You okay?”

“Fine. Totally fine, like super fine.”

Sun Hee raises an eyebrow. You are absolutely not fine. Because every time you blink, you can still see him. The way his voice wrapped around your name like some wish. The way he said, “Run toward me.” The nerve of that line. The audacity. The drama.

Your pencil snaps in half. You try to refocus. You write in your notebook:

• Match 143-B

• Geum Seong Je

• Objective: Perfect Match (not with self. OBVIOUSLY.)

You underline it aggressively. Then underline it again.

Because this is your Final Field Exam. This is your divine responsibility. You are not just a girl. You are not “Park Yu Na.” You are a Cupid. A professional. A winged, sparkly, arrow-wielding being of sacred romantic efficiency. You are not falling for your target.

Except. Your fingers drift to the pocket of your blazer where the banana milk note still sits, slightly crumpled. You haven’t thrown it away. You should. You know you should. But you don’t.

Instead, you stare out the window as the teacher drones on about equations, and your brain replays the way his voice dropped half a register when he said your name. The way he looked at you like he could see straight through the mortal illusion, like he knew you were lying.

You clench your jaw. “Nope,” you whisper. “Not a crush. Just an obstacle. A very... annoyingly symmetrical obstacle with cheekbones carved by petty gods.”

You look down at your notebook again. You’ve accidentally doodled little hearts around his name. You slam it shut.

“Girl,” Mi Rae whispers from the row behind you, leaning forward. “Are you okay? You look like you're losing a mental battle with your own hormones.” You forced a laugh, then shook your head in response.

The bell rings. Class ends—finally. You pack your books like they’ve personally betrayed you, slam your locker shut, and stomp down the hallway with the focused fury of someone definitely not in love.

You don’t see him that day and it shouldn’t bother you.

But it does. And that bothers you even more.

You are not catching feelings. This is not a crush. You are going to finish this mission, shoot your arrows, match him with some nice emotionally available human, and be done.

You are a Cupid, and Cupids do not fall in love. Right?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re yanked without a single warning right out of your mortal hallway, mid-snack. Your banana milk explodes mid-air, freezing in space as you're teleported through a glittery wormhole of pink smoke and passive-aggressive harp music.

You blink and suddenly you're standing in a giant heart-shaped chamber, glowing with gold filigree and dangerous levels of scented candle energy.

Columns made of rose quartz. Floors of cloud marble. The ceiling? A living mural of every successful match in history, currently judging you.

At the far end of the chamber, lounging sideways on a throne upholstered in actual sunset? Aphrodite.

Wearing a white silk dress and ten feet of attitude. Perfect hair. Glass of wine. Eyeliner is sharp enough to end wars. “Yu Na,” she says, not looking up from her enchanted scroll, “darling… let’s talk.”

You smiled nervously. You are sweating. Celestially. “Hey, boss! You’re looking radiant as always. Like, wow. Is that a new aura or–”

“Save it.” She sips in her glass wine. “We need to discuss Match 143-B.”

Your soul flinches. “Oh! Yeah. Totally. I mean, everything is going great. Super smooth. No feelings involved.”

She finally looks up. One arched brow. A long pause. The room goes quiet. Even the portrait of Helen of Troy in the corner slowly turns her head like, “Girl, really?”

Aphrodite raises her scroll and begins reading out loud, “Excessive proximity to target. Unnecessary rooftop contact. Improper bow usage. Incomplete emotional barrier. Possible romantic attachment. Underlined. Twice.”

She lowers the scroll, folds her hands, and gives you that look, that divine, slow-burn, that mom-knows-you-screwed-up-but-wants-you-to-say-it gaze. “Yu Na. Sweetheart. Do you remember the number one rule?”

You wilt slightly. “Don’t… fall in love with the target.”

“Mmhm, and what do we not do?”

“…Catch feelings for the top dog of a high school gang while wearing a mortal disguise during our final exam?”

“Exactly! We do not do that.”

She sighs and leans back like you’ve aged her 300 years. “Do you know what happened the last time a Cupid fell for a mortal? We got Romeo and Juliet. Do you want Romeo and Juliet again? Because I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that mess.”

“I-it’s not a crush! I’m just… emotionally confused because of his–! Nevermind.”

She narrows her eyes. “Yu Na, your arrows literally curled away from him mid-shot. You’re the only one in the department whose magic has romantic stage fright.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. You are toast. Celestial toast.

