bintheredreamedthat

[bintheredreamedthat]

77 NOTES ALREADY??!! WHATTT?!!?! im getting so nervous that so many people have read/plan to read my work, I AM NOT A PRO STORY TELLER BUT MAY THIS FIC LIVE UP TO YOUR STANDARDS. Thank you <333

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 | 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 : ̗̀➛

summary: when global idol Choi Soobin returns to his quiet hometown for an unexpected hiatus, the last thing you expect is to run into him—the boy you once shared everything with...until you cut him off without a word.

you swore you’d never let yourself want him again. he swore he’d stop waiting for you to look back. but this time, neither of you is quite ready to walk away.

cw: sub!soobin, dom!reader, idol!au, angsty!!, fluff, slow and i mean slowburn, friends to lovers, mentions of death, implied depression, mental health issues (pls take care of urselves), unprotected sex, smut, reader just can't process emotions well

wc: ~30k... forgive me...or love me idk....

i was really inspired by netflix's new kdrama called "our unwritten seoul" and their friendship to lovers dynamic but was also gobsmacked at txt's new tour dates announcement after writing this so...PERFECT :DDDD. this is basically both of those things. you can tell because of the humidifier mention. like bro it's so random.

part one | part two

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the space as sunlight filters through half-open blinds, casting a warm glow on the cluttered desk. You, dressed in a cozy sweater and gingham pajama pants, sit up right on your bed, losing track of time as you doom scroll on reels. Your cat, Peanut, curls up beside you, purring contentedly.

You pause, glancing at the clock—8:45 AM. With a sigh, you set your phone down and begin your morning routine which basically just consisted of just washing your face. As you make your way to your living room, you begin to tidy up last night’s dirty dishes that sat on top of the coffee table.

Your house is modest but filled with personal touches: framed illustrations, a collection of obscure game discs, and a bookshelf overflowing with novels.

After you get yourself dressed, you step outside for a walk, your sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic thuds. You pass by the local café, where the barista waves at you, and the bookstore, where you stop to browse the new arrivals of manga. Afterwards you take the bus to the nearby hospital. 

This had become your routine every Wednesday—a bit repetitive, perhaps, but it was what you enjoyed. The endless stretch of countryside outside your window had never been the life you envisioned in your twenties.

You had imagined a high-rise apartment in the city, a high-paying job, and a life surrounded by people who didn't know your name—all amidst the buzz of urban life. But circumstances have kept you here, in your hometown.

At first, the monotony felt suffocating. The same roads, the same faces, the same small-town rhythm. Yet, over time, you began to find comfort in the predictability.

The quiet mornings, the familiar greetings, the slower pace—it all started to feel like home. You had traded the city's chaos for the calm of rural life, and while it wasn't the life you had planned, it was a life you were learning to appreciate. In the simplicity of the countryside, you discovered a deeper connection to yourself and the world around you.

You hated it from time to time, sometimes cursing and beating yourself up for staying with what feels familiar, but what could you do? 

—

As you stepped into the sterile hospital corridor, the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the soft hum of distant conversations. With a sigh, you adjusted the strap of your bag and made your way to room 307. As you approached the door, you noticed it slightly ajar. 

Pushing the door open, you see your mother first, who seemingly is having a conversation with another person in the room. Upon opening it further, you found that it was your mother’s best friend, Mrs. Choi, sitting beside the bed and chatting animatedly, that was keeping your mother entertained. Mrs. Choi looked up, her face lighting up with recognition. 

“There you are!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat to lead you to your mother’s bed. Her eyes flicked to the bags of home-cooked food hanging from your elbow and the two iced Americanos wrapped around your hands. “Looks like your mom will be eating for two all week!” she teased, taking the bags from you and placing them alongside her own on the bedside table. 

You let out a soft laugh, extending your arm toward Mrs. Choi. "This is for you, Mrs. Choi. You must've gotten up early this morning." You bowed slightly, politely offering her the other coffee in your hands.

“Oh dear, it looks like I’ll be having a caffeine rush today!” She joked, which made your mother let out a laugh as well. You look at both of them confused, yet still wearing a smile on your face.

You see her lift up an almost empty cup of coffee, one that was exactly from the same place where you got yours. “Ahh~, I see…” Your murmur. Mrs. Choi already bought coffee for herself. 

You set the other coffee down by the bedside table and turned to your mother, who was propped up on the bed, flipping through a magazine you had gifted her last week. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

Your mother looked up, offering a reassuring smile. "Better now that you're here." You smiled, sliding your hand down her cheek, your heart melting at the tender moment you were sharing.

Just then, the door swung open, and a nurse entered for your mother's morning check-up. You stepped aside to let her pass and shared a glance with the two ladies inside the room before making your way out to the hallway.

You always left the room during these times, finding that you became queasy when you saw the numerous needles they attached to your mom and the way they conducted diagnostics as if she were a machine.

Sitting down on one of the seats outside your mom’s room, you pulled out your phone to respond to some emails and refresh your news feed. A new headline caught your eye: “TXT’s Soobin to Temporarily Halt Activities Due to Health Reasons.” Your stomach sank as you skimmed the preview.

Curious and concerned, you clicked the link and quickly scanned the article, completely unprepared for what you might read. The piece confirmed that he had recently visited the hospital after showing signs of being unwell. Medical staff had advised him to take time to rest and recover.

As a result, Soobin would be absent from several upcoming events, including big awards and fan events. You scrolled down, hoping for more news, more updates. And then you saw it. A handwritten letter from Soobin himself.

Reading his words, you felt a mix of emotions—concern for his well-being, admiration for his dedication, and a deep sense of connection to someone who had been a part of your childhood for so long, despite losing contact several years ago. 

The article had been published just two hours ago, but you knew that Mrs. Choi (and assuming your mother), was already aware of the news. Why they had kept it from you, you had some inkling.

The last time someone took a break for health reasons was your mom. The doctors had said she just needed some time to rest, that she was overworked and needed a break from physical labor.

The very next morning, she had gotten a fever, and her sickness never went away—just slowly eating her up from the inside out. You had been so young then, too young to understand the gravity of it all. Now, as an adult, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. 

Soobin, your childhood friend—the person who had unknowingly been your anchor during the darkest times, was now facing his own battle. And you were left here, unable to support him or ask how he was even doing. 

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes and letting out a deep sigh. As you relished the silence of the sterile hallways, the occasional sound of footsteps and doors opening and closing punctuated the stillness. 

Then, you felt it—the unmistakable presence of someone standing before you. Without lowering your head, you slowly opened one eye, cautiously scanning your surroundings.

What you never expected was the very man whose face you had seen on your phone less than five minutes ago—standing there, staring down at you.

You jolted upright, your phone nearly slipping from your lap. Rubbing your eyes, you looked up at the man standing before you, his presence both unexpected and surreal. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the impossibility of it. But why would he be here? What reason could he have? The stress of the past week—no, the past months—had taken its toll. You wondered if this was just another symptom of your exhaustion, a moment of derealization. 

But this felt different. This felt real.

—

TWELVE YEARS AGO

It was a hot summer afternoon, the kind where the sun sat high up on the horizon, casting its hot rays over the neighborhood. The summer fair was in full swing, with the distinct smell of water from popped balloons hitting the pavement and street foods wafting through the air. Children darted between booths, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of pop music.

You and Soobin, inseparable since you were both knee-high and full of dreams, strolled leisurely through the fairgrounds. Your hands brushed now and then—not quite holding, but never far apart. Every few steps, you pointed excitedly at something: a glittering ring toss booth, a caricature artist drawing wide-eyed portraits, a balloon animal vendor with a long line of sticky-handed kids. The scent of nostalgia hung thick in the air, and the moment felt impossibly alive.

Then you saw it: the talent show sign-up booth, marked by a colorful hand-painted sign fluttering in the breeze. A flyer, curling at the edges. "Are you sure?" he hesitated, his usual confidence "Absolutely!" you insisted, grabbing the pen and signing both your names.

The day of the talent show arrived, and nerves set in. You and Soobin had decided to perform a duet—his favorite song at the time, "Twinkle," by Girls' Generation. You had practiced tirelessly, but now, standing backstage, doubt crept in.

"I can't do this," Soobin whispered, his usual smile replaced by a nervous frown.

“I’ll buy you endless Kara merch if you do,” You placed your hands on his shoulders, shaking him like a soda can. “Seriously. Light sticks. Albums. Posters. Even that ridiculous towel.” A beat passed—and then, like magic, his eyes lit up. “Really?”

