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svckmyballzfr · 22 hours ago

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“I know it’s over”

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 - “Where else I can go” Tw: neglect, Injury, obsession, abandonment, Torture, Abuse, SA, Death, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, brief description about [name]’s eyes sorry (this is a disclaimer for the whole story + sorry about the bad grammar and typos, I won’t rewrite until I’m bored)

[Somewhere In Tokyo]

The sun was setting as it rained, the streetlight outside of the school buzzed as it flickered.

Heavy breathing was heard in the hallways of said, school “Well Well , if it isn’t Yuta Okkotsu my favorite weakling”

“Don’t you come near me” Yuta said shakily as three boys surrounded him in the empty classroom.

“Oh come on, don’t play hard to get” The bully said with a smirk.

“I said don’t …” Yuta said trying to said tuff but failing miserably as the bully itched closer to him. “Come on I just wanna slug you one more time before i graduate!” The bully laughed and his little minions joined in.

“Stop it..” Yuta muttered as he clenched his other arm looking down.

“Since it’s our last time together, maybe I should just kill you” The bully said as he walked closer.

“D-don’t touch me! RIKA” Yuta said in a panicked tone looking up as the bully had gotten closer with his hands towards him. A large shadow then appeared behind the bully and he froze with a wavering presence behind him.

“hm? Whatcha say?” The bully asked confused as large hands with sharp nail and went to both sides of his face. “Argh!” The bully let out a noise as his face was pulled back behind him.

….

The rain got heavier outside as yuta had crouched by the walls of the classroom muttering “I’m sorry” Blood leaks from the locker next to him slowly and it slowly opens to a mangled body.

Yuta was now sitting in a chair, in a room full of Tailsman with small lamps surrounded in the dark room to give light. He looks up staring at all the Tailsman that reached to the dark never ending ceiling.

….

“A complete cover up and a secret execution? Boy that’s some story” Gojo said unamused “The child in question did consent though.” One of the higher ups replied but Gojo quickly responded “He’s underage, just sixteen years old, and who knows how many he have cursed”

“So you’ll take him?” One of the old hags of the higher ups asked “Yes, Yuta Okkotsu will attend Jujustu high school.”

….

Yuta had his head down with his arms crossed still sitting on the chair “You make this in shop class?” Gojo said infront of him holding up a twisted knife “Yuta Okkotsu..” he finished “I-it used to be a knife..” he said softly

“I tried killing myself” He hugged his knees closer and slowly looked up “But…Rika wouldn’t let me. Gojo just stared at him “Kinda dark.” he tossed the twisted knife away. “guess what? You’re starting at a new school today.”

…

The next day at Yuta got ready for the day where he would Jujustu high! He got to walking in the hallways tiredly with his eye bags shining in the sun.

“Did you hear about the new transferred student coming today? I heard he stuffed 4 of his classmates in a locker” Panda said while he walked with [name] and Inumaki

“You mean he killed them?” [name] asked “Tuna mayo” Inumaki added “Nah, gravely injured”

“If he’s cocky I’ll put him in his place” [name] said holding her bag on her shoulder. “Bento flakes” Inumaki sighed

“Students of all grades!” Gojo said exaggerating with hand motions “We have a new student! Give him a hand!!!!!”

‘God it’s too damn early for his bullshit..’ [name] said with a her head leaning on her hand, with her legs crossed.

“not one hand…” he said sadly

“Heard the kid’s a real wet blanket, the last thing I need is an another moody rookie to look after.” (Whatever that means..)

“Salmon”

Panda hums in agreement with Inumaki, Gojo sighs and puts his hand out “Oh well then! You can come on in now!”

Yuta then opens the sliding door and as soon as his foot stepped in the classroom they sensed his cursed aura and ever stepped he took it got stronger. Panda tensed up and got aggressive and [name] eyes widen, a large menacing curse was sensed behind him and made a strange noise while facing the 3 students, [name] unzipped her bag, Inumaki put a hand on his tall collar getting ready to use his cursed technique.

Bruce Wayne had never truly possessed a reason to resent [name]—not a logical one, at least. He simply did. Or, more accurately, the reason was etched into [name]’s eyes: the exact same eyes as her mother’s.

Every time Bruce looked at her, he saw those eyes staring back—haunted by their shape, their color. He recoiled, not out of hatred, but from something far more : fear. Because he knew precisely why they unnerved him.

Her mother—the woman he loved—had abandoned him. Abandoned the Waynes. She had walked away from the life they had built, forsaking them for her Clan—a group that viewed weakness as expendable and loyalty as conditional. A Clan that had never seen her as a person, only as power.

That memory alone, of her turning her back—festered inside Bruce like a wound that refused to heal. The thought of her always lingered, sharp and unforgiving, and [name] carried that echo with every glance.

So when Bruce received a call from Naobito Zenin, irritation boiled in his chest. He instructed Alfred to sever any lines of communication. He didn’t want to hear from them. But curiosity clawed at him, and eventually, he took the call.

“Maybe M/n is finally ready to crawl back. Fine. I’ll entertain it—but I’ll make her work for it,” he had thought, even allowing a slight smile at the idea of seeing her again. Just like old times… M/n, Satoru, and him—together. A family of sorts, fractured but familiar.

But that smile shattered when Naobito’s voice turned somber. M/n was dead—she had died months ago. And now, there was a child. A daughter. His daughter.

He could barely choke out a response. “What.”

It was too much. Jason’s resurrection. The chaos of the Red Hood. And now, this?

Bruce had Gordon collect the girl from the airport and order a DNA test immediately. He needed proof—needed something solid to stand on.

The results were : the child was his. And… impossibly, she was Satoru Gojo’s as well???

The moment she stepped through the manor doors, Bruce hadn’t yet been briefed. But when his eyes met hers—one luminous blue like Gojo’s, the other the rich hue of M/n’s—he knew.

Even beyond the strange eye color, everything else was him. The cheekbones. The jawline. Even her posture. She stood tall for a six-year-old—too tall. But those eyes... they unraveled him.

He couldn’t be near her.

If he stayed, he feared he might crumble. Or worse… lash out at something so heartbreakingly innocent.

“I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” he murmured, voice hollow and clipped, before retreating to the Batcave.

There, beneath the weight of grief he’d never prepared for, Bruce collapsed to the floor. Hands gripping the cold ground, lungs burning, air slipping through him like smoke. Pressure mounted on his chest, like unseen hands crushing his ribs. His limbs trembled. His heart thundered like a war drum in his ears.

“No, no, no, no… please stop…” he thought as panic overtook him. His vision tunneled, lips dry, mind spinning into a storm of sorrow and helplessness.

Dick never had anything against [name], he knew her mother was really close to Bruce and had seen the woman before plenty of times as robin and he couldn’t help but grow fond of her. I mean that’s basically his mother! So was nice, caring and also helped him when he had a problem with something between him, and Bruce! He could’ve hate her, never! But that changed when she had left, when he was nightwing. How could she? For that clan.

So, when Dick was in the kitchen he had got surprised by a voice behind him and when he turned he had thought it was M/n but smaller! Those eyes. Blue and e/c eyes…he got scared and kicked the poor child.

‘I mean who is this child?? Why do they have M/n eyes, and Gojo’s eyes…’ he soon snapped out of it when he seen blood dripping from her head.

hey sorry I’m so sorry…” Dick said and helped her up.

“I-It’s o-ok I’m a big girl..” [name] says as she wipes the streak of blood of off her forehead.

“Let me-“ Before he finishes he gets a text from Alfred [Master Bruce has passed out in the batcave. Please hurry here master Dick.]

“You said you were a big girl right?” He said turning his head to her. [name] nods her head eagerly.

“Then you’ll be fine handling it. I have to go. When I come back we can go to the arcade.” Dick offered a smile then left and hurried to the batcave where Alfred stood with a worried expression.

….

The next day Bruce had woke up in his bed when dick sat near with his hands on his face.“Bruce.” Dick stood up when Bruce had sat up on the edge of the bed. “What happ-“

“I can’t be a father for that girl.” Bruce interrupted and Dick froze and looked confused “The girl little that just came to the manor. I can’t be her father. That isn’t my daughter.”

Dick just stared at Bruce with a frown “Bruce-“ Bruce silently began to cry with a hand on his eyes “I can’t..” he said shakily, dick sat next to him with a hand on his back “Ok.”

Of course Dick didn’t approve of this, I mean who would??? But he could obviously see that Bruce isn’t in the right state but It’s ok he’ll be a big brother for her to lean on and see as a father…one day. Right?

Jason hated [name].

Or at least, that’s what he told himself every single time he caught her in the corner of his eye, every time someone so much as brought up her name. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, cross his arms, and say something cruel like-

“She’s a spoiled bratty bitch whose mother was a dumb whore that got herself killed.”

He said it like it was truth. Cold, harsh truth.

But deep down—where the rage throbbed and the loneliness curled into something even colder—Jason knew he was full of it. Every time he dragged her mother’s name through the mud, he was really just trying to bury how much he missed her. M/n was the only person who ever made him feel like more than a burden. She treated him like he mattered—like he was hers.

He cried harder than anyone when he found out she died. No one saw it. He made sure of that. But behind all the noise and anger and bravado, he wept for her. For the mother he never truly had, but almost did. Until she left. Until she abandoned him—right after he was kidnapped. After the Joker. After everything.

And now she was dead?

Jason couldn’t even look at photos of her without feeling like the world was cracking apart at the seams. He hated her for walking away. Hated her for dying. Hated how much he still loved her.

He had ignored Dick’s call two days ago. Didn’t want to hear anything that had to do with the manor. With Bruce. But something in Dick’s voice… something had kept him from deleting the message. So now here he was—back in the same house where everything had started to rot.

Dick looked like a wreck. Pale. Exhausted. Haunted.

Jason didn’t bother hiding his sneer. “What’s wrong with you, dickface?”