“You have 72 Earth hours to complete this assignment,” Aphrodite says, rising from her throne, heels clicking like judgment. “Or I pull you out and reassign the case. To Eros.”

You gasp. “Eros?? He once matched a squirrel with a lamppost!”

“And yet he doesn’t fall for his assignments.”

She waves a sparkly red finger. The scroll vanishes. The throne starts to fade. “Fix it. Or I will.”

“But what if–”

“Nope. Shhh.”

“But–”

“Shhh.”

The air swirls. Your vision goes blurry.

And just before you’re pulled back into the mortal world, you hear her final words echo through the golden mist, “And stop daydreaming about his stupid face. It’s unbecoming of a goddess.”

You wake up in class. Face down on your desk. Covered in a thin layer of glitter.

Mi Rae pokes you with her pen at the back. “You good?”

You turn your head to her, “No. Aphrodite’s gonna kill me.”

“Dude, what?”

The trees are in full bloom. Petals rain down like confetti for a wedding that hasn’t happened yet. Sun Hee and Mi Rae went to the ladies restroom for awhile leaving you alone in the corridor.

The air is warm, soft. It smells like sunshine, powdered chalk, and the lingering scent of sakura tea from the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge.

You’re watching from the second floor window. Your hand rests on the cool glass, but your heart? It’s burning.

Below, Seong Je stands by the main courtyard fountain, surrounded by a few students from another class. He’s still in uniform, half-unbuttoned shirt, his blazer thrown over his shoulder like he’s in a drama and knows it.

You see it.

The way the girls laugh a little too loud when he talks. The way one of them, Ji Hae, you think, with the long braids and overly shiny lip gloss—leans a bit too close, twirls her hair around her finger like it’s a spell.

And the worst part? He’s letting her. He’s not smirking. Not brushing her off. He’s listening. You can tell. He’s asking about you. Your pulse spikes. The Cupid in you wants to leap for joy. Target is showing interest. Receptive. Progress achieved. Initiate pairing sequence.

But the girl—the you you’re pretending not to be?She wants to curl up and disappear.

Because this should be a win. It should be a perfect step toward the match. You should be pulling out your last arrow, taking aim, and finalizing the assignment.

Instead…You feel like you’re choking on flower petals.

Each laugh from the girl beside him is a tiny dagger. Each glance he gives her, no matter how casual, feels like a betrayal your heart has no right to feel.

You shouldn’t care. You can’t care.

But you do. Because you know what his laugh sounds like up close now. You know how his voice drops when he’s being serious, how his shoulders tense when he’s trying not to show concern, how he calls you "Yu Na" like it means something.

And watching him, down there, in this picture-perfect postcard moment? Hurts.

A petal floats past your cheek. You swipe at it, too fast—angry at how delicate it all is.

Behind you, the empty classroom feels too quiet, too heavy. The world outside is all color and warmth. But you? You're stuck in grayscale.

You press your forehead against the window, whispering to yourself like it might make it true. “This is the job. That’s all. That’s all this is.”

Your fingers twitch near your bag. The bow's in there. So are the two arrows.

You could shoot her. Right now. Make them a perfect match. Seal the deal. End the mission.

But your hands won’t move. Instead, you just watch. As she laughs again, steps closer. As Seong Je finally lets out a small, tired smile—not the one he gives his gang boys, not the dangerous one from the alley, but something softer. Something rare.

And your heart breaks. Quietly. Completely. Like a blossom falling with no one to catch it.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You clutch the bow tight, your fingers trembling just enough that you pretend it’s from the breeze.

The arrow glows faintly in your other hand, pale pink light pulsing like it knows what you're trying to do and isn’t happy about it.

Below, through the open roof gate, you can see the courtyard. Cherry blossoms still hang like a spell. Seong Je is standing near the vending machine, arms folded, head tilted as Ji Hae chats beside him again—bright, beaming, hopeful. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like it’s rehearsed. Like she wants this to go somewhere.

It should work. It has to.

You take a shaky breath, nock the arrow, and draw the bowstring back. It hums under your grip. “This is the right choice,” you whisper. “This isn’t about me.”

Ji Hae is sweet. Smart. She’s the type who organizes classroom cleanup even when it’s not her turn. She’d be good for him. Ground him. Love him the way a mortal can.

And most importantly—she isn’t you. You close one eye, steady your aim, and took a deep breath. Jihae’s laugh rings out, warm and close.