You watched as Soobin sat up straighter at the mention of the girl group and you couldn't help but let out a huff at how easily he was convinced. “Wow...” You shook your head, exasperated. “Remind me to never call you if I get kidnapped.”

Soobin looked up at you with furrowed brows, as if genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

“They’d probably ask for your merch in exchange for me. Knowing you, you'd choose the merch.” He smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course.”

His nonchalance only fueled your annoyance. Without missing a beat, you grabbed him in a playful headlock, ruffling his hair. “Idiot,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

When your names were called, you stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding you momentarily. The audience's murmurs faded into a distant hum as the music began. Soobin's voice filled the air, and your nerves melted away. You sang your heart out, treating the talent show as if it were just a playful karaoke session. Soobin, however, seemed to belong on that stage. When the final note faded, the crowd erupted into applause—parents, teens, kids, strangers all clapping like they’d just watched something special.

You turned to Soobin.

He stood there, beaming, the mic still clutched in both hands like a prized possession. Then, without a trace of shyness, he bowed. A real bow. You stared for a moment—because in that instant, he wasn’t just your goofy best friend. He looked like someone born to be on that stage.

You stepped back, letting him shine.

That performance became a cherished memory, a testament to your friendship and Soobin's budding talent. Little did you know, that day planted the seed for his future in music.

–

“You're back.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, more a whisper to yourself than a question to him.

Soobin stood in front of you, barely resembling the old version of him that you always saw him as. Just his outfit alone–meticulously chosen, each piece exuding a quiet luxury. It wasn’t something you thought you’d see him in in a million years. You were accustomed to seeing him in school uniforms, always looking youthful despite being six months older than you. But the Soobin now before you was undeniably an adult.

His gaze swept over you, lingering just a moment too long. "You look..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Different."

The simplicity of his statement stung more than you expected. You had changed, hadn't you? But had it been for the better? You met his gaze, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the fluttering in your chest. "You look horrible yourself, too," you teased, trying to mask the unease creeping in.

Soobin chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, yet distant. "Fair enough," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. You wanted to ask him everything—about his life, his experiences, the years that had passed—but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you stood there, two people who once shared everything, now separated by time and circumstance. Soobin shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been a while," he said softly.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "A while."

The soft click-clack of the nurse’s cart rolling outside your mom’s room broke the comfortable silence between you and Soobin. Only then did you notice the small electronic device in his hands—so tiny it looked almost out of place in his grasp.

“Humidifier?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s a gift... for your mom. I went and filled it up with some water” he said shyly, as if embarrassed to be seen with such a thoughtful gesture. You couldn't help but smile at his bashfulness. “She’ll love it,” you reassured him, nudging him gently toward the door.

As you both entered the room, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the soft beeping of medical equipment filled the air. Your mom looked up, her face lighting up at the sight of you and Soobin together, briefly exchanging glances with Mrs. Choi. 

“Look who’s here,” you said, your voice filled with warmth. 

“I already saw him, honey,” she said with a playful smile, her voice tinged with that familiar teasing warmth, then gestured toward the table beside her, where several bags were neatly stacked. “He helped bring those in earlier,” she added, nodding toward the tall figure behind you. 

You looked behind at Soobin, who was already crouched near the wall, carefully plugging the humidifier into the outlet. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, the soft fabric of his sweater bunching at the elbows as he adjusted the cord, making sure it didn’t tangle with the IV stand nearby. He handled everything with the kind of quiet precision you’d come to associate with him—gentle, but steady. 

The little device gave a soft mechanical hum as it came to life, a faint mist beginning to rise from the spout. Soobin straightened up, brushing his hands together as if completing a sacred task, then glanced at your mom with a nervous half-smile.

"I set it to low," he murmured. "So it won't be too much, just enough to keep the air from feeling dry."

Your mom tilted her head toward the thin ribbon of vapor swirling in the air, a flicker of surprise and gratitude crossing her face. "Thank you, Soobin," she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been feeling like my throat’s been made of sandpaper.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks turning a little pink again. "It’s nothing, really. I just… thought it might help." You watched the way your mom looked at him, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual—gentle, assessing, as if seeing him act like this reminded her of the old times and that made her quietly glad. 

Your mom’s eyes softened as she glanced at Soobin, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’re very thoughtful,” she said gently, reaching out to adjust the humidifier’s mist.

Soobin shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I just wanted to help.”

You caught the faintest shadow across your mom’s face—a quiet mix of pride and something else, something like a wish she could say aloud. But instead, she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, you’re doing a good job at it.” As if hinting at more than just showing gratitude for the gesture.  The mist from the humidifier caught the light, casting soft shadows on the white hospital sheets, and for a moment the sterile room felt just a little more like home. 

–

Before you knew it, time had slipped by, the way it always does when you're avoiding looking at the clock. The room had grown quiet again, the only sounds were the soft whir of machines and your mom’s slow, steady breathing. You stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your clothes, more out of habit than anything else. Soobin followed suit just like always, moving a half-step behind you, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to leave yet.

Outside, the corridor was still and cold under the harsh fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else—something tired. You walked side by side, just close enough to feel his presence but not enough to brush shoulders. The silence sat between you, not uncomfortable, but not easy either. 

“So,” you said, voice catching slightly in your throat. “When did you get back?”

He glanced over, offering you a small, almost sheepish smile. “I assume you know?”

Right—the headlines. You’d seen them without even trying to. His name had been everywhere for days. It was hard to avoid when your past suddenly became the world’s news. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I saw.”

He let out a short breath of laughter. Not a real laugh—one of those quiet ones that feels more like a sigh. “They really don’t let you disappear quietly, do they?”

You wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came. What could you even say? That sucks? I’m sorry? I read every article twice, looking for signs you were okay? Instead, you settled on, “Looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but it wasn’t light or offhand. There was a drag to it, something unspoken anchoring the gesture. “Yeah. Forced break.” 

You raised an eyebrow, hoping a little teasing might soften the edges. “Forced break? Sounds like a long vacation.”

He gave you a half-smile, one side of his mouth curling up. “If only.”

The silence crept back in as you continued walking, your shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. It should’ve felt comfortable—you’d walked like this before, years ago, without needing to say much. But now? Now it felt like stepping around the edges of something you both weren’t ready to touch. You stole a glance at him. The curve of his jaw was more defined now, his hair a little longer than you remembered. He still walked with that same quiet presence, like he was trying not to take up too much space. But there was something else, too—something a little more closed off.

You swallowed. “So... what now?”

He looked over at you, not stopping, just watching. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I’ve never had this much free time before.”

You let out a soft huff of air, unsure if it was a laugh or just a release of tension. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, then after a beat, added, “kind of uncomfortable, honestly.”

You nodded, because you got it—maybe not in the same way, but close enough. You understood what it was like to be stuck between chapters, unsure what comes next or who you're supposed to be without the thing that defined you. For a moment, you considered saying something real. Something like, I missed you or you don’t have to pretend around me, but your throat tightened. You hadn’t earned that kind of closeness anymore.

So instead you said, “Guess it’s a new kind of challenge.”

He gave you a look—mild, but maybe grateful. “Yeah. But... maybe not the worst kind.”

You nodded again, lips pressing into a thin line. And still, the things you wanted to say hovered behind your teeth. You wanted to ask how he was really doing. If it felt like everything had stopped too suddenly. If he was scared of what came next. But none of that would come out right, not with all this space between you.

The silence settled again as you both neared the elevator, the hum of lights overhead a constant backdrop.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual but failing, “where are you staying?”

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing over at you with a small smile. “Uh... just down the street, actually. Back in my parents’ place for a bit.”

You blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He let out a short breath. “Kind of surreal.”

You scoffed, the sound too sharp but real. “So... we’re neighbors again.”

He laughed, a real one this time. “Guess so.”

You nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Weird.”

“Definitely weird.”

Another pause. Another silence. But this one wasn’t so stiff. It settled more naturally between you, like maybe it didn’t need to be filled.

You both stood there, not really moving, not really sure what to do next. Just... hovering in that space where familiarity and distance existed at the same time. Where you wanted to say remember how easy this used to be? but knew neither of you quite had the words.

Maybe it would take time. Maybe it would stay awkward like this for a while.

But still, there was something in the quiet that felt like a beginning.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, but neither of you moved.

You thought that was it—that this was the part where you’d say goodbye with a tight smile and an awkward promise to “catch up later.” But instead, Soobin turned, leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, and said, “Want to walk for a bit?”

You blinked. “Around the hospital?”

His mouth tugged up slightly. “We’ve had weirder hangouts.”