Dick barely looked up. “She’s dead.” His voice cracked like glass. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Jason blinked, confused. “Who?”

“M/n… I just wanted to tell you. She has a child. And she… she’s here.”

Dick couldn’t even finish. He left the room without another word.

Jason stood there for a long time. Heart pounding. Head spinning.

He wandered into the library, trying to escape the weight of it all. Grabbed a book—anything to pull him out of his own head. Tried to focus. Tried to not feel.

But the pages blurred. Wet. His hands were shaking.

Tears? No. No, stop that. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

But he did. God, he did.

No mission, no alias, no mask could erase the ache of being loved—and left behind.

She had come into his life. Treated him like a son. Then left. Had a baby. A new child. And then died.

Where was his closure? Where was his chance to protect her? To yell at her? To forgive her?

Jason slammed the book shut and sat frozen, chest heaving.

Then someone bumped into him.

His book hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh, sorry—” a small voice stammered.

He looked down.

It was like someone had punched him in the gut.

Those eyes. One blue. One [e/c].

His hands curled into fists.

So this is who she died for? This… replacement? This child? Is this the one who got her love in the end? Got her last words? Her final breath?

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

The girl looked down, ashamed. “...oh.”

He scoffed, bitterness thick in his throat. “Another one of Bruce’s adopted mistakes?”

“I-I’m his kid! I promise… a-and you’re my brother, right?” she said quietly, voice soft and trembling.

Jason didn’t answer. He smirked—sharp and humorless.

She thinks I’m her brother. Like she gets to call me that.

He knelt slightly, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder, watching her flinch beneath his grip. “Look, kid,” he said, voice like ice, “you’re just one of Bruce’s little distractions. And soon enough, he’ll forget about you too—just like everything else you care about. You’re not special. And I’m not your brother.”

He let her go and turned without another glance as she stumbled into the bookshelf behind her. The sound echoed like guilt.

But Jason kept walking.

And as he stormed off down the hallway, jaw clenched so tight it ached, he swore something to himself in silence.

‘You ruined the only good thing I ever had—just by being born. So don’t expect mercy. Not from me.’

Yuta explains that the Cursed Spirit is Rika, a childhood friend whom he had promised to marry when they grew up. Rika died in a freak accident and became an overprotective spirit that harms anyone who threatens him.

During his first mission with [Name], Yuta successfully summons Rika on his own for the first time to save them from a Cursed Spirit. Three months pass in his school training, and he grows close to [Name], Toge, and Panda. One day, on a mission together, Toge and Yuta are attacked by a high-level Curse. The man behind the attack was Suguru Geto, a previous student and old friend of Gojo, who defected from the school and killed over a hundred innocent people on a mission.

Geto attempts to get Yuta on his side so they can make use of Rika, but Yuta refuses when he insults Yuta's friends due to unsettled circumstances. Geto declares war to activate a portal to the under-world: he will release a thousand Curses upon the city to remove non-sorcerer humans, as he believes them to be undeserving and beneath sorcerers. Geto's real reason for the war, however, is to distract Gojo so he can kill Yuta and add Rika to his collection of cursed spirits. Gojo realizes this upon learning of Yuta's background, and sends Inumaki and Panda back to the school to protect Yuta and Maki during the night of Geto's attack. Geto overpowers them all, leaving only Yuta conscious. Enraged at seeing his friends hurt, Yuta promises himself as a sacrifice to Rika in order to strengthen their bond. As a result, Geto is severely wounded. He is found by Gojo, who after reflecting on their past friendship, executes him.

[name] stood quietly at the edge of the room, her gaze resting on Gojo’s sleeping form. The soft rise and fall of his chest was the only proof he was still here—still breathing, still fighting. But earlier… she’d seen his face after the fighting. The way his expression cracked when he thought no one was looking. The way his hands trembled before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

Her eyes drifted to the blindfold resting against his forehead, slightly askew. With a small breath, she stepped closer, fingers twitching nervously as she reached for it. She gently lifted it from his eyes, careful not to wake him, and replaced it with her own glasses, pressing them onto his face with a little huff.

she slipped the blindfold over her own eyes.

“Gosh, how does he see with this thing?” she muttered to herself with a crooked smile. “I’m literally blind right now.”

She took a step—and promptly bumped into the wall with a soft thud.

“Ow…” she mumbled, rubbing her arm.

Laughter—low and breathy—broke the silence behind her.

She whipped around, the blindfold slipping halfway off her face. Gojo was awake. Sitting up. Watching her.

And smiling.

His eyes—those eyes—were soft and bright like sunlight scattered across an endless ocean. Their glow lit something warm and dizzying inside her chest.

“H-HUH?! THIS IS A DREAM!” [name] blurted, panicking, leaping into the weirdest stance she could think of on the spot.

“Oh wow, I’m terrified,” he teased, clapping dramatically. “Is that… the ancient Fighting Crane meets Confused Flamingo technique? Legendary.”

[name] tried to hold the pose, struggling to stay serious. “Silence! I am the blindfolded warrior, guardian of the living room!” she declared, wobbling slightly to the left.

“Well then, oh mighty warrior,�� he said with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes, “I challenge you to a duel. But only if you can pass… the tickle trial.”

“Huh? Wait no—NO!” she shrieked as Gojo lunged, grabbing her sides with the lightest poke.

She burst into uncontrollable giggles, twisting away and finally pulling off the blindfold in a fit of laughter.

“You blue eye bastard!” she panted, catching her breath.

He sat up, smiling softly now. “Yeah, I tend to break the rules. Especially for a smile like that.”

For a moment, there was silence—the good kind. Then his voice turned gentler.

“Hey, [name]… could you take that bandage off?”

She blinked, confused. “Oh. Sure—but I kinda can’t see too good with that eye,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the edge of the gauze as she slowly peeled it away.

Her partially blind eye met his, and he stared.

“I was right,” he whispered, stepping forward with small, steady steps.

“What?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

She felt it, then. The heat of tears soaking through her shirt. His shoulders trembled against her. The strongest man she knew was quietly falling apart in her arms

“You’re my daughter.”

She froze in his embrace. And then slowly, carefully, wrapped her arms around him, like maybe, just maybe—someone loves her.

A/N || sorry for the wait but here’s the chapter!!! And boom here’s the big plot twist!!! btw name won’t have six eyes or anything, just related to gojo!! SO YES GOJO IS OUR PAPI TOO GUYS 😜 (ALSO ANOTHER AUTHOR I LOVE LIKED MY SERIES AHHHHH!!!!! TYYYYYYY ILYSM (I follow you😝) Also about the genetics thing, M/n genes pull the stronger genes into [name] ,but there is a possible, a little chance that if there is a third party, their genetics can also be in said baby (not logically obvious)

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#yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #neglected reader #yandere cassandra cain #yandere damian wayne #yandere duke thomas #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #yuta okkotsu #inumaki toge #panda #yandere stephanie brown

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mon-amorie · 3 days ago

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‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ ) ‎ P.2

scene ‎ ─── ‎ on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎ ‎ ( pairing ) ‎ hyunjin x f!reader ‎ ( genre ) ‎ college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content ‎ !mdni! ‎ ( wc. ) ‎ 28.7k‎ / ‎ part one. ‎ back to nav.

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ wasn't meant to be two parts but here we are… continues right where we left off. again, hope you enjoy the rest of this fic, please let me know what you think. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes you wonder how life decides which moments will stick with you and which ones will slip by without a trace.

You move through your days on autopilot. Same streets. Same jokes. Same half-slept nights. Most of it blends together, bleeding into itself until time loses its shape.

But once in a while, something shifts. Something small hits different. A glance, a word, a silence. And before you even recognize it, it’s lodged itself into memory. Quietly, stubbornly. Like it’s always been there.

You’ve been noticing that more lately. The way small choices stay with you. A class you almost skipped. A seat you almost didn’t take. A person you never meant to notice. Not the kind who explodes into your life like a firework, but the kind who settles in like background noise. Steady, persistent, impossible to unhear once you’ve tuned in.

And you keep insisting it’s not about him.

That’s not the story you’re telling. That’s not who you are. You don’t get caught up like this, especially not now. Not when you’re this close to the end. This was meant to be the quiet stretch. Head down, eyes forward. No mess. No rewrites. No new beginnings when you haven’t finished the last chapter.

But there he is. Showing up in the quiet moments. Slipping into your thoughts when the noise dies down. Not loudly, just enough. Like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. Something you never meant to keep, but now can’t seem to let go of.

And it’s not just him.

It’s the people. The places. The way the city feels different now that you’ve walked those streets with someone beside you. It’s the group chat arguments over snacks and midnight jokes that feel more like lifelines. It’s the late walks back to your dorm, the dumb stuff that somehow started to matter.

The filler scenes, turning into plot points.

Some nights, you think about the version of you who didn’t show up that day. Who stayed home, missed the train, never walked into that room. That version wouldn’t know what she missed. And somehow, that’s what lingers. How easy it would’ve been to let it all pass you by.

You try not to dwell. Try to keep your eyes on what’s next. But even when you’re not thinking about it, it’s still there. A quiet thrum beneath everything else. A soft pulse at the edge of your vision.

Because some things don’t leave. Not really.

You remember coming back to your dorm that night, still riding the sugar high, cheeks sore from laughing, your shoes swinging from your fingertips because it felt easier than wearing them.

You texted him, almost hesitating before hitting send. Added your name, just in case he forgot.

lemme know once u get home safe

He replied a few minutes later, simple and low-effort but enough.

dw, i did :) hope you did too

And that was it. No fireworks. Just a tired smile pulling at your lips. Something small and instinctive, like muscle memory. After that, things started to shift. Not all at once or dramatically, but you noticed.

Poetry class came quicker than you were ready for. You barely had time to sit before the professor told everyone to trade assignments with their partner. You didn’t know what to expect from his writing. Maybe something vague or careful. But it wasn’t.