You let go of the string. The arrow flies and then—it stops. Wait what—It fucking stopped mid-air. Like it slammed into an invisible wall.

The glow flickers then snaps back like a rubber band, missing both of them entirely and slamming into the side of the vending machine, where it fizzles out in a puff of smoke and divine sass.

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “No. No, no, no.”

You grab your bow tighter, scanning for anything that could’ve blocked the magic, but nothing’s there. Nothing logical, anyway.

The magic didn’t bounce because it was blocked. It bounced… because his heart wouldn’t open to her. He’s immune. Not to love. Just to everyone else. Even her. Even now.

You sag against the roof railing, heart pounding so hard it might break your ribs. “He’s not supposed to be immune. He’s human. He’s supposed to fall for someone.”

You look down again—and that’s when it happens. He looks up. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses, face unreadable. But you see the flicker of something like he felt the magic shift. Like he knows someone was watching. He sees you. Not clearly. You duck back too fast. But still. For a heartbeat, a flicker, a spark—you were connected.

And suddenly the weight of the two remaining arrows in your satchel feels unbearably heavy.

You have one last try. One last shot to finish this assignment.

But what if… the only one he could ever fall for is you?

And worse—what if you're already too far gone to stop it?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You materialize inside Aphrodite’s private suite of chaos and charm: a place where silk drapes ripple with no wind, and heart-shaped clouds hover like bored interns.

The air smells like roses, vanilla lip gloss, and ancient power. Everything here glows. Even the floor is radiant, like walking on crushed starlight.

But nothing shines brighter or more threateningly than the goddess seated before you on a velvet fainting couch that she’s never once fainted on.

Aphrodite doesn’t look up immediately. She’s painting her nails with some divine shimmering lacquer that changes color depending on your emotional damage level.

When she finally speaks, her voice is smooth and dangerous, like velvet hiding a knife. “So…You used one of your last two arrows… and it failed.”

You wince. “It bounced off him. Like he rejected it before it even reached his heart.”

She raises a brow, now fully looking at you. Her gaze is sharp. Regal and a little smug. “And you tried to match him with someone else?”

You nodded fast. “Jihae. She’s sweet. Pretty. Human. A good match. He should’ve liked her.”

Aphrodite’s smile is small and lethal. The kind that says, oh honey, you sweet naïve disaster.

She leans forward, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm, eyes sparkling with something that makes your stomach twist. “Then you already know what the match is.”

You blink. “No,” you say too fast. “That’s–he can’t–it’s not me. I’m Cupid. I’m just supposed to guide them. I don’t–”

She cuts you off with one perfectly manicured finger raised. “The arrow doesn’t lie, sweetheart. It never has. And if his heart won’t open to anyone else…”

“Well.” She shrugs, lips curling. “Maybe it’s because it already has.”

You take a step back like her words physically hit you. Your bow shifts on your shoulder. You feel the weight of the last arrow against your spine.

Only one. One more shot.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel like a tool of love—it feels like a choice, a test, or a trap. “This isn’t allowed,” you whisper, your voice smaller than you want it to be. “We’re not supposed to–”

Aphrodite rolls her eyes, dramatic. “Please. As if any great love ever followed rules.”

She gets up, walking toward you in heels that click like divine thunder. “You think I built this entire department to push paperwork and throw random teens together at prom? No, darling. I built it to make stories worth writing down.”

“And yours?” She taps your chest, just over your heart. “Might be the most human one I’ve seen in centuries.”

You want to argue. To say you’re not in love. To say this is just magic and proximity and the fact that he smirks like sin and listens like he means it. But you don’t. Because deep down, you know.

He was never just a target. He was always the risk.

And you? You were never ready for what loving a mortal would feel like.

“You have one arrow left, little archer,” she says, her voice like velvet and finality. “Choose wisely.”

And just like that, you’re alone again. Only now, your heart’s louder than ever, and the final arrow in your quiver feels warm—like it knows where it wants to go.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The crowd buzzes with soft laughter and the pop of soda cans. Strings of paper lanterns flicker overhead, casting warm glows on the rows of booths, cotton candy stands, and prize-filled claw machines. It smells like roasted sweet potatoes, sugar syrup, and something heartbreak-shaped.

You stand at the edge of the square—hidden in the soft halo of a cherry tree, one hand tight around your bow.

He’s here. Leaning against a pillar near the game booths, bored and gorgeous, his school uniform rumpled like he fought three boys in it earlier and probably did.