That was true. Once upon a time, your “hangouts” included hiding in stairwells during school festivals and playing cards in the back of the library while pretending to study. So maybe walking quiet halls and dodging nurses wasn’t that strange after all.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I better go, lots of things to do today.” 

He nodded. Then, with one last glance at you—long enough to hold, short enough not to ask too much—he turned and walked down the hallway, his steps slow, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

You stayed where you were, hands in your pockets, the echo of his words still lingering in the air.

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. And you'd be lying if you said you hadn’t looked him up that very same night you saw him again. After that day, it was like something broke loose inside you—some quiet restraint you’d kept for years.

You found yourself scrolling endlessly through his performance videos, one after another, chasing something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was your way of making up for all the time you’d forbidden yourself from watching them.

It wasn’t because you resented him. Not really. But it had always been easier to pretend you weren’t curious than to admit the truth: watching him chase his dream made something twist in your chest. Not bitterness, exactly—just jealousy.

A quiet, aching sort of envy that you never wanted to confront. He had gone out there and done what he said he would. He lived it. All while keeping you completely in the dark. Not a message, not a word—not even a hint of what his life had become.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—not that he left, but knowing it was your fault he never reached out. 

You remembered the night he left. You didn’t know it was the last time you’d see him, not then. He said something vague about having a “big audition” coming up the previous week, and you, always the loyal friend, had smiled and wished him luck, unaware that he would succeed to the point where he was at now. You hadn’t known that "audition" would become the beginning of a chapter that didn’t include you.

At first, you hesitated. You told yourself he'd text first. Call. Drop by. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually, you stopped refreshing your messages, stopped checking your phone late at night like a fool and stuck your nose into your studies. 

The only person who stayed by your side, from your father passing, through your mother getting sick, was now gone. And you couldn’t bring yourself to be the one who reached out first, fearing that you would only receive the silence you thought you deserved. 

So you buried it. Packed it into the same mental box where you kept all the “what ifs” you never wanted to admit you had. You stopped watching his interviews, muted hashtags, scrolled past his face without letting your eyes linger. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That people grow up, they move on. That it was nothing personal.

But seeing him again, in that hallway outside your mom’s hospital room, had cracked something open.

You hadn’t realized how much you still carried. How much weight was tied to his name, his voice, his smile. And now, after that one encounter, you were spiraling—late into the night, alone in your room, your screen glowing softly in the dark as you watched him perform with the same boyish intensity he’d always had, only now refined, polished. A professional.

There were moments when he’d show a dimpled smile between lyrics, or toss his hair a certain way, and you’d see glimpses of the boy you once knew. The one who used to walk you home after school. Who used to text you dumb memes and write notes on the edges of your notebooks when the teacher wasn’t looking. The boy who once promised he’d tell you everything.

But he didn’t.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—he had become someone the whole world knew, but not you. Not anymore. You didn’t deserve that chance. 

You set your phone down eventually, the videos still looping on autoplay, the sound dim. You stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the person on the screen with the quiet boy who used to sit beside you at lunch. Trying to figure out where the thread had snapped—and if there was any way to pick it back up again.

You weren’t sure. But part of you hoped—achingly, stubbornly—that he came back not just to rest… but to remember.

To remember you.

—

The next time you saw Soobin, it was raining on a Wednesday. 

Not the cinematic kind of rain that comes with thunder and dramatic declarations. Just a light drizzle that blurred the edges of the world and left your jacket damp where it clung to your shoulders.

You’d just finished your shift at the café near the hospital. You weren’t technically supposed to be working while your mom was still admitted, but she’d insisted—said the distraction was good for you. And truthfully, it was. It gave you something else to focus on besides white walls and the sound of machines beeping in the night.

You had your headphones in, your hood up, eyes on the sidewalk—when someone stepped into your path, blocking your way.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Soobin.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand, a bottle of something green poking out the top. His hoodie was damp, darkened around the seams, but he looked almost amused by it. Like the rain wasn’t a bother. Like maybe it reminded him of something.

Your headphones hung limply around your neck now. “You stalking me?” you asked, only half joking.

“I swear I’m not,” he said, lifting the bag. “I was headed to the hospital. Thought your mom might like these.”

You glanced at the label on the bottle. Herbal tonic. Your lips curved upward despite yourself. “She’ll roll her eyes when she sees this. But this is good, she needs these.”

He grinned. “Good. Then mission accomplished.”

You hesitated. You should’ve said goodbye, should’ve kept walking—but you didn’t. Something in the way he was standing, not quite stepping forward but not walking away either, mirrored exactly how you felt. Stuck in the middle. 

“Want to come up with me?” you asked finally. “She’s been asking about you.”

His expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You walked side by side again, like no time had passed—but with every footstep echoing on the hospital floor, you felt the gap between who you were and who you’d become. And still, he matched your pace without question.

Upstairs, your mom greeted him with a tired but genuine smile. You watched her lit up face switch over to a disgusted one in an instant as he handed her the tonic, made her laugh with something dumb, and you realized how easily he still fit into the spaces you thought time had sealed off.

Later, when she fell asleep and the lights dimmed around her bed, you and Soobin slipped out into the hallway again. It was quieter now. The storm outside had tapered into silence, and the air smelled faintly of rain on concrete.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely over your chest, the distance between you filled with everything unsaid.

“She still makes that face when she doesn’t want to take medicine,” he said, glancing at the door behind you.

You smiled faintly. “Some things never change.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You did.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what happens when you’re not around for eight years.”

His mouth tugged to the side in something between a grimace and a smile. “Fair.”

There was another beat of silence, but this one felt warmer. You glanced down the hallway, watching a nurse wheel a cart past the far end, the soft rattle of it fading into the hum of fluorescent lights.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “your mom was always really kind to me.”

“She likes people with manners,” you replied, then added, “and people who eat her leftovers without complaining.”

“She used to pack extra, just for me,” he said, eyes distant now. “Even when she said she didn’t have time.”

“She did that with people she loved.” The words left your mouth before you could decide whether or not to say them.

Soobin looked at you, and for a second, you almost couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. Too real.

The hallway buzzed faintly—the dull drone of fluorescent lights, distant intercom announcements, the occasional footsteps echoing down the corridor. Somewhere, a nurse’s soft laughter floated through the air.

The moment settled like dust, thick and heavy.

“I missed this,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Not just your mom. Not just the neighborhood. You.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, twisting it between your fingertips like a lifeline. He turned his head slightly toward you but didn’t push you for a response.

Instead, he said, “Can I show you something?”

You glanced over, curious despite yourself. “Now?”

He nodded, pulling his phone from his hoodie pocket with a slow, deliberate motion. He flipped through his gallery, swiping a few times, then handed it to you. A video.

Not one of the polished concert clips uploaded for fans, but a raw, shaky recording from a recent show. The camera was angled toward the crowd, thousands of tiny lights flickering like stars. Then it shifted to the stage—him, standing at the microphone, eyes closed, singing a slow, acoustic song. Your breath caught, chest tightening. He must’ve seen it on your face because he said softly, “Wrote it the week I moved to the city. Never released it.”

You watched the video again, seeing a side of him you hadn’t seen in years—vulnerable and unpolished. The words carried little references, tiny fragments of shared memories—a phrase you’d said once, a place you’d both known, a worn bench you’d sat on together.

“It was about you,” he said quietly. “Still is.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, heart pounding in your ears louder than the soft hospital hum. You handed it back, not because you wanted to stop watching, but because it felt too much to hold all at once.

Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different, like the air between you had shifted, charged with something fragile and new.

He stood slowly. “I should go. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You didn’t try to stop him, but as he turned, you called out softly, “Hey.”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

You gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that held hope and history all at once.

“Next time… don’t bring tonic. Bring peaches. She actually likes those.”

He laughed—a sound that was still boyish, warm, and real.

“Got it. Peaches.”

He walked down the hallway, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing behind him.

You stayed seated, staring at the empty space beside you, wondering how many more times you’d find the courage to let yourself take one step closer. 

—

It had been a long week.

You’d spent most of it moving between home and the hospital, the lines between day and night beginning to blur. Your mom’s condition hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t improved either—and somehow, that was its own kind of exhausting. Hopeful. Heavy. Endless.

So when the knock came on your door that Saturday afternoon—three quick taps and a pause—you almost didn’t answer.

But then you remembered the way he knocked.

You opened the door.

“Delivery,” Soobin said, holding up a brown paper bag like it was a peace offering. “One bottle of overpriced juice, and…” He pulled out a small carton with a mock ceremony. “Peaches. Fresh. Not those disgusting canned stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really took the note.”