It was raw. Stripped-down honest in a way most people avoid, especially when it counts for a grade. Nothing overly poetic, nothing trying too hard. Just real. The kind of truth that sneaks up on you because it sounds so much like your own.

There were no names. No clues pointing anywhere. But you read it once, then again, hoping—maybe even aching—for it to be about you.

And across the room, he was doing the same.

Because somewhere between the scrawl of your handwriting and the way you wrote about fleeting things like they mattered, he saw a version of you he hadn’t quite seen before. Even if the poem wasn’t about him. Even if it was about no one in particular. The way you noticed things, that was enough to make him wonder. To make him hope.

Class ended too fast. You lingered, slowly packing your notebook under your arm, half-stalling when you felt a soft tap against it.

You looked up, and there he was. Eyes lowered, voice quieter than usual.

“I liked yours,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t settle directly into your chest.

You smiled without thinking. “I liked yours too.”

He nodded, half-shy, half-pleased, and ducked his head like he didn’t want you to see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But you caught it.

After that, the weeks moved differently.

Late-night texts started coming more often, drifting into your mornings. Inside jokes started stacking up like little souvenirs tucked in your notes app. In class, he moved seats to sit beside you, brushing it off like it just made more sense. Like it wasn’t a decision he spent way too long overthinking.

You started walking to the bakery after class together, usually because he “didn’t want to go alone,” but you both knew that wasn’t really why.

The first time it happened, Minho caught sight of the two of you through the bakery window. He didn’t say anything at the time, just raised his eyebrows slightly and filed the moment away.

The next day at work, he gave you that look. The one that says I see you, but he won’t spell it out unless you make him. Sharp-eyed. Half-amused. But he let it be.

Maybe that’s why, days later, you found yourself walking beside him, the night before his birthday, trying not to laugh too hard while you fake-argued over his cake choice in a bakery that smelled like butter and sugar and something too soft to name.

You’d been there longer than expected, hovering near the glass display while the cashier wrapped up the box behind the counter. He kept second-guessing the cake, flipping between mousse and tiramisu, then back again like either one was life-altering.

You didn’t help. You just stood beside him with your arms crossed, making quiet noises of judgment every time he pointed at something with too much frosting.

“Be honest,” Minho said, eyeing the mousse like it had personally offended him. “If this was for you, what would you pick?”

“I wouldn’t wait until the night before,” you replied, not looking at him, pretending to study the croissants instead. “That’s what I’d pick.”

He scoffed. “Okay. But if we’re already here?”

“Probably the strawberry sponge,” you said. “It looks lighter.”

“Lighter? It’s cake.”

You shrugged. “Some of us like feeling joy without a stomachache.”

He gave you a look. Flat, unimpressed, familiar. “You’re exhausting.”

You smiled, not denying it. There was a comfort in how easily he threw those words around. Like he didn’t need to mean them. Like he trusted you’d know the difference.

In the end, he still went with the mousse. He stepped aside to pay, and you watched him from behind, absentmindedly peeling the paper off a stray straw wrapper. There was something familiar in the way he stood. Slightly hunched like he was trying not to take up space. The kind of posture people carry when they’ve always expected to be overlooked.

You wondered if he knew he didn’t have to do that around you anymore. Probably not. You’d tell him someday. Or maybe you wouldn’t. It didn’t feel urgent.

He reached for the box as the cashier slid it across the counter, then turned to you with that little victorious tilt of his head like he’d proven a point.

You didn’t know what point it was, but you let him have it. “Happy early birthday, I guess,” you muttered. “You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t buy it.”

“Moral support counts.”

“You argued against the cake the entire time.”

“That is my version of support.” He rolled his eyes and nudged you toward the door. You went, still smiling, shoes soft against the tile as the night pressed in just beyond the glass.

“What’s wrong with chocolate mousse?” he said again, pushing the door open with his shoulder as you stepped out into the cool air.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, falling into step beside him. “It’s just… predictable.”

He gave you a look. “You’re predictable.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Wow. That’s your comeback?”

“Works every time,” he said, smirking just enough to be annoying.

You scoffed under your breath and bumped your shoulder into his, not hard, just familiar.

You both paused at the curb, unhurried, the kind of stillness that didn’t ask to be filled. Traffic hummed softly in the distance. Someone laughed around the corner. The cake box was balanced in his hands like something fragile, though you knew it wasn’t. He glanced over at you, then back at the sidewalk ahead.

“So,” he said, dragging the word out like it had weight. “You and Hyunjin, huh?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What about us?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Minho said, switching the box to one hand so he could nudge you with his elbow. “You’re always looking at each other like…” He paused, squinted, raised his hands like a director setting a frame. “Like you’re in a coffee commercial.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to feel it in your neck. “Shut up.”

He laughed, really laughed this time, the sound echoing off the buildings around you like it didn’t want to stop. You didn’t join in, but you smiled, eyes trained on the sidewalk, the corner of your mouth pulling without permission.

“I’m just saying,” he said, softer now, his voice dipping back into something closer to normal. “It feels different. In a good way.”

You didn’t respond, not immediately. Just let the words settle. They didn’t need an answer.

And even with all the teasing, even with your careful deflections and the way you’d trained yourself to shrug things off before they got too close, something about what he said stayed with you. Not because it was surprising. But because it wasn’t.

It almost slipped away the night of his birthday.

Almost.

Expensive Korean barbecue had been bought without a second thought for his birthday dinner. The kind that sizzled and smoked under the warm hum of conversation, where the metal vents overhead pulled in the haze but never quite cleared it.

The table filled slowly with side dishes and voices, overlapping in the easy chaos that only happens with people who’ve known each other long enough to speak without thinking.

There was no order to the meal. Someone was always flipping meat too early, someone else was stealing pieces off the grill before they were ready, the tongs passed around like an afterthought. Drinks were poured messily, small glasses raised over and over until you lost count of who was toasting what. Laughter caught in the smoke. The air was thick with it. Heat, hunger, happiness. Everyone leaned in a little closer than usual. Like the warmth might escape if they didn’t.

Even Jisung had shown up, slipping through the door with an apologetic grin and that flustered energy that always made you wonder how he got anywhere at all. “I was here the whole time,” he said as he pulled up a chair, like anyone believed him. Someone booed. He bowed deeply like he was accepting an award. A cheer went up anyway. It wasn’t about truth. It was about presence.

New faces filtered in as the night went on, pulled in by text invites and word of mouth. People you barely knew a week ago were suddenly offering you shots and asking for your star sign. Stories flowed as easily as the drinks. Everything felt loose. Safe. Time was forgotten, or maybe just ignored. Someone ordered more food even though no one was really hungry anymore. No one complained.

You’d disappeared somewhere between courses. The noise had started to feel like a blur, so you slipped out, taking the chance to give Minho his gifts before anyone else noticed.

The key ring was quiet. Just his cat’s initials, pressed into the leather with a kind of permanence that made it feel older than it was. You knew he’d like the weight of it. The simplicity. The usefulness.

The camera, though, was a different story. You weren’t sure what possessed you. Maybe it was the way he talked once, quietly, about wanting to travel more. About not remembering things as well as he used to. You didn’t say any of that when you handed it to him. You just gave it over and said, “Don’t lose it.”

He squinted at the box like it might bite him. “...You’re so annoying,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but his mouth twitched at the corners, just enough. He turned away like that would hide it. It didn’t.

Later, he hooked the keychain onto his keys without a word. And the camera? It was out before dessert. The first photo was crooked. Everyone was laughing too hard to sit still, cheeks pink and eyes half-shut, someone’s chopsticks caught mid-air. The flash bounced off the smoke. You didn’t need it to be perfect. It just needed to exist.

Someone, probably Chan, slipped away to grab the cake. When he returned, the chocolate mousse you’d argued over was topped with a single sparkler, hissing and spitting light as everyone scrambled to find their phones. Minho groaned, already dreading the attention, but the sparkler hissed louder, forcing him to play along.

The birthday song that followed was a mess. Loud, chaotic, completely off-key. But no one cared. He blew out the sparkler with one sharp breath, muttering something about wishing for new friends, but his grin gave him away.

No one touched the cake until he’d claimed the first slice. Even then, people kept stealing bites from his plate. He let them.

And Hyunjin… well, Hyunjin never wandered too far.

He didn’t make a point of it, didn’t draw a line in the sand between you and the rest of the group. He just moved naturally, sitting beside you like that was the only available seat, brushing your leg under the table like it wasn’t the third time.

His hands moved without hesitation. Reaching for side dishes, refilling water, nudging napkins your way when your fingers were too sticky to grab them yourself. He didn’t make a show of anything. That’s what made it worse. Or maybe better. You didn’t know.

At some point, his arm found the back of your chair. It didn’t drop there all at once. Just settled gradually, like it had always been there.

You didn’t lean in. You didn’t move away. It just was. The kind of closeness you don’t question until later, when you’re lying in bed trying to figure out if it meant something or if it just meant comfort.

By the time the group drifted into the night, the city had cooled. The streets breathed easier after the warmth of the restaurant. Everyone was buzzing. Soft, sleepy chaos.

Chaeryeong had started humming some old K-pop song and pulled you into a half-dance, your feet barely cooperating as you stumbled across the pavement, laughing too hard to remember the lyrics. Jisung joined in just to be annoying, singing the wrong words on purpose until Minho shoved him half-heartedly.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and gently took your bag from your shoulder, like it was the most normal thing in the world. His fingers brushed yours when he did. You didn’t comment. Neither did he.

Someone bought snacks from the convenience store, and the group huddled near the glowing machines outside, unwrapping candy and sipping canned drinks like the night would never end.

Seungmin passed out gum to whoever wanted some, and Minhyuk argued with Chan over the best flavor of chips until they realized they’d bought the same ones anyway.