He’s alone. Vulnerable. For once, not surrounded by the other Union boys. His usual wall of noise and swagger is… quieter tonight. Like even he can feel the hum of something bigger, something fated.

Your fingers slide up to your final arrow. It glows faintly in the evening light, the pulse of it syncing—traitorously—with your heartbeat.

You breathe in. Lift the bow.

The arrow floats into place, drawn like it already knows its target. His name echoes in your head like a prayer. “Seong Je.”

One clean shot. One perfect hit, and his heart will open—just as the laws of magic decree.

You stare down the line of the bow. Your aim is steady. But your soul isn’t. “If I use this,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips like smoke, “I’ll never know if it was real.”

Because the arrow chooses for them. But you? You wanted him to choose you.

Your breath hitches. Your hand shakes. And just as you're about to lower the bow—she appears in the moment, Jihae.

Her smile is radiant, nervous in that way mortals get when they hope too hard. She says something you can’t hear. Seong Je raises a brow, vaguely polite.

Then she leans in. She was about to kiss him. So sudden, it is too fast and too forced.

You inhale sharply. The bow drops a little, the arrow’s glow pulsing like it’s holding its breath.

But he turns his face away. Steps back, hand gently catching her wrist before she makes contact. Not cruel, not cold. Just distant.

His eyes are already searching. Past Jihae. Past the booths. Across the crowd. Like he’s looking for someone else.

Your fingers loosen on the string, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. But his gaze skips over every student, every light, every sound—until it lands in your direction.

You duck behind the tree fast—too fast, you almost slipped on the grass.

The arrow dims slightly in your hand. Like it, too, isn’t sure anymore and neither are you. You slide it back into your quiver.

Because if he’s already searching for you… What if the match was never magic? What if it was always… real?

You’re still behind the cherry tree, hand pressed to your chest where your heart is playing whack-a-mole with your ribs. The arrow hums faintly in its quiver, as if it, too, is stunned by what almost happened.

Then a cloud of glitter suddenly appears beside you. The scent of ancient roses and bad decisions. “You’re prolonging this for drama and I LOVE IT.”

Aphrodite appears at your side like she never left, draped in a silk suit that looks too expensive for Earth and too fabulous for a reason. Her heels don't even touch the ground—she floats, all smugness and starshine.

“Really, darling. The tortured hesitation. The Forbidden love. The half-lowered bow under the cherry blossoms? Iconic.” She sips something pink and bubbly from a champagne flute that absolutely did not exist a second ago. “But unfortunately, we’re moving on to the finale now.”

You blink. “What?”

She claps once and then he appears. Another Cupid. Tall, cold-eyed, his wings sleek and too perfect. No warmth. No humor. No hesitation. He doesn’t even acknowledge you—just steps past with mechanical grace.

“You’re compromised,” he says flatly, not bothering to look your way. “You’re being replaced.”

Your gut twists. You grab your bow instinctively. “Wait, no–You can’t just–!”

But he already has his own. It was already being pulled. The first arrow was fired straight into Jihae’s heart. She flinches as it hits, eyes going wide with wonder and awe, pupils dilating with the sweet, unnatural rush of magic. “Wha…?” she whispers, voice dreamy. “Seong Je…”

You take a step forward from the Cupid trying to stop him. “Stop–don’t–!”

The second arrow was released. It hits Seong Je square in the chest. He jerks like it knocked the wind out of him. Blinks rapidly. Breath stalling. He looks up, across the crowd, at Jihae.

Not at you. Never at you.

Aphrodite hums a little tune as if none of this is soul-shattering, as if she didn’t just throw your heart into a blender with strawberries and a broken contract.

She finally turns to you, sipping the last of her celestial drink. “Now your assignment is done,” she says, voice bright, decisive, cruel in its gentleness. “You can collect your diploma. Come along, sweetheart.”

She gestures toward the glowing portal behind her—already swirling open like a beckoning goodbye.

But you—you can’t even move. It’s like you're paralyzed in there. You just stand there, mouth dry, heart sinking like a stone through the sea. Watching Seong Je.

He looks at Jihae, a smile begins to form, it was slow—soft in a way that isn’t his. It’s Cupid-soft, artificial, borrowed, and most importantly it was forced.

“But that’s not real,” you say, barely above a whisper. “That’s not him.”