“I aim to please.” He grinned, wide and shameless. “Also, the guy at the fruit stand said these were ‘kissing sweet,’ which made me deeply uncomfortable. So I had to buy them.”

You snorted, stepping aside to let him in. “That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for buying fruit.”

He walked in casually, already toeing off his shoes like second nature–- like he’d done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I missed your mom’s high standards. And your judgment.”

“Both still going strong,” you said, accepting the bag. “You want coffee or are you planning to make a dramatic exit again?”

He shot you a look. “That exit was graceful and respectful.”

“That exit was weird and full of emotional tension.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “So… par for the course?”

You tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

He sat on the edge of your couch, glancing around like he was taking inventory. You watched the way his eyes lingered on the bookshelf, the stack of hospital visitors passes on the table, the blanket still folded from when you'd last crashed there after a long night.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “Very... ‘haunted by fatigue but still trying.’”

You grinned. “That’s actually the theme of the whole apartment. You should see the bathroom.”

He laughed again—an easy, warm sound that made your ribs feel too tight.

You went to the kitchen, opened the bag, and found not just the peaches and juice, but a pack of sweet rice crackers tucked at the bottom.

“Are these for me or for her?” you called.

A beat.

“...Yes,” he replied.

“She’s going to eat all of these and then yell at me for letting you spend money on her.”

“Let her yell at me instead,” he said, already settling onto your couch like he owned the place. “I can take it. I survived our high school math teacher. Your mom has nothing on that woman.”

You smirked. “That teacher made you cry.”

He gasped. “I teared up. Once. And it was allergy season.”

“Sure it was.” It had been a strange comfort, having him around again—even if it was awkward most of the time.

“Thanks,” you said, shrugging and avoiding his eyes. “for not bringing tonic this time.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I learned my lesson. Peaches or bust.”

A silence passed. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It sat lightly between you, like an old friend resting its elbows on the table.

“So…” he said slowly. “You going to the hospital later?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just after dinner. They changed some meds, so they want someone to watch her overnight.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the mug. “Mind if I come with you?”

You looked up. Not because he hadn’t offered before. But because this time, he said it differently. Gently. Not just wanting to visit—but to be there. 

“…She’ll be happy to see you,” you said. “And if you bring those crackers, she might even be nice.”

He smiled, setting his mug down.

“Oh, and by the way,” you added, pretending to inspect a peach like it was under review. “She only likes the white ones. If you brought yellow—”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, already pulling a peach from the bag and rolling it across the table toward you. “Do I look like someone who would buy the wrong kind?”

You caught it mid-roll, lips twitching. “I don’t know. You’ve been gone a while. You could’ve turned into someone completely unreliable.”

He leaned back on the couch, arms stretched along the top cushion, looking maddeningly smug. “I’m still me.”

You turned the peach over in your hand, pretending not to notice how warm your cheeks felt.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.” 

—

NINE YEARS AGO

The living room was a mess. A good kind of mess—snack wrappers littered across the coffee table, cushions scattered like casualties, your shared laughter still lingering in the air like static. It was the Friday before the weekend, Soobin had waited for you to finish your badminton practice to walk you home to spend the rest of the afternoon with you. 

Soobin was on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other tucked underneath him, controller in hand, glaring at the TV screen with the same intensity he used when talking about stage lighting or choreography.

“You’re cheating,” he said flatly. You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m not.”

“You’re button-mashing,” he accused, pointing at your hands like he was building a legal case. “That’s not skill, that’s chaos.”

You grinned. “Chaos works.” A second later, his character flew off the edge of the map with a dramatic final explosion. KO. Soobin dropped his controller and flopped backward onto the floor like he’d just been shot. “Unbelievable. I come here in good faith and get demolished.”

You leaned over your knees, stretching out your arms with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe you just suck.”

He peeked at you through narrowed eyes. “I’m rethinking our friendship.”

“Because I’m better at Smash?”

“Because you’re a smug button-masher with no honor.”

You laughed, the kind that curled your shoulders inward and left a small warmth in your chest. This was easy. Ridiculously easy. Soobin had always been like this with you—quick to tease, slow to anger, all soft jabs and boyish huffs. Like a habit you never had to think about. He could go hours and hours just bantering with you about the most unimportant topics. 

You reached for the plastic bag sitting on the coffee table, rifling through until you found what you were really after. “You want the last peach?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Sat up like he’d been summoned from the dead. “I do. Really. Deeply.”

You held it just out of reach, twirling it by the stem. “Then admit I’m better than you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no peach.”

“You’re evil.”

You were about to answer—probably with something smug, possibly with another insult—when he lunged forward.

It wasn’t even a real lunge. More like an exaggerated grab, like he was trying to be ridiculous on purpose. But you misjudged the distance—he was faster than he looked—and suddenly he was right there, fingers overlapping yours, and the peach tumbled from your grip, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop between you. 

You both reached for it at the same time.

And then you were touching.

Just barely—his knuckles brushing yours, the pad of his thumb catching the back of your hand. Your knees bumped, one of his legs tangled slightly with yours from the way he’d thrown himself forward. The closeness was sudden. Clumsy. And absolutely still.

The peach sat in both your palms now, soft and overripe, a little dented from the fall. But you weren’t looking at the peach anymore.

You were looking at him.

He was looking back.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You could feel your heartbeat shift—quicker, louder. Like your body realized something your brain didn’t want to name.

He was close. Too close. 

There was something different about the way he looked at you just then. Like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe. Permission. Or maybe he wasn’t searching at all. Maybe he was just seeing you, for the first time in a way that wasn’t casual or safe or platonic. You told yourself to laugh. To say something to break it. But your mouth was dry and your fingers were still curled around the stupid peach.

God, you thought, this is just a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t make it mean something.

Because if you made it mean something, you’d have to face the fact that everything would change between you two, and you weren’t ready for that. 

And worst of all—you didn’t know if he wanted it too.

So you were the first to let go.

“Fine,” you said, easing the peach into his hands, forcing a smile. “You win. Peach privileges restored.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a second longer, then pulled back, sitting cross-legged again, the fruit cradled like a trophy.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice light again. Too light. “I’m going to crush you in the next round.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smirked. “Big talk from someone who just got obliterated.”

He took a bite of the peach—flesh soft, juice dripping slightly down his wrist.

You looked away.

Because watching him eat a peach had absolutely no right being that distracting.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a second.

“Just letting you enjoy your victory,” you replied, folding your arms.

“Mm.” He chewed, then added through a mouthful of fruit, “This is the taste of justice.”

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

He laughed, muffled but warm, like it lived somewhere behind his ribcage. Like it was meant just for you.

And later, after he’d gone, after the controller had been set aside and the cushions lazily put back, you sat on the couch and stared at the empty spot where his leg had touched yours.

It was nothing, you told yourself.

But your heart wasn’t convinced.

—

It had been three days since Soobin last came by to accompany you to the hospital. 

Not that you were counting.

Your mom was still in the hospital. Her condition was stable, but “stable” was the kind of word doctors used when they meant unchanged, when the machines still beeped and the days still blurred, and you didn’t know how to exhale without guilt.

So you kept your head down. Worked your shifts. Folded laundry. Refilled the humidifier in her room. Then, one quiet evening, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: You up?

You stared at it for a second too long, the number was foreign to your contact list. The number wasn’t saved. But the timing, the tone—it could only be one person.

Another message came in.

Unknown: This is Soobin, by the way.

Of course it was.

You: No. I’m sleep-texting. You

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Then came back again, like he was typing and deleting and thinking too much—just like always.

Soobin:

Maybe. Or just bored.

 Wanna walk?

You didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, you were outside. Hoodie zipped to your chin, hands in your pockets. The air was cool, kissed with the hush that only lived in your neighborhood at night.

A faint breeze moved through the trees overhead, the streetlamp buzzed quietly, and the sidewalk stretched out ahead like a question you didn’t know how to ask.

He was waiting by the gate. Same hoodie from the other night. Same hands buried in the front pocket. His hair was a little messier now, falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to push it back. He looked like someone trying not to look like he was waiting.

When he saw you, he straightened—not all the way, just enough to seem like he hadn’t been pacing.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft like he wasn’t sure if it would reach you.

“Hey,” you replied, tugging your sleeves over your hands. And then you walked. Not toward anything in particular. Just forward. Side by side. Close enough to hear the other breathe.

The silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… familiar. Like this was a rhythm you both used to know. Like your feet still remembered how to fall into step with his even if your hearts hadn’t caught up yet.

After a while, he spoke.

“I’ve been writing again,” he said, just above a whisper.