Voices got quieter. Jokes got lazier. Eventually, people started leaving in waves. Early classes. Train schedules. Work in the morning. Excuses, all of them. But no one wanted to say goodbye first.

There were hugs, loose and off-balance. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Heads knocked together in clumsy affection. Sleepy promises: “Let’s do this again soon,” “Don’t forget to send me the pictures,” “Text me when you get home.” No one believed they’d follow through. But no one questioned the sincerity of it, either.

Hyunjin hugged you too. Brief, like the others, but different somehow. His arms wrapped around you with a quiet care that caught you off guard. Not tight or stiff. Just enough to notice. His chin brushed your shoulder before he stepped back, his hand lingering on your arm a second too long before slipping away.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. But the squeeze—quiet, careful, almost an afterthought—stayed with you. Long after everyone had gone. Long after you made it home. And somewhere between peeling off your shoes and sinking into your bed, it hit you.

You hadn’t felt this light in a long time.

The thought stopped you cold, settling deep in your chest. When was the last time life didn’t feel so heavy? When was the last time your shoulders didn’t carry the weight of everything you were afraid to drop?

It startled you, that kind of softness. The way gratitude can slip in without warning and leave you breathless. The way joy can feel so fragile you’re scared to look at it too closely, in case it disappears.

Because truthfully? You’d been close. Close to unraveling quietly while everyone else clapped for you, so sure you were okay, so convinced you had it all handled.

And it was absurd, wasn’t it?

You had it good. You had friends. You were about to graduate. Things could be so much worse. And yet, the weight never left you. The guilt for not being happier, the constant voice in your head whispering that a single low grade was a sign you were stupid, that a single bad day meant you were doomed to fail. It was exhausting.

But nights like this… nights where nothing big happened, where no one was asking anything of you, where you could just exist with the people who had quietly become your people—

Nights like this reminded you: maybe you weren’t as lost as you thought.

𐪞

The invite came quietly. No fanfare. No shared calendar link or group poll. Just a message dropped in the lull of a late afternoon. That odd hour when everyone’s half-busy, half-bored, still reflexively checking their phones like something might change.

It was the kind of thing you said yes to without really thinking. And maybe that was what made it feel good. Like no one was trying too hard.

By the time you got there, the sky had folded into that muted kind of blue that feels nearly grayscale. No sun, no rain, just air. The street was hushed, tucked somewhere between dinner and dark.

Jeongin’s apartment sat on the second floor of a modest building, the kind with narrow stairwells and doorbells that buzzed too loud. The front door stuck a little at the hinge, but the light spilling out through the frosted window was already warm. Yellow and soft like butter on rice.

He opened the door with one foot, a half-eaten bag of chips tucked under his arm, and a wooden spoon between his teeth like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Wow,” he mumbled around it, stepping back to let you in. “You showed up before Chan. Historic.”

You kicked off your shoes and nudged them into a neater pile. “He’s probably circling for parking.”

“Or napping in the car like the ancient man he is.”

The door creaked again just as Jeongin said it. Chan walked in, holding two bottles of iced tea in one hand and shooting Jeongin a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“Say it again,” he warned, slow. “I dare you.”

“You’re late,” Jeongin shrugged, grabbing one of the bottles like it had always belonged to him. “Did you have to stretch before walking up the stairs?”

Chan set the other bottle on the counter with a thud. “Don’t ask me for help moving your couch ever again.”

“No promises.”

Jisung showed up a little while later, headphones still hanging loose around his neck and his hoodie halfway unzipped like he’d run the last block.

Then came Chaeryeong, breezing in with a knit tote bag and zero explanation, like she'd already lived this night once before and had just decided to return.

Not everyone could make it. But the ones who were free came. That was enough.

There was no plan. No itinerary or playlist waiting. Just a couch with too many blankets, something bubbling on the stove that smelled like ramen but richer, and the vague suggestion of a movie no one would watch until half the group was already horizontal.

You sat on the edge of the counter, swinging your legs lightly, watching Jeongin stir something into the broth. Garlic, maybe. Or sesame oil. Whatever it was, it made the kitchen feel like a small, warm world of its own.

Then, without hesitation, he dumped what could only be described as a reckless amount of chili flakes into the pot.

You blinked. “Is that… safe?”

“It’s not about safety,” he said, as if you’d asked something deeply philosophical. “It’s about respect.”

“You’re literally cooking instant noodles.”

“And they deserve to be treated with dignity.”

He handed you the first bowl. No fancy toppings, no garnish, just a glossy broth and a single perfect egg, soft-boiled to that exact kind of tender that makes you question your whole technique. You took a bite.

Of course, infuriatingly, it was good.

The rest of the night folded in on itself like that. Quiet movement, half-finished conversations, laughter that didn’t demand attention. At some point, Jisung booted up Little Nightmares on the TV and tossed you the second controller.

“Do not let me play this alone,” he said, already adjusting the brightness.

You squinted at the menu screen. “Is it scary?”

“It’s eerie,” Jeongin said from the floor, one socked foot propped up against the coffee table. “Not jump-scare scary. Just unsettling.”

Chan glanced over with a raised brow. “You screamed during the opening cutscene last time.”

“There was a loud door slam,” Jeongin argued, deadpan. “That’s a reasonable reaction.”

The game started slow. Long corridors, shadowy figures, the kind of atmosphere that made you hold your breath even when nothing was happening. You and Jisung traded the controller back and forth. He was better at jumping puzzles. You were better at not panicking when things chased you.

Chaeryeong curled up beside you on the couch, her legs folded under her and a blanket draped around her shoulders like she hadn’t even asked, just taken it. She kept gasping at all the wrong moments, even when the screen was dead quiet.

Chan sat nearby, one arm lazily slung over the back of the couch, giving half-hearted directions in that dry, detached tone only older siblings seemed to master.

“Go left,” he said. “No, your other left.”

It felt like a long exhale.

There wasn’t any pressure to be interesting. No one was trying to one-up anyone. The light from the screen flickered across everyone’s faces, soft and shadowed. Jeongin leaned his head back against the wall at one point and closed his eyes. Jisung stopped narrating his every move. The quiet came not from boredom, but comfort.

Then someone broke it just enough to ask, “Ice cream?”

Jeongin perked up immediately, eyes blinking open like he'd been waiting for someone to say it.

“Yes. I bought weird flavors. You’re all trying them.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged with five small tubs, their labels strange and half-English. One had a taro root and sea salt on the front. Another was just called “black milk” in minimalist silver font. There was a pale green one that smelled faintly like rice, and a pink-speckled mystery that turned out to be lychee-strawberry.

“Jeongin,” Chaeryeong said, eyeing them with suspicion, “these look cursed.”

“They’re elite,” he said, already handing her a spoon. “You have no taste.”

“Taste is exactly what I’m worried about.”

You tried the taro one first. Creamy, a little salty, a flavor you couldn’t quite name. Not bad. Just unexpected. Jisung made a dramatic face after trying the lychee, but still reached for a second bite.

Chan didn’t say a word. Just passed each container with quiet efficiency, sampling everything, finishing his scoop before anyone else even commented. You caught the small hum he made when trying the black milk, like he wasn’t planning to admit it was good.

Now the apartment smelled like soy sauce and cold sugar, savory hanging low in the walls, sweet clinging to the air. Someone had turned the game volume down, and music played again. Not loudly, just some leftover track on loop at the tail end of a forgotten playlist.

The voices in the room softened. Jisung ended up half-sprawled on the rug, thumbing through a game on his phone with the screen turned low. Chaeryeong was scrolling through something, showing Jeongin a picture every few minutes with a quiet laugh.

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your jeans, and began gathering the empty bowls without needing to be asked.

You moved into the kitchen. Rinsed each bowl under warm water. Stacked them gently. Let the faucet run and felt the heat seep into your palms, grounding and quiet.

The rest of the apartment hummed behind you, dim and cozy, but out of reach for a moment. The light in the kitchen buzzed faintly above you. You paused, listening to the low murmur of voices and laughter. Let yourself breathe.

Then, soft footsteps.

And Chan’s voice behind you, casual, like he hadn’t just been watching you slip away.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already stepping in like he wasn’t waiting for permission.

You shook your head, barely glancing over your shoulder. “Almost done.”

Still, he moved beside you, picking up a dish towel and drying what you handed off without a word. For a minute or so, that was all it was. Quiet movements, the occasional clink of ceramic.

Then Chan spoke, still not looking at you.

“Tonight’s been nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Jeongin’s place has good energy.”

“That, or he hides the chaos well.”

You smiled faintly. “He does put effort into pretending he doesn’t try.”

Chan laughed under his breath, low and knowing. “Takes one to know one.”

You handed him the last bowl, the water now running clear. The sink hissed as you turned it off, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. For a second, it felt like that was it. Like maybe he’d nod, thank you, walk back out to the others.

But he stayed where he was. Still leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. Something quiet passed behind his eyes before he spoke again.

“You’ve been kinda… quiet tonight,” he said, carefully. “Not in a bad way. Just… not all here.”

You didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t the kind of question you could dodge, but it also wasn’t the kind that demanded anything specific. So you just leaned back against the edge of the sink, arms folded loosely over your stomach, and looked at the countertop.

“I think I’ve been stuck in my own head,” you said eventually.

Chan didn’t press. He waited, the way people only do when they care.

“It’s not like anything’s wrong, exactly. I’ve just been feeling…” You trailed off, trying to find the right shape for it. “Small. Lately.”

He tilted his head a little, brows drawing together. “Small how?”

You breathed out through your nose. “Like I’m not enough. For someone. Or even just… in general. Like there’s this version of me I keep trying to show up as, and sometimes I’m close, but sometimes it just feels like I’m cosplaying. And I can’t tell if that means I’m changing or faking it.”

Chan was quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing lightly along the seam of the dish towel in his hands.