Aphrodite gives a tiny shrug, eyes sparkling. “No, darling. But it’s what the file wanted, isn’t it? You were supposed to match him. Now he’s matched. This is the clean ending.”

But nothing about it feels clean. Nothing about this feels like love. It feels like theater.

Seong Je’s hand brushes Jihae’s. He’s smiling—but you know him better than that. That smile is wrong. It doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn’t even know why he’s smiling.

You’re just standing in a garden of blossoms, with a full heart and an empty hand, staring at the boy who no longer sees you.

The last arrow in your quiver hums softly, unused, undeniably yours. You could still shoot it. You could ruin everything, or you could follow the goddess. Get your diploma. Graduate. That’s all.

But one truth now roots itself deep inside you like the petals beneath your shoes:

You never wanted to pass.

You wanted to matter.

You turn your head to the portal and start making your way there.

Aphrodite walks ahead of you in heels too loud for the quiet in your chest. Her perfume leaves a trail—roses, smoke, and the bitter scent of endings.

You trail behind her, stiff, eyes glassy. The crowd fades behind you. The festival sounds dim like someone turned the world’s volume knob down.

Seong Je is gone now. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still there. Standing beside Jihae under strings of golden lights, smiling with someone else’s heart.

You don’t dare look back.

“You did well,” Aphrodite says, not looking at you. “You didn’t let your feelings interfere. You were right to walk away.”

You say nothing. Because if you open your mouth, your voice might break. And gods forbid a Cupid cries before graduation.

The portal pulses gently. The colors shift—gold, lilac, then soft rose. It hums with magic. With home.

And yet, you paused right in front of it. Right on the threshold of eternity and closure.

Your diploma floats gently in the air beside you. Sealed in pink. Gilded with divine calligraphy. Sparkling like it’s proud of you.

“You’re free now,” Aphrodite says. “No more assignments. No more temptation.”

You nod once. But something deep in your ribs is screaming. Quietly, but insistently.

“That wasn’t love.”

“That wasn’t real.”

“I wasn’t done.”

And somehow you wonder, If he ever turns around tonight… If he ever asks where you went…If he ever remembers the weird girl with wings in her eyes and a bow she never fired… Will he know it was almost fate?

Aphrodite offers her hand and you take it.Step through the portal. Now everything… blurs.

Back in the Divine Realm, The hallway isn’t glowing gold this time.

It’s quiet. Dim. The clouds beneath your feet are soft but cold. The Department of Matchmaking Magic feels too polished. Too clean. Like nothing in it ever hurt.

You hold your diploma like it’s heavier than your bow ever was.

Around you, Cupids celebrate. Wings flutter. Laughter fills the space. Someone just got their perfect match approved and they’re crying happy tears.

But you? You sit on a bench made of mist and memory. Bow across your lap. Arrow untouched. One name still echoing in your heart.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re dragging your tired, emotionally compromised self past filing cabinets that file themselves, still in your post-diploma haze. Hair unbrushed. Wings tucked in like they’ve given up on believing in miracles.

You’re in the admin wing of the Divine Realm, sipping an ambrosia latte. You’ve been assigned light clerical duty while they "process your graduation paperwork" Which means in divine-speak for "we're giving you busywork so you stop brooding in front of the mortal observation mirrors."

You’re sorting scrolls. Matching files. Y’know, doing the grunt work you thought you’d never go back to now that you're officially Cupid-certified.

That is, until one scroll starts glowing violently pink. Spins in a full dramatic circle and then smacks itself against your forehead.

You catch it before it hits the cloud-floor. It glows hot—not hot pink like usual. Not gold either. But red. Urgent Transfer Request.

You blink. The scroll unravels by itself like it’s got nothing better to do but ruin your peace.

The ribbon unfurls by itself and hovers midair with a flare of gold script.

REQUEST FOR INTERREALM TRANSFER

Name: Seong Je (성제)

Mortal ID: [REDACTED]

Requested Department: Matchmaking Magic

Reason for Transfer: "Unfinished Business/Unresolved Emotional Link."

Priority Level: Urgent.

Divine Approval: Pending.

Additional Notes: “If she’s not going to tell me the truth, I’ll find it myself.”

You just stand there—freeze. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you swear the file cabinets pause in their floating routine like, “Girl, WHAT??” Your coffee hits the floor. “No,” you whisper. “No no no no—how did he even find this place?”

The room falls away—because how? HOW?