You glanced at him. His eyes stayed on the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

“Mostly bad stuff,” he added with a breath of a laugh. “But… some of it feels honest.”

You nodded. “That’s the hard part.”

There was a pause.

“I used to write when I missed home,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. But he kept going anyway, his voice quieter now. Like if he said it too loud, it would sound like a confession.

“I stopped for a long time. Everything started to sound the same. Even the stuff I wrote just for me—it didn’t sound like me. It sounded like someone trying to remember what real felt like.”

Your chest pinched. Because you recognized that feeling, even if it wore a different face.

“You mean the industry?” you asked, your voice gentler than you meant it to be. He nodded, hands tightening in his sleeves. “The schedules, the shoots, the interviews where they ask you how you’re doing and expect you to say you’re grateful.”

You looked over. His face was still turned ahead, but his jaw was set—like he was fighting back something that had been building for years.

“It looks big,” he said. “To other people. All the lights and cameras and screaming fans. But most of the time, it felt… small. Like I was inside this beautiful box I couldn’t leave. Like I was shrinking in a place everyone said I was meant to grow.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not at first. Because it was Soobin—your Soobin. The one who used to doodle lyrics on his wrists during exams. The one who used to talk about Seoul like it was a promise.

And now he was here. Telling you the promise didn’t keep.

“I used to envy you,” you murmured.

He turned his head slightly, startled. “What?”

“You had direction. Purpose. You left. While the rest of us stayed behind wondering what we were doing. You knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I pretended I did.”

You exhaled, eyes on the path ahead.

He slowed, enough that you had to slow too.

“I didn’t reach out,” he began to answer your life’s biggest question, “because I was afraid if I told you how bad it was, you’d tell me to come home.”

You stopped. Right there on the path.

“And that would’ve been so awful?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. “Me wanting you to come home?”

He looked down.

“It would’ve made it real,” he said. “Made me feel like I failed.”

The ache that had been sitting under your ribs stretched, deep and familiar.

The wind stirred again, carrying the sound of distant cars and rustling trees. Then, your voice dropped. “You know, Soobin… you did a good job.”

His eyes shot up to meet yours. Cautious. Almost confused. You let the words settle before continuing.

“I mean it. You chased something you believed in. You worked hard. You got somewhere people only dream about.” You swallowed. “You just… never took a second to see how far you’d gone. You kept running like someone was going to take it away from you.”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“You should let yourself rest,” you said. “You deserve to breathe.”

He looked at you like no one had ever said that to him before. Not in the way that mattered.

And maybe no one had. A silence fell again, but it was different now. Thick with emotion, weighted with years of distance and grief and care that had nowhere to go.

Soobin stepped forward—not enough to cross the space between you, but enough that you felt the warmth of him again.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly. 

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. So instead, you reached for the edge of your hoodie sleeve and twisted it around your fingers, grounding yourself in the way you used to back when emotions felt too big to hold.

And beside you, Soobin just stood there.

Not asking to be forgiven, not like he had to. 

Just… asking to stay a little longer.

–

The hospital room was quieter than usual.

Your mom was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her breaths came soft and even, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. The late afternoon light filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting thin gold bars across the white walls. Outside, the city buzzed softly beneath the window, too far away to touch.

You sat by the bed, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting in your hand. The chair creaked when you shifted. You’d meant to read. Meant to answer that message from work. But your mind kept drifting—backward, sideways, toward things that hadn’t happened yet but already pressed too heavy on your chest.

Soobin hadn’t texted since the walk.

Three days wasn’t long. Not really.

But you found yourself reaching for your phone more than usual. Pausing at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Imagining him leaning on the doorframe again, holding some half-thought-out excuse to stop by. You hated how easily hope made a home out of silence.

Your mom stirred, just slightly, eyes fluttering open. “You’re still here?”

You smiled faintly. “Where else would I be?”

She looked at you for a beat longer than usual. “You’ve been coming earlier,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “Staying longer, too.”

You shrugged. “There’s not much else to do.”

“Mm.” She turned her head to the side, watching you now. Not like she was accusing—more like she was waiting. “He’s been coming around again.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the window, at the sky that had turned that in-between color of fading blue and soft orange.

“Yeah,” you said eventually.

“He’s been good to you,” she added, gently. “I see it.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, heart doing that stupid thing again—like it couldn’t decide whether to clench or melt.

“He’s not staying,” you said. Your mom didn’t answer right away. That kind of silence said more than any reply.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know why it matters. It’s not like we’re… anything.”

“But you want to be?” she asked softly.

You didn’t look at her. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “It doesn’t matter what I want. He came back because of his health. Because he needed space from all that. He’s not… this isn’t forever.”

And if you let yourself want something more like last time—if you gave it a name—what would happen when he left again?

She was quiet for a long time. Then, just as you were about to change the subject, her voice returned. “You know,” she said, “I think the hardest kind of love is the kind that feels temporary.”

You blinked. “This isn’t–this isn’t love.” You protested.

She didn’t argue. Just gave you a look that said she’d been your mother long enough to know when you were lying—to her or to yourself.

You shook your head, staring down at your hands. “It’s not like I’m holding onto something that could actually last.”

“But you’re still holding it,” she murmured.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because yeah. You were.

You were holding the way his voice sounded in quiet places. The way he never pushed when you went silent, just waited with that kind of patience that only people who’d known you for years could manage. You were holding the way he remembered the things you forgot you ever told him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

And it scared the hell out of you.

Because people leave. Sometimes they come back. But rarely do they stay.

Your mom reached out, her fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said gently. “It’s not okay to pretend you don’t feel anything.”

You didn’t respond.

You just stared at the sunlight crawling across the linoleum floor, and wondered how long you could keep pretending that what you felt was nothing.

–

The engine made a low, confused noise as Soobin turned the key. You braced your hand against the dashboard. Soobin sat up straighter, lips pursed like he was preparing for war. You couldn’t help watching the way his knuckles tensed on the wheel, the way he kept muttering to himself like this was more of a concert performance than a suburban test run.

"Okay," you said cautiously. "Brake. Check your mirrors. Put it in drive—no, that’s reverse. Reverse is—Soobin—!"

The car lurched backward, an alarming jolt that made your seatbelt dig into your collarbone.

“Okay! Okay! Got it!” Soobin slammed the brake, and the car shuddered to a halt. Your heart was somewhere near your throat.

“You almost ran over a mailbox,” you hissed, hands clutched tightly on your seat. “My mailbox!” 

He winced. “It’s still standing.”

“Barely.” He shot you a look. “I told you I didn’t finish my license! You didn’t have to volunteer your car for this.”

“I didn’t think this was what we’d be doing when you said you wanted to ‘catch up.’

“Out,” you ordered. “Switch seats.” He didn’t argue.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumbled, turning the key and reversing smoothly out of the lot.

“Aw,” he said, smirking. “You like me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

There was a beat of silence.

You circled back around the block, only to end up parked in front of your house once again. Soobin spotted the shed that sat behind your house, most importantly, what’s next to it. 

“No way,” he said, rushing ahead.

Sure enough, there they were. Your old bikes. Rusted at the chains, tires flat, but still recognizable.

“I can’t believe you kept mine,” he said, brushing off a handlebar like it was a relic.

“My mom was too sentimental to throw it away. She thought you’d come back.”

He paused.

The air shifted.

“Guess she was right,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond.

–

A few minutes later, you were riding through town—laughing, breathless, avoiding potholes and startled pigeons. Soobin’s bike creaked horribly, but he insisted on pedaling like he was racing someone only he could see.

You took the long route, past the bookstore where you used to loiter, the convenience store where he once bought you a yogurt drink with his last few coins, the bus stop where you used to sit until the streetlights flicked on.

Then he slowed. You turned to look—and watched, helpless, as his front tire clipped a curb and sent him flying.

“Soobin!” He landed with a thud, half in the grass, half on the sidewalk.

You dropped your bike and ran to him.

“Oh my God—are you okay? Why weren’t you paying atten–”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “That bus stop looks exactly the same.”

“You fell off your bike because of nostalgia?!”

He groaned. “I got caught off guard.”

“By a memory?”

“You looked back at me…,” he mumbled.

You stopped. The world stilled for half a second. Then you shoved that away. 

"You're bleeding," you said, kneeling next to him, choosing yet again to overlook the deeper weight hidden in his seemingly innocent words.

It wasn’t bad—just a scrape at his temple, but the sight still made something twist low in your stomach. You pulled a tissue that you luckily had in your pocket and dabbed at the cut. 