“Is this about Hyunjin?” he asked, gently.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Not in the way people probably think it is. It’s not… about him, not really. It’s how I feel when I’m around him. How I start second-guessing everything I say, everything I do. He never asks me to. He’s never unkind. But I keep wondering when I’m going to mess it up. When he’s going to realize I’m just…” You faltered, then finished in a breath, “someone he thinks is better than I am.”

Chan’s voice came quiet. “You think he’s looking for perfect?”

“I think I’m scared he’ll see how not-perfect I am. And maybe decide that’s enough reason not to stay.”

That landed in the space between you, soft but heavy. You didn’t mean for it to sound so fragile. It just was.

Chan nodded slowly, resting his arms along the edge of the counter. “Can I say something kind of lame?”

You gave him a look. “You’re asking me?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair.”

He let a small pause bloom between you before speaking.

“I think… the hardest thing isn’t showing up as the version of yourself you want to be. It’s showing up as who you actually are, even on the days you’re not proud of it. Especially then.” His voice stayed low, but there was conviction there. “If someone’s gonna love you, they have to meet you where you are. Not just where you shine.”

You looked at him, quiet.

“And sometimes,” he added, “we think we’re failing just because we’re feeling more than we’re used to. Doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

You let that settle in.

Then, from the doorway, Chaeryeong’s voice chimed in, casual, like she’d only caught the last part but still meant every word.

“He’s right, you know.”

You turned to see Chaeryeong leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression open. Warm.

“If you weren’t enough,” she said simply, “you wouldn’t be this scared of losing something real. You feel this way because you care. That’s not nothing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It wrapped around the three of you like a blanket someone forgot to fold. Loose, lived-in.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brushing your fingers along your temple.

“You two suck at lighthearted kitchen chats.”

Chan arched a brow. “You’re the one who started washing dishes like it was a metaphor.”

Chaeryeong grinned. “Come on. Jisung’s trying to freestyle over the Little Nightmares soundtrack and Jeongin’s threatening to throw him out.”

You nodded, eyes a little shinier than before. “Okay. Just a sec.”

They both left without needing to say more.

And you stayed for a moment longer, letting your reflection blur in the kitchen window, letting the echo of their words settle somewhere soft in your chest. Then you turned off the light and followed the sound of laughter back into the room.

‎

‎ ‎ [A year ago, campus housing]

The air in the dorm was thick. Thicker than the humid nights Hyunjin had grown up with, thicker than the weight that sat in his chest whenever things felt off and he couldn’t name why. It didn’t move. It just sat there, low and oppressive, like it had been waiting. The kind of heat that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with what was about to break.

Julie stood across from him, arms crossed tight like she’d been bracing for this all day. Her mouth was set, not trembling, not apologizing. Just drawn into that flat, unreadable line she always pulled when she wanted to win something. A conversation. An argument. The upper hand.

Hyunjin’s hand twitched at his side. He wasn’t sure when the shouting had started. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe everything just got louder inside his head until it spilled out without meaning to.

“Are you even listening to me, Julie?”

His voice cracked. Not out of anger, not entirely. It sounded too raw to be that. It echoed around the small room, bouncing off the barren walls like it didn’t belong to either of them. Her face didn’t change. Not really. If anything, her eyes sharpened, like she was waiting for the next thing to get annoyed at.

“No,” she snapped, like it was obvious. “Not when you’re saying shit like that to my face.”

Something in him pulled taut. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and for a second, all he could do was stare at her like he was seeing someone else entirely. He wasn’t the type to raise his voice. He hated it. Hated how it made him feel afterward. Gutted, guilty, spent. But this… this was something else. This was the kind of hurt that didn’t have a neat place to go.

He stepped forward before he could stop himself, voice low now, rough with disbelief. “So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend those messages didn’t exist?”

Julie didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She shifted her weight slightly, like she was tired of standing. Like this whole thing was dragging out longer than she thought it would.

“I already told you,” she muttered. “It’s not what you think.”

He laughed once. Short, bitter, humorless. Ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the root like it might keep him from saying something worse.

“You told your friends you were using me.” The words came out quieter this time, but sharper. Cleaner. Like a blade.

Julie’s mouth tightened. Her gaze flicked, just briefly, off to the side. That was all it took. A small, reflexive tic. But he caught it.

And in that sliver of a second, he felt it: the shift. That maybe she hadn’t expected him to find out. That maybe she thought she could talk her way around it, just like before.

He took a breath, trying to steady the part of him that was shaking. “You told me you loved me.”

The silence that followed stretched thin, pulling taut between them. She didn’t respond. Just looked down at her nails for a second, then back up like she was waiting for this to end.

“Was that bullshit too?” he asked, softer now. And that softness, that ache in his voice, was the worst part of it. He hated how small he sounded. Hated how much of himself still wanted her to say no.

But she didn’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Her voice was flat. Unmoved. Like he was asking too much from someone who had already given him everything they were willing to part with.

And maybe that was true. Maybe she had never intended to give him anything real in the first place.

Hyunjin swallowed. His hands were cold now. Everything in him recoiled, slow and silent. He looked at her. Not at her face, but at the distance between them. At the absence of something that should’ve been there.

He thought she was the one thing he hadn’t ruined. That even in the middle of everything else falling apart—assignments he couldn’t finish, expectations he couldn’t meet, friendships that slipped through the cracks like sand—she was the one thing that felt solid.

And she let him believe that. Let him pour himself into her, piece by piece, even when she had no intention of holding it.

“You didn’t love me,” he said, not accusing anymore. Just filling in the empty spaces. “You loved the attention. You loved knowing someone would pick up when he wouldn’t.”

Julie didn’t deny it. Not out loud.

She just looked away, toward the window. Always the window. And something in him broke for good. He felt it go. The last thread between them, so thin it didn’t even make a sound.

“Was any of it real?”

It came out small. Like something he already knew the answer to. Julie’s eyes flickered again, briefly, and maybe it was guilt. Maybe not. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t even say no.

She said nothing.

And silence is the cruelest kind of confirmation.

He nodded, slowly, as if his body had finally caught up to what his heart had already figured out. Everything in him hurt. But it was a quiet kind of pain now. A steady, dull thing.

He memorized the shape of it. Her standing there, arms still crossed, face turned away like this wasn’t worth her full attention. Like it was easier not to see the damage if you didn’t look at it directly.

“Right,” he said, and it was the only thing left. No anger. No desperation. Just the clean, hollow sound of acceptance.

He turned toward the door, his feet moving through something heavy. He paused, hand on the knob, still stupid enough, still human enough, to wait. Just in case she said his name.

Just in case she said anything.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet. Just the dull whir of the air conditioner and the sound of his own breath shaking in his throat.

So he left.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t check if she turned to watch him go. He didn’t want to know.

The door clicked shut behind him. That was the only sound left. One final punctuation mark at the end of something he’d been trying to hold onto with bloody hands.

And just like that, it was over.

𐪞

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes Hyunjin wondered if there was a word for it. That strange, hollow weight certain memories carried.

Not the loud ones. Not the ones that came with fireworks or shouting or door slams. Just the ones that hung in the air long after they were done. The kind that folded themselves into your ribs, quiet and permanent, like furniture rearranged in a room you barely recognized anymore.

After Julie, everything felt like that. Not sharp, not dramatic. Just... dulled. Like life had been turned down a few notches and left humming in the background.

He never really told people how bad it got. How the walls of his room started to feel like they were pressing in. How his own voice sounded foreign when it cracked down the middle from trying too hard not to cry. How there were nights when the silence swallowed him whole and spit him back out with shaking hands and swollen eyes.

Chan was the only one who ever saw him like that. Really saw him. Sat next to him on the floor when it all caved in, a takeout box unopened between them, his hand resting gently on Hyunjin’s shoulder like it could hold him together. He didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. Just passed him a tissue when the tears came again, and said, “You’re not weak for feeling it.”

That helped. Not all at once, not in a movie-moment kind of way. But enough to breathe again.

And now, he’s here. Not broken, but not whole either. Just quieter. Still soft in the places that matter. Still watching the world with those wide, wondering eyes like he’s waiting for it to surprise him.

Because that’s the thing about Hyunjin. He’s always seen the bigger picture. While most people rush through moments, he lingers. Notices the way light spills through half-closed blinds and paints shifting patterns on the floor. The way strangers on trains unconsciously mirror each other’s posture, like some quiet choreography playing out in real time. He notices the poetry in things others overlook.

He’s the kind who gets lost in thought mid-conversation, not because he isn’t listening, but because a part of him is busy folding the moment into something sacred. A hopeless romantic, not in the rose-colored sense, but in the way he believes there’s meaning tucked into everything. Every word, every glance, every almost.

He used to fall in love with the idea of people long before he truly knew them. Built whole lives from passing glances, imagined conversations spun from nothing, fell hard for moments that barely existed. And the thing is, he always knew better. But knowing didn’t stop him from wanting.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but sometimes, when the night stretches long and quiet, he wonders if that’s why the hurt always feels so sharp. So intimate.

Because he opens doors too wide, too soon. Because he takes people at their word, believes in the good before it’s proven. And lately, he’s been questioning if maybe love, real love, isn’t found in grand gestures or loud confessions.

Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s a presence that lingers after the noise fades. A warmth that doesn’t demand attention, but never leaves. And lately, almost without meaning to, his thoughts keep circling back to you.

He didn’t mean to think about you so often. Didn’t mean for your name to come up when nothing in the conversation had anything to do with you. But it did. In the way someone mentioned your favorite drink. In the way the wind picked up a loose thread from his coat and reminded him of that afternoon you stood beside him at the crosswalk, too absorbed in your playlist to notice the world was already watching.

You never did try to be anything for anyone. That’s what he noticed first. The ease in your silence. The way you didn’t fill it with empty words. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden. It was just there. Your presence, slipping in until it felt like it had always been part of his day.