You didn’t leave a trace. No charms. No enchantments. The last arrow was never fired. You didn’t say goodbye. You weren’t even real to him.

So why? Why is his name here? Why is he asking for you?

“Holy Olympus,” you whisper, heart leapfrogging into your throat. “He remembers.”

Just then, a cherub courier floats past with a lollipop in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“Yo, you’re being summoned again. Aphrodite’s office. Something about an ‘unresolved situation’? She sounds way too excited.”

You stagger to your feet, the scroll still hovering like it's waiting for your soul to catch up.

Because it’s happening. He's looking for you. Not the fake name. Not the Cupid. Not the mission.

You.

And across realms, timelines, rules, and magic—he sent for you. The last arrow on your back shimmers softly. Maybe fate wasn’t finished after all.

You drag yourself up the spiral of love-infused cloudsteps toward her office, your steps a mix between “I just got hit by a truck” and “I will throw hands with a literal goddess.” The scroll is still hovering beside you like a nosy bird, pulsing red like it’s counting down to something.

The doors open themselves and you immediately squint from the sight in front of you.

Because her “office” has somehow transformed into a beach cabana. There’s a sky that bleeds sunset gold into lavender waves. Seagulls caw overhead (you’re pretty sure they’re enchanted and probably trained to harmonize). Pink tropical drinks with curly straws float midair. It smells like sun-warmed salt and forbidden romance.

Aphrodite lounges under a parasol in a silk robe, her heart-shaped sunglasses glittering. She takes one look at your face and beams. “Aww, look who got emotionally wrecked by their own target!”

She claps like you just won a reality show. “Cupid of the Year, baby.”

You stare at her. You are vibrating with twelve different emotions and three unresolved heartbreaks. “Why is his name in here?” you ask. “How is he even able to be here?”

Aphrodite shrugs lazily, flicking her nails and summoning a file out of thin air. It lands on the cocktail tray next to her. Big gold lettering, all caps:

MATCH 143-B

STATUS: COMPLICATED

She sips her champagne like she’s watching the best drama on divine television. “He filed an Interrealm Request. Personally. Used an artifact that hasn’t worked since the Trojan War. We didn’t even know mortals could get those anymore. He broke four laws of emotional containment and walked straight through a temporary rift near Mount Halla.”

You blink, how the hell did he end up on a Mountain. Mount Halla? That’s in Jeju. That means… “He crossed a whole country for me?”

Aphrodite sips on her champagne, “And two realms. Don’t forget the realms, darling.” she added, while making a piece sign of her hand, symbolizing the word “two”.

Your head spins. You clutch the back of a floating heart-lounger like it’s a life preserver. “Why now?” you whisper. “I never fired the arrow. I never said anything. He shouldn’t even remember me.”

Aphrodite stands now, her face softening—just a little. She taps the file. It flutters open, glowing with rows of shifting fate-threads. “Because you may not have shot the arrow, sweetheart… But you aimed it. And sometimes? That’s worse.”

You freeze. Because deep down, you know what she means. You felt it. Every time his gaze found you in a crowd. Every time your name almost slipped from his mouth. Every time you almost let yourself believe…

Aphrodite sighs and then, like she’s bored of being sentimental, “Now. Due to this messy, delicious twist, we’re activating a Cupid Clause. Technically, he’s requesting closure. Which means we have to respond.”

Your eyes widen. “Closure?”

She grins. “You get to see him again, darling.”

You lift your eyebrows, “Wait, what?”

She waves her hand, and another scroll appears—this one gold and sealed with something that feels like fate humming through your bones.

“One last assignment. This time? No bow. No arrows. No lies. Just you and him. And a question.” Aphrodite said, while smiling softly.

You whisper, “What question?”

She smirks over the rim of her drink. “Do you still love him?”

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky over Jeju is painted in soft pastels, the kind of pink and orange that only happens right before the sun sinks into the sea. Wind rustles through blooming cherry blossom trees that stretch like a dream across the temple courtyard where you land—barefoot, breathless.

Your wings are gone. Your bow? Left behind.

All you have is your uniform, a satchel slung over your shoulder, and the name he whispered when he looked up at the sky like he was begging the gods for one more try.

The air is thick with sakura petals, brushing against your cheeks as if even the wind wants to soften this moment. You’re not sure what you’re walking toward—closure? Consequence? Catastrophe?

But you walk anyway and then you see him.