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmured, dabbing at the cut with soft fingers. “What if you end up with a scar? Your fans might actually riot.”

He winced, sucking in a breath.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m not,” you said, lips twitching.

“You’re not even trying to be gentle.”

“I am,” you lied—though your touch grew just a little softer.

But your hands had slowed. And now that you were this close, you couldn’t help but really look at him. His hair was a little damp, curling slightly at the edges. There was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek, and the cut on his brow was still fresh—but none of it dulled him. If anything, it made him feel more real. Not the polished idol with perfect lighting and stage smiles, but Soobin—your Soobin. 

The boy who used to race you home on bikes, who got grass stains on his knees and laughed until he fell over. And maybe that’s why your breath caught, just a little, because his eyes weren’t darting away this time. He wasn’t teasing or laughing. Just looking. Steady. Unafraid.

It felt like the earth was tilting under you.

He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist—soft, tentative. But you stood up before the silence could grow teeth.

“C’mon, head injury or not, we’re riding back. You can’t die dramatically knowing that it was a curb that took you out”

He laughed, clutching his ribs. “You’re such a comfort.”

You didn’t tell him that if he’d looked at you for one more second like that, you would’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Because your pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. And your heart didn’t know if it was from the fall…

…or from him.

—-

The rain started halfway through the ride home. Not a drizzle, not a soft mist. No, the sky decided to absolutely open up on you.

“Seriously?!” you shouted up at the clouds as you and Soobin coasted to a slow, skidding stop under a half-dead tree. Soobin was already laughing, clothes plastered to his skin, hair dripping into his eyes. “This is kind of perfect, though. Right? Very K-drama of us.”

You glared. “I’m going to get sick. You’re going to get sick.”

“I already feel stronger. This is character-building.”

You groaned and dropped your head back. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, wheeling his bike alongside yours, “but I’m starting to think you just like having an excuse to say my name angrily.”

You opened your mouth, ready to shoot something back—but a particularly angry clap of thunder cut through the air. You both jumped.

“Let’s just go home...” You muttered.

By the time you made it back to your house, you were soaked through—shoes squelching, hair matted to your cheeks, laughter still catching in your throats between shivers. You tossed your bike on the porch without care, unlocking the door as quickly as your frozen fingers would let you.

“Leave your shoes by the door,” you told him, kicking yours off with a squelch. “And try not to drip everywhere.”

Soobin peeled his hoodie over his head with a groan. “That’s an impossible task. I’m basically a human sponge.”

You grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at his face. “Here. Dry off, Mr. Sponge.”

“I’ll need a medal for surviving this ride.”

“You’ll get a warm meal and some dry clothes, and you’ll like it.”

He grinned, following you into the hallway. “Wait. Dry clothes?”

"Yeah. I think I still have one of your old sweatshirts lying around" you said over your shoulder, stopping just outside your room. You glanced back at him, standing awkwardly in the hallway, damp hair dripping and clothes clinging to him like a soggy afterthought. He looked like a miserable, oversized puppy.

"If it even fits..." you mumbled under your breath.

Because looking at him now, you weren’t so sure. He’d always been tall, but somewhere between the boy who used to sprawl across your couch and the man standing there now, he'd filled out—broad shoulders, long limbs, that quiet weight people carry when they've grown into themselves. It was weird. Familiar. 

“You still have that?”

You shrugged, trying not to overthink the warmth crawling up your neck. “It’s a good sweatshirt.”

“Can I have it back?”

“No.”

He laughed, and you disappeared into your room, pulling out the hoodie in question—still soft and oversized—and a pair of sweatpants you knew would be way too short on him, but it’d have to do.

You handed him the clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. “Go. Change. And hang your stuff up unless you want it smelling like mildew forever.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mock saluting.

When he disappeared behind the door, you exhaled. Why did this feel like something?

You pushed your wet hair back and padded into the kitchen to grab some water, heart still annoyingly thudding. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, and somewhere in the background, the bathroom door creaked as he rummaged through a drawer for a comb, a towel, who knew.

After changing into dry clothes, you settled onto the couch, towel in hand as you ran it through your damp hair. Without thinking, you reached into your pocket for your phone and opened reels—more out of muscle memory than intention.

You scrolled for a good minute before pausing.

There it was.

A video of Soobin. Blonde Soobin. All black suit, legs spread like he owned gravity, eating some sort of sour candy in that dazed, effortless idol way that did things to people.

The sound was some kind of slowed-down R&B  track. The caption read: “what do you mean he’s not my boyfriend??”

You snorted and shook your head, tapping the screen like you meant to scroll past it.

“You watching fan edits of me?”

You jumped, your heart skipping a beat.

Soobin was standing just behind the couch, freshly changed, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he rubbed at his damp hair. His cheeks were flushed pink—not from embarrassment, but from the lingering warmth of the shower. The faint scent of your soap clung to him, familiar and comforting.

You scrambled for words, panic rising in your chest. “N-no.”

He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady your voice. “It just popped up on my For You page!” you insisted, your tone shooting up an octave in protest.

“That’s not how the algorithm works,” he teased, eyes sparkling as he leaned in a little. “I can literally see you liked it.”

You huffed, flinging your phone onto the couch as if it had personally betrayed you. “I didn’t save it or anything.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, grinning as he walked slowly around the couch and flopped down beside you. The heat radiating from his body made the space between you feel smaller, cozier.

“I didn’t know you were into the blonde era,” he added with mock surprise.

You tried not to look at him, but it was impossible. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way that made your chest ache with something tender and unfamiliar. He smelled like your soap—clean, soft, and utterly real.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, crossing your arms defensively, “you looked ridiculous.”

He laughed—a low, easy sound that made your heart flutter. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You risked a glance at him—and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

Something electric passed between you, and it wasn’t from the static of the hoodie. It was heavier. Warmer. Your breath stuttered. You could say this, right? You were friends, right?

“You know,” you started, voice quieter, “it’s kinda unfair.”

He tilted his head. “What is?”

You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending not to notice the way his thigh was pressed against yours.

“You look like that, even if you’re just eating.”

He blinked.

The teasing fell out of his expression like someone had pulled a thread loose. You looked at him—really looked.

And there it was again. That thing that hung between you like a held breath. That invisible thread that pulled tighter and tighter every time you got close enough to see each other clearly.

His hand caught your wrist just as you were about to step away.

You froze, startled by the gentle hold, your heart skipping a beat.

His hand closed around your wrist—gentle, hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch you but couldn’t let the moment slip away without trying.

You froze.

Not because it was dramatic or shocking, but because your body had trained itself to notice every tiny shift around Soobin. The way his fingers were warm against your skin. The way his thumb hovered just slightly, like he thought about brushing it across your wrist but didn’t.

When you looked at him, really looked, he was already looking away—blushing.

His ears were a little pink at the tips, and the expression on his face was… shy. Maybe even a little self-conscious, like he was trying to laugh it off before you said anything that would make it worse.

“That clip you saw…” he said, clearing his throat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s not really me looking good or anything.”

You blinked. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, still not letting go of you. “That livestream—the one with the blonde hair and the… uh, the sitting posture.” He made a vague motion, embarrassed. “We were just coming off a performance. Everyone was still in stage makeup, and the stylists kind of go all out when there’s press watching. It’s not really how I… look. Normally.”

He wasn’t even making eye contact now, suddenly fascinated with a dent in the hardwood floor.

“I mean, they style us a certain way. The lighting’s good. The outfits are picked for us.” He glanced up, almost sheepish. “It’s not real-real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too busy staring.

Because here was Soobin—not the idol, not the polished version beamed out to millions—but your Soobin. The one who got defensive about reverse parking and couldn’t cook instant noodles without supervision. The one whose hoodie sleeves still hung past his wrists, whose hair was a little damp from the rain, whose voice always got smaller when he was trying to be honest.

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know that the moment he tried to downplay it, you somehow liked him even more. Your heart was doing something dangerous. Something stupid and fluttery. And warm. You smiled, just a little. “So what you’re saying is… the Soobin in that clip is false advertising?”

He huffed a laugh—still nervous, still a bit pink. “Exactly.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think it over, “I guess I’ll just have to get used to this version of you, then.”

He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours at last. “This version?”

You nodded, trying to act nonchalant even though your pulse was kicking wildly in your throat. “The version that wears wrinkled sweats and drips water on my floor and thinks too much about livestreams from six months ago.”

He smiled, small and real. “That version’s not very cool.”

“Good. I like him better.” You shrugged. “He reminds me of an old friend.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like a held breath. His hand was still on your wrist, warmer now. Closer. And even though neither of you said it, something shifted.