Some nights, when the city is too loud or too quiet, he lies on his back and lets his thoughts run. Wonders what version of his life he’d be living if Julie hadn’t said what she said. If he hadn’t walked out. If he hadn’t met you.

He doesn’t regret leaving. Not even for a second.

But he does think about what came after. The silence. The rebuilding. The cautious way he started laughing again. And how, eventually, it wasn’t just Chan who pulled him back.

It was you, too, without even trying.

He doesn’t know what this is. What it could become. He’s afraid to name it, to hold it too tightly and watch it slip between his fingers. But it’s there, anyway. In the small moments. In the pauses between words. In the part of his chest that doesn’t hurt as much when you’re around.

And that has to mean something. Even if he’s not sure what yet.

Maybe that’s why, days later, he found himself sitting across from you, tucked away in a restaurant he hadn’t meant to find.

It had been one of those nights, wandering with his hood up, earbuds in, the city folding and unfolding around him in quiet waves. He passed by the place without noticing at first. Then doubled back. The windows were fogged over, the light inside low and warm. There was something about it. Something soft. He took a photo of the front and sent it to himself with no caption. Just in case.

The message sat in his notes for three days.

He wrote it once, then rewrote it. Took out the heart emoji. Added a period. Deleted the period because it suddenly felt like too much. The blinking caret stared back at him like it knew he was stalling. Like it was waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Eventually, he just sent:

hey, wanna try this place i found? food’s good, i think you’d like it :)

No extras. No expectations. Just enough to leave the door open. He hit send before he could lose his nerve, flipped his phone face-down on the bed, and tried to distract himself by pretending to clean his room. Mostly just moving clothes from one end to the other and half-heartedly looking for something to wear.

You replied eleven minutes later.

sure. when?

That was all. But it was more than enough to keep him from spiraling. It was a yes.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, his room looked like a battlefield—sweaters tossed over chairs, half-folded jackets strewn like fallen soldiers, the floor littered with evidence of indecision.

Nothing felt right. Everything was either too casual or trying too hard. He changed twice, then a third time, then circled back to the first option. In the end, he settled on the black sweater. The one worn soft from years of late nights and train rides. Frayed at the cuffs. The kind of thing he wore when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

The wireframe glasses came next. Not really for vision, more for image. They made him feel grounded. Like someone who hadn’t spent twenty minutes pacing in front of a mirror. A silver chain, subtle but intentional, rested against his collarbone. His hair wouldn’t cooperate no matter what he did, so he stopped trying, letting it fall into his eyes.

Chan lounged at the edge of the bed, legs crossed like a retired stylist on break, phone in one hand, canned coffee in the other, offering commentary without being asked.

“Don’t slouch. Wear cologne. The soft one. And stop checking your phone—she said yes. She’s not gonna ghost you in the next ten minutes.”

Hyunjin made a face. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope,” Chan said cheerfully. “Also, bring mints.”

Meanwhile, your room wasn’t much better.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Said it out loud. Twice. Just to hear it bounce back like it might stick this time. Just dinner. Just food and conversation. Just two people going to a place and walking back separately. That’s it.

You repeated it like a mantra while tearing through your closet like it had personally offended you. Sweaters hit the bed like confessions. Nothing looked right.

Still, you tried to keep your cool. Tried not to check your reflection every five minutes. Tried not to smooth invisible creases out of your sleeves like your nerves were stitched into the seams. You told yourself it wasn’t nerves. Just habit. Just something your body did when your heart got loud.

Chaeryeong was on facetime the whole time, half-buried in her pillow, chewing something and watching with her patented judgment-disguised-as-apathy expression.

“Leave your hair alone,” she mumbled.

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are.”

You sighed and reached for your lip balm.

“I swear, if you change your top one more time—”

“I’m not—”

“You are. One more outfit and I’m hanging up.”

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Somewhere in the chaos, the group chat had lit up like a warning flare. Jisung had decided, completely unprompted, that this was a date and was now sending unhinged emoji combos by the minute.

good luck tonight 💅😳🖤👀

Changbin, for some reason, was now deep-diving Hyunjin’s social media and sending timestamped screenshots with wildly fake personality analyses.

You muted the chat for your own survival. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a date. Technically, that was the truth. But also… that kind of missed the point.

Whatever it was, it mattered. Enough to make your hands restless. Enough to make you care. Enough to make you wonder what it meant that he’d asked you.

By the time you stepped out the door, the sky had already dipped into indigo. That early kind of twilight where the world feels in-between. Half-awake, half-dreaming. You didn’t rush. There was no reason to. The plan was simple: meet him at the restaurant. That’s all.

But then fate, or something like it, stepped in.

The train rolled into the station just as you reached the bottom of the stairs, its doors sliding open like they’d been waiting just for you. You stepped inside through the nearest set, eyes down, thoughts already drifting ahead, imagining how the night might go—

And walked straight into someone.

“Oh—sorry—” you said automatically, the word halfway out before your gaze lifted.

Hyunjin had come in from the opposite side, head lowered like he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. His eyes widened slightly, just enough to register surprise, but not enough to make it awkward.

You stood there, caught in the slow current of passengers drifting past, neither of you moving, not just yet.

Then—

“Hi,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it settled into you like it belonged there.

“Hi,” you echoed, the smile forming before you could stop it.

You slid into the nearest seat, and he followed without hesitation, settling beside you like it had always been the plan. Like this moment had been penciled into the day, just waiting to be discovered.

His shoulder brushed yours as he adjusted his sweater, a quiet shift. He glanced over, just once, his lips curving slightly, like this coincidence was something he’d secretly wished for but hadn’t dared to expect.

He was definitely writing about this on Hotline later.

The train lurched forward, and still, neither of you moved away. No words at first. Just silence, thick and alive with all the things neither of you needed to say yet.

Outside, the tunnels swallowed the world whole. Black walls and blinking lights replaced the cityscape, leaving you inside a capsule of motion and stillness. Your reflections ghosted across the glass, blurred by movement and streaks of passing light. You were aware of every small thing—

The steady rhythm of the train beneath your feet.

The scent of his cologne. Cedarwood and something softer tonight, like rain evaporating off pavement.

He looked good. Not in the practiced, “trying” kind of way, but in the way people do when they feel most like themselves.

Clean layers. Soft knits. A hint of silver at his collar. Glasses he only wore when he forgot to think too hard. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger for half a second longer than you probably should’ve.

He caught it. Met your eyes.

“You look nice,” he said, quieter than the train.

You blinked. He wasn’t smiling, not fully. His mouth curved at the edges like he regretted saying it, but didn’t want to take it back either.

And still, he meant it.

You looked down, the smile finding its way onto your face anyway.

“You too,” you said, and you meant that, too.

He looked away first, but not far. Just enough to settle into the seat beside you again. And you leaned back, close but not touching, feeling the air shift with every turn the train made.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but not the empty kind.

It was the kind that filled in all the quiet spaces. The kind that said I see you, even without the words.

And now, you’re sitting across from him, warmth pooling around your table as the low hum of the restaurant folds in around you.

The place doesn’t try too hard.

The lights are soft, drawn low enough to feel like dusk even indoors. The ceiling bulbs flicker gently, casting halos onto the worn tables, while faint music flows under the quiet clatter of forks and conversations too low to catch.

The air smells faintly of grilled meat and something sweet, maybe burnt sugar, drifting from the kitchen. The window beside you is fogged at the edges. A contrast to the cold slipping through the seams of the city just beyond the glass.

Hyunjin reaches for the water pitcher and pours into both glasses, fingers steady even though his pulse isn’t. You watch the way his hands move. Precise, a little careful, like he’s focusing on the smallest task so his nerves don’t give him away.

He slides your glass toward you, thumb brushing the condensation as he lets go.

“Thanks,” you say softly, breaking the surface of the silence.

He nods, eyes flicking up for a second, then back to the table like he wasn’t quite ready to be caught looking. “You been here before?”

You shake your head, curling your fingers loosely around the cool glass.

“I found it by accident,” he says. “Weeks ago, maybe longer. Didn’t go in. Just… saved the spot.”

You raise an eyebrow, half smiling. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose and shrugs, like he’s considering if the truth would sound too much.

“Felt like the kind of place I’d want to come back to. With someone.”

That’s all he says. Nothing dressed up. But it lands anyway.

The server takes your orders and disappears, leaving just the two of you again, seated across a narrow table, both pretending not to notice how close the space feels.

Hyunjin shifts slightly, settling into the seat like he’s still figuring out how to sit in front of you.

One arm rests along the edge of the table, fingers tracing absent-minded circles around the base of his water glass. The other drifts up to adjust the wire-thin frames on his nose, then drops back into his lap. You notice—he doesn’t check his phone. Neither do you.

You glance over the rim of your glass. “What did you eat today?”

He blinks at the question, caught off guard. Then scoffs, lips quirking upward. “What is this, a wellness check?”

“Sort of. I’m trying to gauge how weird your order’s about to be.”

“Rude,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now. “Okay… cereal.”

You raise a brow.

“But like—a healthy cereal. With almonds. Fiber and stuff.”

“That’s not a meal. That’s bird food.”

“It had protein.”

“So do actual meals.”

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “Okay, then. What did you eat?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He huffs, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

Your drinks arrive—his red wine, your cocktail. You clink glasses without a word. No toast. No performance. Just a soft, familiar tap of glass to glass, like this is something you’ve done before.

He takes a sip, thoughtful, then nods toward your drink. “Is it good?”

You slide it across the table without answering. He tries it, then returns it just as easily, no comment, no hesitation. Like the kind of thing you do on instinct. Like the kind of thing you don’t think twice about.

There’s a faint trace of gloss on the rim now. You notice it. You pretend you don’t.

When the food arrives, the atmosphere softens even further. The clink of silverware, the low thread of music humming under the conversation, the murmur of voices from nearby tables. It all folds into the background like the night has exhaled. The table feels smaller. Not cramped. Just… closer. More intentional.