He’s standing alone under the largest cherry tree, back to you, hood pulled low. Jeans. Scuffed sneakers. A silver ring glinting on his finger.

But when he hears your steps crunch on the stone path, he turns, slow, eyes wide, lips parting, and the second his eyes lock onto yours, everything around you… stops.

No petals, no breeze, no sound. Just you and him suspended in whatever this is. This unspoken thing that crossed dimensions and beat time and rewrote rules.

His voice is rough when he finally says it, “So you’re real.”

You try to smile. It breaks halfway. “More or less.”

“You lied to me.”

You flinch. “I know.”

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

He walks toward you slowly. Step by step, like each one hurts. Like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish again. “But I remembered. Everyone else forgot you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. Even when I tried.”

You’re shaking, but not from fear. “Why?” you whisper.

He stops a breath away. You can see the shadows under his eyes. The cracks in his armor.

But also the way his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“Because you ruined me,” he says, voice low.

“Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Because when I kissed other girls and I looked for your reaction, and.. Because I caught myself smiling at the sky like a fool. Like maybe you were still watching.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to rewind to that day on the rooftop and do it all differently. But you can’t. So instead you say, “I was supposed to match you. That was the mission. That was all it was supposed to be. But then you smiled and made some dumb jokes. And looked at me like I mattered. And still, I never used the last arrow.”

He blinks. “You didn’t?”

You shake your head. “Because I wanted to know if you’d fall in love with me without it.”

He stares. Then he exhales—like he’s been holding that breath for eternity. “I did.”

And then he steps closer.

The cherry blossoms swirl around you like confetti from the gods, and his hand comes up to brush a petal from your hair, fingers lingering like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

His eyes are soft—too soft. “So what now?” he whispers.

Your heart aches. But this time, you smile through it. “Now we see what love really is... without magic.”

The sea roars beside you, wild and untamed, crashing against the jagged rocks with the kind of rage only heartbreak understands. The salty wind tangles your hair. Your cardigan flaps through the wind, and parked right in front of you, leaning—His matte black motorcycle.

Seong Je straddles it like he owns the night. Helmet hanging off the handlebars. Hair a mess. Leather jacket thrown over his uniform like rules were never part of his vocabulary. His rings glint against the throttle like danger has jewelry taste now.

“You getting on or what?” he says, like it's nothing. But his voice is lower, rougher. The wind can’t even carry it right.

You hesitate. “I’ve never been on one before.”

He raises a brow. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Then that smirk carves across his lips like it was forged in rebellion. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

You climb on to the motorbike. You shouldn’t still be wanting to memorize how his shoulders feel under your palms, how the space between you feels like magnetic static, like lightning waiting to happen.

But you do—you always do, you hold onto his shoulders.

He revs the engine. It purrs like a beast.

And when he takes off, it’s not chaos. It’s flight.

Wheels eating up the coastal road, wind peeling laughter from your chest, cliffs and cherry blossoms whirling by in a pastel blur. The ocean to your right, Seong Je in front of you, and the sky above bleeding every color it knows how to feel.

Then he pulls over, right at the edge of the world.

You’re both breathless, just by the scene in front you. He pulls off his gloves with slow fingers. Leans back against the bike. Looks at you like he’s figuring out the ending of a poem he never meant to write.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you again,” he murmurs.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you whisper back.

His eyes flicker—dark, golden, deep. “Can’t forget what rewired my whole heart.”

And then he pulls you in. Gently. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lip like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s measuring the distance between craving and kissing. And then finally he leans in.

The kiss is slow at first. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare you away. But then something snaps—the kind of hunger that builds after months of almosts, after watching, waiting, hurting. His hand slides into your hair. His lips press firmer, warmer, like he’s trying to anchor you to this moment.

You kiss him back and it’s not magic—not the divine kind.

Because it’s real. It’s every mortal emotion tangled in heat and saltwater and the sound of the sea waves.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “Still think this was all a mission?” he asks.

You smiled at him. Eyes were glossy. “No. I think this was fate with attitude.”

note: yow everyone HAHAHAH how do y'all feel about this oneshot? well, yk I think this is going to be my last last post before school finally starts on monday 🥀🥀 I hope you guys enjoy reading this because this is really really long MWA 😚😝😼

#geum seong je #geum seongje #keum seongje #wolf keum #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #keum seongje x reader #wolf keum x reader #weak hero x reader #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class one #weak hero class two #cursed carmine dividers #dividerdivider by si-eunnis

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