He lingered a second longer, still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing your skin in a barely-there touch. Neither of you moved, as if breaking the stillness might shatter something fragile between you.

And then, almost offhandedly—like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for days—he said, “You look good too, you know. Even after all these years.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But it cracked something open in you all the same.

You turned away first.

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” you said quickly, already halfway to standing. “Before I say something else embarrassing.”

He let go, fingers slipping away from yours slowly, reluctantly.

And you walked to the kitchen with your heart in your throat.

Dinner was on the stove.

But it wasn’t the only thing simmering now.

—

You stood in front of the pot, stirring with more intensity than necessary, trying very hard not to think about the compliment Soobin had just casually lobbed at your entire existence. His words still clung to your skin more stubborn than the rain had.

"You look good too."

What did that even mean? You were in an old hoodie, hair still damp, socks mismatched. You looked like a soggy couch cushion with a pulse.

Still. He’d said it. Earnestly. Like he meant it.

You stirred the pot a little too aggressively.

Behind you, Soobin leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you like he had nowhere else to be—and no desire to be anywhere else. He looked so at ease there, like he belonged in this space, in your space. The hoodie he wore—the one you’d cut around the collar back in high school during a brief “DIY fashion” phase—hung slightly off one of his shoulders now, exposing a sliver of collarbone. Your brain short-circuited every time your eyes drifted that way, completely unprepared for how something so small, so casual, could feel so intimate.

His eyes drifted toward the stove, then to you—quiet, lingering. He wasn’t staring exactly, but it was close. Like he was watching something he couldn’t quite name. Something small and domestic and too warm to look at directly. And when you caught it, just barely from the corner of your eye, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He dropped his gaze instantly, toeing at the rug with the tip of his sock like it had personally offended him.

“What… uh, what are you making?” he asked, voice soft. Like raising it too loud might break something fragile.

You tossed chopped onions into the pan with a hiss. “Soup,” you said. “It’s quick. It’s easy. And you probably won’t die eating it.”

Soobin gave a little laugh—short and breathy. “That’s a really strong endorsement.”

“I’ve seen your cooking, Choi. This is already an upgrade.”

He gasped, hand clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Three different instant noodles. All undercooked. All aggressively beige.”

“That was years ago!” he protested, a smile tugging at his lips. You nudged him with your hip as you passed behind him. “Just don’t set anything on fire, and we’ll call it a win.”

“I can be helpful,” he mumbled, already reaching for the cutting board. “You just… never let me.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re the one who told me not to let you near knives.”

“Right, but like…” He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was before.”

You handed him a block of tofu and the world’s dullest knife. “Okay, Chef of the Year. Tiny cubes. No bleeding.” He took it with an exaggerated sigh. “No faith in me at all.”

You turned back to the stove, only to hear the distinct sound of tofu being… destroyed.

You looked. “That’s a massacre.”

“I panicked,” he muttered, eyebrows drawn together like he was concentrating on defusing a bomb. You stepped beside him without thinking. “Here,” you said, adjusting his grip. “Like this.” Your fingers curled gently around his hand, repositioning his hold on the knife. Your chest brushed his arm. He stilled.

The silence bloomed wide. You felt his breath catch—just barely. Like a sound he wasn’t sure he should let out. When he turned his head, your faces were closer than they’d meant to be. Too close.

“I think I’m messing up on purpose,” he said, voice so low it barely reached you.

You blinked. “Why?” He hesitated. His eyes flicked to your lips, then away again, like he didn’t mean to. “Because, uh… getting corrected isn’t so bad?”

Your heart stuttered.

And for one wild second, you thought he might actually mean it. Not in a joke way. Not in a “we’re just friends messing around” way. But in the kind of way that stayed with you, long after it passed. You pulled back quickly, your voice higher than it needed to be. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are,” he mumbled, looking weirdly pleased with himself. You turned back to the soup before your face could fully betray you. “Dinner’s almost done.”

“Smells good.” The way he said it—it wasn’t loud or performative. Just warm. Quiet. Like he meant it and didn’t know how to say much else.

“I can, um… I can set the table,” he offered after a beat, fiddling with the towel draped over the chair. “If that helps.”

“It’s just two plates.”

“Still,” he said, moving toward the cupboard. “Feels like the least I can do.”

You watched him open drawers like he didn’t remember where anything was—even though he’d been to your kitchen more than once. Even though this version of Soobin—the soft one, the one who tiptoed through domestic spaces like they were breakable—was getting harder and harder to pretend didn’t feel different.

By the time you both sat down, your pulse still hadn’t settled.

He waited until you took your first bite before speaking again.

“This feels nice,” he said, toying with his chopsticks. “Like… familiar.”

You looked up. “Familiar how?”

He hesitated. “Like, I don’t know. Like we used to do this all the time. Even if we didn’t.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” There was a pause. He tapped his chopsticks together gently, then added, “Not like this, though.”

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew what he meant. Not with the late rain tapping at the windows. Not with the soft glow of the kitchen light, the quiet between bites. Not with the way his leg brushed yours under the table like it didn’t mean anything… except it kind of did.

He looked down at his bowl, then back at you, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s probably dumb. Sorry.”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not dumb.” You both sat in the quiet that followed, tension settling like steam in the air between you. Soft. Warm. Unspoken.

And still—he glanced at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time.

“This,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the part I think I missed the most.”

You didn’t trust yourself to ask what he meant. So you took another bite instead. But your fingers itched where they’d touched his. And you could feel the weight of the moment, real and quiet and waiting for someone to name it.

So neither of you did.

You just stayed like that—two bowls between you, hearts too full for your mouths to keep up.

—

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. A month, at least.

His mom had mentioned he was out of town visiting family—some cousin’s wedding, maybe. You didn’t ask too many questions. Just nodded, said “ah,” and tried to pretend your chest didn’t ache a little every time you passed his house, reminding you of how alone you felt the first time he had disappeared. 

In his absence, the days blurred. You slipped too easily back into your old routine—working, grocery store runs, folding laundry half-awake, hospital visits that drained more than they gave. You didn’t have time to miss him. You barely had time to be anything other than tired.

But that night… that night was different.

The doctor had been gentle, but that didn’t soften the words. Your mom’s condition wasn’t worsening—but it also wasn’t improving. They’d be moving her into a more intensive unit, “just to keep a closer eye.” That was what they always said. A closer eye. As if that made it better.

You left the hospital numb, your body moving through the motions—bus ride, walking home, dropping your keys in the dish like muscle memory. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed without meaning to.

And before you knew it, you were opening your laptop. Not the mindless doomscrolling of nights past. Not some clip appearing on your for you page by accident.

You typed it out yourself this time.

Soobin. Variety show. “Faves Fave.”

Intentional.

The screen filled with thumbnails—bright, curated images of him laughing, grinning, clutching his stomach as he teased his guests. You clicked one. Then another. Then another. It was like oxygen after two weeks of holding your breath.

He looked… the same. Familiar and not. Confident, magnetic, a little shy around the edges if you knew where to look—which, of course, you did.

And then you found that episode.

The one with the “dating coach” guest.  Just a cute concept—flowers, mukbang, the whole club presentation skit . You watched with your chin in your hand, blinking slowly as he fiddled with his sleeves and answered questions with his soft, hesitant smile.

Until the girl leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and asked with a teasing lilt, “Soobin-ssi, what’s your type?”

He laughed first. Ducking his head, already shaking it. “You’re gonna make me get in trouble…” The staff cackled. The guest encouraged him.

“Someone who… leads?” he finally said, face pink and gaze darting away. “I’m more… I think I’m usually… the follower type.” The camera zoomed in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking utterly sheepish.

You sat frozen, mouse hovering over the pause button. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

It was the way he said it—like it wasn’t meant to be scandalous. Just honest. Earnest. And yet your brain short-circuited.

He wasn’t lying.

Over the next few days, you found yourself spiraling. Not in a dangerous way. Just… quietly. Internally. You kept replaying his words—the shy, almost whispered confession that he liked being led. That he was the follower, not the leader. It was a simple thing, but it hit you in a way you didn’t expect.

You found yourself wondering what that really meant—how it would feel to be the one guiding him, to be the person he trusted enough to follow. It was strange how just thinking about it made your chest tighten, your skin buzz with something like electricity. You tried to tell yourself it was just the stress, the exhaustion, the endless waiting for your mom to get better. But you knew better.

When you saw him again, it was like the air between you had shifted, though nothing had really changed. You were hanging out like usual—talking, laughing, stealing quick glances at each other—but now every look carried weight. Every casual brush of your hands or accidental touch sent your heart racing.