Mid-bite, you gesture toward his plate. “Is that the truffle thing?”

He nods, still chewing, already reaching for his glass.

“You hate mushrooms.”

“Truffle’s not—” He pauses, sighs, defeated. “Yeah. Okay. I’m learning things.”

You reach across the table and take a bite from his plate. No warning. No explanation. Just muscle memory.

He watches it happen. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t protest. Just lets it unfold, like this is something you’ve done before, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s good,” you declare, mouth half-full. “A little rich, though.”

“You just ate half my dinner.”

“For science.”

“You’re exhausting.”

You grin, hiding it behind your napkin. He laughs, quiet and easy, thumb running along the edge of his glass as he looks at you, like he’s adding this to some private catalogue in his head.

Conversation meanders, through half-serious debates, fake hypotheticals, and stories that lose their point halfway through. You find yourselves laughing over a class neither of you even care about, which somehow leads into a saga about someone in Hyunjin’s building who tried to organize a “silent hallway hour” via the group chat.

Hyunjin has thoughts. Strong ones.

“You can’t just mandate silence after 8 p.m.,” he says, shaking his head like he’s personally leading the resistance. “That’s not wellness. That’s fascism.”

You snort, trying to stifle a grin. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“I live there. I have rights.”

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Loud and full, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle shut. The kind that starts in your chest and refuses to be polite about it. You lean back in your chair, hand half-covering your face, trying to breathe through it, failing spectacularly.

When you peek up, Hyunjin’s watching you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not right away.

There’s a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile too much, but failing just a little. A soft, crooked grin creeps across his face, like he’s quietly proud of himself for making you laugh like that.

Then his gaze drops. Thumb tracing the rim of his water glass. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the warmth still rising in his chest.

The conversation trails off. Not into awkwardness, into quiet.

A good kind. One that settles around you like a blanket. One that doesn’t demand anything.

You both pick at what’s left on your plates. He nudges his toward you without a word. You steal another bite, shamelessly this time. He doesn’t blink. Just lets you.

You slide your drink over to him without thinking. He finishes it slowly, still listening to you talk, still half-listening to the hum of the restaurant around you. No commentary, no question. Just an easy exchange. It’s only when he pushes the empty glass back in your direction that you realize what happened.

You raise an eyebrow, slow and theatrical.

“What?” he says, all innocence, as if he didn’t just finish your entire drink like it belonged to him.

“You finished it.”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “You gave it to me.”

“Temporarily.”

“I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re very generous.”

“I try.”

The restaurant has dipped into that quiet lull. After the plates have cleared, after the noise of dinner has thinned out into murmurs and clinking glassware. Most people are lingering now. Not eating. Just being.

And you feel it too. How your limbs have gone soft and loose, how the air between you feels warmer than the candlelight alone can explain. It’s not just the drinks. It’s this. It’s him.

Hyunjin leans his cheek into his hand, eyes on the flickering candle between you.

“Would’ve been weird if we hadn’t run into each other on the train,” he says suddenly, voice softer now.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

“But also… not weird. I don’t know.”

You tilt your head, watching the candle melt lower. “It felt like something that was gonna happen anyway. Even if we didn’t plan it.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Then drops his gaze again, like the words sat too heavy in his chest to carry all the way out.

Neither of you finishes the last bite.

You lean back, the candle burned nearly to its base. Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, someone laughs too loudly. Outside, the windows have fogged again, softening the edges of the world. Inside, the two of you stay still a little longer than necessary.

The server comes and goes quietly, clearing the plates and dropping the check without a word. Neither of you reaches for it. Not yet. You’re both sunk back into your chairs, the weight of the night pressing gently down like a hand on your shoulders. Standing up feels like an idea someone else should think about.

Hyunjin takes another sip of his wine, still nursing it like he’s not quite ready for the night to tip into whatever comes next. The candle between you has burned low, casting soft shadows that flicker across his face.

“You’re definitely tipsy,” you murmur, watching him with a tilt to your head.

He scoffs. “You’re tipsy.”

“Am not.”

“You just narrated my wine pour in your head. I saw it happening.”

You stifle a grin behind your glass. “It was elegant. Deserved a voiceover.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and surprised, eyes flicking to the fogged-up window before settling on you again. “You always do that,” he says, quiet, not teasing. Just observing.

“Do what?”

“Say stuff like that. Like it’s a joke. But not really.”

You set your glass down gently, meeting his eyes. “Maybe I mean it.”

He watches you for a beat, something shifting behind his gaze. “Maybe you do,” he says, softer now. He bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s already second-guessing himself, but doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to smooth it over.

The quiet that follows isn’t uncomfortable. But it’s different. Heavier. Charged with something new.

And then, like it just slips out of him:

“I like you.”

You blink. “Right now?”

He smiles, slow and a little sheepish. “No. I mean… generally.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking down as he fidgets with the edge of his napkin. “Just figured I’d say it before I changed my mind and pretended I didn’t.”

You study him for a moment. The way his ears are slightly pink now. The way his knee is still pressed lightly against yours under the table. The way he won’t meet your eyes, but doesn’t move away either.

“I like you too,” you say. Soft, steady, like it’s weather. Like it’s always been true. He looks up, eyes searching.

“No offense,” you add, a grin tugging at your mouth, “but it’s been kind of obvious.”

His mouth twitches. “Wow.”

“I mean, you gave me half your dinner.”

“You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

He laughs again, low and real. You’re both smiling now, soft, a little glassy-eyed. There’s no act to it. No edge. Just the relief of the truth finally being spoken.

“I’m blaming this on the wine in the morning,” he mutters.

“You haven’t even had that much.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

You tap your fingers gently against the base of your glass. The candle between you flickers low, its flame thinning like it’s growing tired, like even the light knows the night is winding down. The quiet has returned, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of breath. Of waiting. Of things almost said.

You tilt your head slightly, voice low, casual. Too casual to be accidental.

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. Wide, but not startled. More like surprised by how easily the question left your mouth, like you’d asked if he wanted to split dessert or stay a little longer. No hesitation, no edge. Just curiosity.

“Do you want me to?”

You shrug, but your gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Maybe.”

Something shifts between you. Subtle. Like the moment inhales.

He leans forward, slow, careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull back. To say just kidding and laugh it off.

But you don’t.

And when he kisses you, it’s not fireworks. Not fireworks at all.

It’s quiet. Intentional. A touch of warmth, like the space between your faces had always been meant to close this way. It’s brief, almost unsure at first, like you’re both testing the weight of it. But then you lean in without meaning to, and his hand grazes your cheek, gentle and grounding. Like he didn’t plan it, only knew he needed to do it the second it happened.

You both pull back at the same time. Just a breath’s distance. And neither of you says anything. You don’t have to.

You’re still smiling, but not the kind of smile that comes from adrenaline or surprise. It’s the other kind. The softer kind. Like everything inside you just clicked into place.

Okay. Settled.

Hyunjin exhales, long and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath since the appetizers. He leans back in his chair, barely biting back a smile.

“Okay. Yeah. We’re blaming that on the wine.”

“Obviously.”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk creeping back in. “But just to be clear, if you steal food off my plate again, that kiss is now the price.”

You snort, resting your elbow on the table. “That’s extortion.”

“It’s fair.”

“I’d do it anyway.”

He lets out a soft laugh and tosses his napkin onto the table in defeat, like the matter’s settled. His grin hangs on his lips, lazy and crooked, like it’s not leaving anytime soon.

The candle gutters out.

You don’t move. Not yet.

The quiet folds in around you again, but it feels warmer now. The restaurant hums softly in the background. Murmured voices, clinking glass, someone laughing two tables over.

Eventually—

“Who’s paying the bill?” you ask, voice low and syrupy, like you’ve just remembered the concept of money exists.

Hyunjin raises a brow, amused. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

You smirk. “I’m already winning.”

“You kissed me. That’s cheating.”

“I kissed you back. Big difference.”

He groans dramatically, grabbing the check like it wounded him. “Unbelievable.”

You smile, sitting back in your chair, watching him. Letting him.

Outside the window, the city keeps moving. Lights flicker. A bus hisses to a stop. People pass by with takeout bags and lives you'll never know. But right now, in this tiny pocket of time, you're not missing any of it.

𐪞

You leave the restaurant slowly, like you’ve both forgotten how to move with purpose. The air outside has cooled, but not in a way that urges you in. It’s the kind of night that hums instead of buzzes.

The sidewalks are mostly empty. Streetlamps spill their gold onto the pavement in wide, soft circles. You fall into step beside him without thinking.

At some point, Hyunjin slips his hands into his pockets, bumping your shoulder lightly as you walk. You nudge him back without a word. He grins sideways, the corners of his mouth still caught in that same half-smile from dinner.

“Your train’s this way, right?” he asks, tipping his head toward the station.

You nod, and he follows. No hesitation.

The station is nearly empty now. Just the low, echoing hum of the tracks far below, like the city’s breathing in its sleep. You move toward the platform, stopping just shy of the yellow line, and he stops with you. Not too close. Just enough that the warmth between you doesn’t feel accidental anymore.

“I still think you cheated,” he murmurs suddenly.

You look up at him, a brow raised. “On what?”

“Winning the bill standoff.”

“You let me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“No,” you say, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were being defeated.”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he’s going to argue but decides not to. The train rattles into view before either of you speaks again, all noise and light and cold metal sighs.

Inside, the car’s nearly empty. Just a few passengers scattered like ghosts. You slide into the corner seat on the long bench, curling slightly toward the window. Hyunjin sits beside you, close. Close enough that his knee touches yours, and this time, he doesn’t move away.

There’s a kind of lightness between you now. Not drunken, not giddy. Just a quiet buzz. Post-confession. Post-kiss. That sweet, suspended warmth after I like you has landed in the air and found a home.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just lets the moment settle. Then his pinky grazes yours. A brush so light it could’ve been nothing.

But it isn’t.

So you turn your hand over, slow and certain. Let your fingers slip into his. He looks down, blinking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to smile that wide. But he does. A little dazed. A little undone.

Neither of you speak. Two stops pass like that. Quiet and full.

When the train slows again, brakes hissing against the tunnel walls, you bump your shoulder against his. “This is me.”

He stands without question. Follows.

The walk from the station is short. Four blocks, maybe. You talk the whole way. Tell him about your cursed laundry room. The dryer door that only closes if you whisper affirmations to it first.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

He laughs, loud and sudden, and nearly trips over the curb, which only makes you laugh, too.

By the time you reach your building, you’re both still catching your breath. You swipe your key card, and the front door clicks open with a soft beep. No roommates. No lights on. Just the warm, familiar quiet waiting inside.

“Home sweet home,” you say, flicking on the light low.

Hyunjin steps in behind you, slow, eyes scanning the space like he’s committing it to memory. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. Just slips off his shoes and lines them up neatly by the door before following you into the small living room.

You both ease down onto the couch, angled toward each other but not quite touching yet. You tuck your legs underneath you, settling against the armrest. Hyunjin mirrors the motion a beat later, his knee brushing lightly against yours as he leans in just enough to close the gap.

He glances over, voice soft. “Is this okay?”

You smile, the kind that doesn’t need effort. “Hyunjin. You’re here. You’re fine.”

He exhales like he’s been waiting for that answer since the train.

His hand drifts to your knee, fingers tracing idle shapes there. Not asking. Just existing. Your hand finds his again, thumb brushing the ridge of his knuckles, and for a second, you both just… stay.

The silence isn’t heavy. It hums. Light, like the kind of quiet that only happens when two people are finally still in the same place. You both laugh at the same time. Half surprise, half nerves, and it breaks the air open in the gentlest way.

“You’re looking at me like I’m supposed to do something,” he murmurs, smile curving.

“You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.” You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “But you’re not exactly innocent.”

He tries not to laugh. Tries and fails.

And then he kisses you again.

This one lands differently. Longer, slower. Not rushed, but more sure. You respond without thinking, hands curling into the collar of his sweater, pulling him a breath closer. He still smells like cedarwood, but now there’s something familiar layered beneath it. Your shampoo, maybe, from earlier. It makes you smile against his mouth.

You pull back slightly, noses brushing, and he’s already smiling too. A little dazed.

“This is probably the weirdest version of a first date I’ve ever had,” you say softly.

“Weird how?”

“Weird you’re still here.” You trail your fingers lightly along the edge of his jaw. “But I don’t hate it.”

That earns a quiet laugh, low and real. He slides his hand to your waist, this time letting it settle there like he means to. Not hesitant. Not waiting for permission.

Still, no one names this. You don’t have to.

You’re already leaning in again, both of you grinning against kisses that refuse to stay brief. They deepen gradually, like falling asleep with someone warm beside you. Natural. Unforced. Gravity, not urgency.

His hands drift, one finding your waist, the other threading through your hair, and the way he moves feels intentional. Affectionate. Like he’s not just reacting, but listening to every breath you make, every sound that catches in your throat when his fingers trace a little slower, a little lower.

You break apart again, breathless, eyes still closed for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m still blaming the wine,” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

“Tragic.”

You nudge his chest. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss there. Just one, soft and brief, then lets it fall back to your lap.

What happens next isn’t a moment so much as a shift. A quiet agreement passed between glances and proximity. A warmth already set in motion.

You stand up, fingers curling into his sleeve as you lead him down the short hallway toward your room.

You’re both laughing a little too much, stumbling over your own shoes in the low light, trying not to knock into the desk or your bookshelf or each other. And somewhere in the shuffle, Hyunjin’s hands find your waist, fingertips settling like he’s been waiting to hold you like this.

The laughter fades, but the smile lingers.

“I can’t believe we actually—” you start, but trail off when he presses his forehead to yours instead. Close, quiet. Not rushing you. Just there.

His mouth brushes your jaw, then the edge of your cheek. Gentle. Familiar. Like he’s learning you through smaller places, softer angles.

You thread your fingers into the back of his sweater, pulling him in. He exhales near your temple, hands sliding to your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt.

He pauses just enough to meet your eyes. “Still good?”

You nod, sure. “Yeah. Still good.”

His hands lift the fabric slowly, giving you time. When he sees no hesitation, he helps you out of it completely. The rest follows—yours and his, layers exchanged for something quieter.

It’s not rushed. Not perfect. He laughs under his breath when he nearly loses balance trying to toe off his socks, and you giggle as you set his glasses gently on your desk.

“Do I look better now?” he asks, breathless.

You give him a look. “You look like someone I probably should’ve kissed ages ago.”

That stops him for a beat. Then he smiles, small, and leans in again, this time letting his mouth find your shoulder instead.

The backs of your knees hit the bed, and you sink down together. Slow, careful. He watches you as you lie back, gaze lingering like he’s memorizing something.

And when he touches you, it’s not rushed or greedy. Just intentional. He trails soft kisses down your collarbone, the curve of your chest, the space just beneath. Every movement feels like a question he already knows the answer to, but still asks, just in case.

His hands find your thighs, grounding and gentle, fingers playing lightly with the lace at your hips. When he settles between them, he looks up first, checking, always checking.

You nod. And then—he simply ruins you. Not with urgency, but with care.

He takes his time. Draws down the last layer with slow precision, every movement unhurried. He kisses the skin around your thighs first, following your breath like a guide. When his mouth finds you, it’s with quiet purpose.

There’s a moment. Your fingers threading tighter in his hair, your breath catching on a whispered “Don’t stop.” And he doesn’t, not even close.

It’s not showy or a performance. It’s honest.

And when you fall apart beneath him, he doesn’t speak. He just stays there, kissing the inside of your thigh with a slow steadiness, forehead resting against your skin like he’s letting the moment settle in his bones. His breath slows. Yours does too.

You tug him back up, not into a kiss, but into you. Into the soft space between bodies that don’t need to explain anything. Your foreheads press together. His hand finds yours, and your fingers lace without effort.

He stills when you do that. Looks at you like he’s not sure what you’re asking, but knows he’s already saying yes.

You don’t say a word. Just shift a little closer.

It’s enough.

There’s no tension, no second-guessing. Just two people meeting somewhere in the middle. Letting the quiet between them stretch into something fuller. He exhales, shoulders relaxing, and lets you guide him without resistance. His touch stays soft, deliberate, like this isn’t new, just unspoken until now.

And when it happens, when the rest of the space disappears, it doesn’t feel like something decided. It feels natural. Like the next line in a sentence you’ve both been writing together all night.

He moves with you, not over you. Present, open, giving. A kiss to your shoulder. A thumb brushing your knuckles. A hand steadying your waist with reverence, not control. It’s not about pace or pressure or performance. It’s about attention. The kind of closeness that knows how to listen.

And when your breath catches, a laugh halfway tangled in a gasp, he smiles through it, like he understands exactly what that means. He doesn’t pull back. He stays with you, mouth warm against your jaw, and you let him.

By the time it’s over, the air between you is quiet again. But not empty. Just full in a different way. You stay where you are, still tangled up, still touching. You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Afterward, you're both half-buried in blankets. Legs tangled beneath the sheets. The kind of closeness that makes it hard to tell where one person ends and the other begins. Your breaths have finally evened out. The air between you hums with the kind of quiet that only comes after something tender, something earned.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city bleeding through the window and the soft rustle of fabric when either of you shifts. Hyunjin is propped up on one elbow, head resting in his hand, watching you with a look that falls somewhere between dazed and quietly triumphant.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, smiling into the pillow.

“I think I earned it.”

“You really did.”

The laughter that follows is quiet, worn thin at the edges. Like all the nerves between you finally fizzled out, leaving nothing behind but this: limbs tangled, hearts quiet, hands brushing in the dark.

Beneath the covers, his fingers find yours. Threading gently. Holding, not gripping. Like he’s done it a thousand times already in some dream neither of you talked about.

It’s late. Too late, probably. But neither of you brings up leaving. Or staying. Or what any of it means.

Eventually, Hyunjin shifts, reaching over the side of the bed where your clothes are still scattered, careless and content. He fishes around until something buzzes under your sweater.

You watch through heavy lids, cheek pressed to your arm. “Tell me you’re not checking the group chat.”

“I’m not,” he replies, tapping away anyway.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

He flashes the screen toward you, smug as ever. Just one message sent. One emoji: a thumbs up.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “They’ll get it.”

You huff, rolling your eyes as your smile pulls deeper into your cheek. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning closer, brushing your wrist with his thumb, “here you are.”

You don’t answer. Just let your head fall back against the pillow, laughter catching quietly in your throat before it fades into something softer.

You feel him settle back beside you. Closer this time. One arm around your waist, the other reaching again for your hand beneath the sheets like it’s instinct. Like it’s already habit.

And somewhere, across town, Jisung is already blowing up Hotline:

‎ ‎ quokka1409 • now — I TOLD YOU GUYS IT WOULD HAPPEN TONIGHT. Y’ALL OWE ME. I WANT RECEIPTS. I WANT APOLOGIES. I WANT A FRAMED CERTIFICATE OF PSYCHIC ACCURACY.

Mutuals are confused. But anyone who knows him knows exactly what he’s screaming about.

Back here, the world doesn't pause for anything. The streetlights outside keep blinking. A train groans against metal in the distance. Life keeps moving, indifferent.

But here, you fall asleep with his hand in yours, a quiet smile stitches into your cheek. No questions, no regrets.

Just that impossible, glowing calm of knowing you’re right where you’re meant to be.

゜・．・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?

part one • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works

🏷️ ‎ @kkatsvy‎‎ ‎ ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )

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