Soobin was the same—soft-spoken, a little awkward, but somehow more open, more vulnerable. He wasn’t joking when he said he liked being led. You could see it in how he deferred to you on small things, how he hesitated before making decisions, like he was waiting for your cue. And you? You were barely holding yourself together inside.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up dinner—your hands still a little flour-dusted, the kitchen smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary. You wiped them on your apron, heart skipping in a way that was maybe more than just nerves about having company. 

When you opened the door, Soobin was there, standing with that familiar, slightly sheepish smile that always made your chest tighten. His hair was a bit tousled from the wind, and his eyes held that soft, tentative look you’d come to know so well.

 “Hey,” he said quietly, voice low like he was trying not to disturb the calm. 

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in. 

He kicked off his shoes like he always did—neatly, side by side by the door, like a good guest. Like someone who belonged.

You didn’t say anything, just followed him with your gaze as he wandered into the kitchen, peering into the pot on the stove.

“Ooh,” he said, drawing out the sound, his voice lilting with approval. “It smells like… actual food. I thought you were just gonna microwave ramen.”

You rolled your eyes, your heartbeat thudding annoyingly fast. “Excuse you. I am a cooking god.”

He was joking. You knew that. Just Soobin being Soobin—soft and playful and a little smug without realizing it. But the way he leaned against your counter, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, collar loose…

Yeah. This was going to kill you. Because he had no idea.

No idea that you’d spent two nights watching him on screen—smiling, laughing, stupidly talking about his ideal type like it was just another throwaway question. Like it hadn’t rearranged something inside you.

“I’m usually the follower type,” he’d said.

And maybe it was stupid, the way your brain latched onto that. The way your body responded like it had been waiting for an excuse. You turned away quickly, grabbing bowls from the cabinet with more force than necessary. Focus.

“So,” he said behind you, “what’s the occasion?”

“What?”

“You cooked. For me. Without bribery or threats involved.” He leaned over your shoulder, just barely, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. “Should I be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “Maybe I missed having someone around who bugs me while I’m chopping onions.”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity. “So I am but a tool for your entertainment.”

You could feel the heat of him behind you—just barely there, just enough to make it impossible to think straight.

Tool for your entertainment, he’d said.

You nearly dropped the ladle.

God, he had no idea what that did to you.

Your brain, already frayed from too many late nights watching his interviews on loop—watching him smile at someone else, laugh at someone else's joke—now seized on that one line, innocent and offhand, like your nervous system needed a final push toward collapse.

"I’m the follower type."

Most people would’ve let it pass. A throwaway comment. But not you. Not after hearing the way he’d said it—voice low, almost shy, like it had slipped out by accident. Like it meant something.

And now here he was. In your kitchen. Wearing your hoodie. Joking about being your “tool,” like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and was testing your ability to not spontaneously combust.

“Sure,” you managed, ladling soup into a bowl with what you hoped was a steady hand. “An incredibly useful tool.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Wow. I’ve been demoted to household equipment. I used to be someone.”

You bit your lip.

Don’t laugh. Don’t think about what he said. Definitely don’t think about what that would look like.

You turned to hand him the bowl—and instantly regretted it.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faint sprinkle of freckles near his collarbone, the soft curve of his throat. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. And worse—close enough to see his smile up close, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that felt entirely, devastatingly sincere; his dimples on full display. 

You passed him the bowl with a shallow breath, eyes on anything but his face. He took it gently. But didn’t step away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now. Too soft. The kind of softness that pried things loose.

You looked up. Mistake number two. His brows were slightly furrowed, gaze searching—not teasing this time, not even curious. Just… concerned. Like he could feel the ripple of something under the surface but didn’t know where it led.

“I’m fine,” you said too fast, too light. “Just tired.”

He didn’t argue, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t buying it completely. Still, he nodded, letting the moment settle.

You grabbed your own bowl and sat down quickly, needing the table between you. Needing space. Needing something solid to keep you from doing something stupid like saying the actual thoughts screaming in your head.

He sat across from you, legs tucked up like always, like your living room wasn’t any different from his. Like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just accidentally unraveled you with a single joke and a borrowed hoodie.

Like he belonged here.

And you let him. Of course you did. Even now, even with your pulse skipping and your thoughts stuck on that clip. The one where he’d smiled, soft and unguarded, and said “I don’t mind being told what to do,” and the room had laughed, but you hadn’t.

Because it hadn’t felt like a joke to you.

It had felt like a truth. One he hadn’t meant to share. One you couldn’t unhear.

And now it sat in your chest like a secret too big to hold. A glowing ember you couldn’t stamp out.

He slurped a spoonful of soup and let out a satisfied hum. “So what’s in this? Other than the tears you shed while I was gone”

You swallowed hard, fighting for focus. “Garlic. Herbs. A careful measure of what’s left of my sanity.”

He snorted. “Well, it’s seasoned perfectly.”

You gave him a weak smile, cheeks already warm, though it had nothing to do with the stove.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore. This wasn’t normal. It was familiar, yes—but in a way that felt dangerous now. Because the more he settled back into your life, into your house, into the clothes you used to sleep in—the harder it became to separate who he used to be from what he was starting to mean now.

He had no idea. None. He didn’t know that every casual smile, every soft laugh, every offhanded comment was completely undoing you. You glanced up—and found him already watching you.

You froze.

“What?”

He blinked like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… quiet tonight.”

You looked down at your bowl.

“Yeah,” you said again. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered, and in the stretch of silence that followed, you wondered—just for a second—if he saw it. The shift. The crack in your composure. The storm is blooming just beneath your skin.

But then he took another bite. Casual. Comfortable.

And you sat there, across from the boy who was quietly ruining your life, wondering how much longer you could pretend it wasn’t happening.

—-

EIGHT YEARS AGO

It had been the class field trip to the mountains—the last big outing before graduation.

Everyone had been buzzing about it for weeks: a whole day out of school. You hadn’t planned on going at first—too many people, too much noise—but your friends insisted. And somewhere deep down, beneath your careful excuses, you knew Soobin would be there.

And yeah. Maybe that was the real reason you said yes.

The day itself was easy. Light. The sun shimmered across the water, laughter bounced off the docks. Soobin had helped pass out life jackets, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back by the wind, that easygoing smile on his face. He was joking with everyone, relaxed—but his eyes kept finding you. When he thought you weren’t looking.

You caught him once. Watching.

He smiled. You looked away.

It should’ve felt warm. Comforting. Safe.

But then, later—when everyone was crowded around a picnic table, eating soggy sandwiches and swatting mosquitoes—you overheard it.

Two classmates, sitting a few feet behind you. One of them is his friend. The other a notorious gossip.

“I’m telling you,” one said, tearing into a juice pouch. “Soobin was gonna ask her to the lake.”

“Her? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said he’d do it if she said yes to coming. But then he got all weird. Said she shuts down whenever he gets close. But, like, you can tell. He does everything she says. It’s kind of sad.”

You froze, a sandwich half-bitten in your hand.

He was going to ask you. You hadn’t imagined it. The quiet tension, the soft attention—it had meant something. And maybe, just maybe, it still would have meant something.

But then came the second realization. The one that burrowed deeper.

He would’ve done it just because you came. 

Because you said yes.

Because he always listened.

Because he always followed your lead.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because if he liked you like that—really liked you—then that meant being wanted. Being chosen. Again. And what had that ever brought anyone?

Everyone you loved either left or got sick. That wasn't a coincidence. That was you.

You had started to believe, somewhere in the quiet dark, that maybe you were the problem. That maybe there was something inside you—ruinous and invisible—that made people go. Like you carried a sickness only the people closest to you ever caught.

And Soobin? Soobin was the kind of boy who would’ve followed you straight into the storm, no questions asked.

He didn’t deserve that.

So you shut down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You avoided his gaze. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. When the canoes got pulled out, you volunteered for the group on the other end of the lake. You didn’t even sit near him on the bus ride back.

And the texts, later that night? Left unread.

When he approached you in the hallway the next week, worry in his eyes, asking if something was wrong—you shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. And then walked away.

You never told him why. Never told him that your silence wasn’t about him. It was about you. What you believed you did to the people who loved you.

He didn’t chase after you. Not out loud. But you saw him watching you in class a few times after that. Quiet. Like he was waiting for a sign that never came. The last time you saw him was three days after the hike. He was standing by the bike racks after school, bag slung over one shoulder, kicking gravel. He looked up when you walked out with your friends.

You paused.

He straightened. Took a half step forward. “Hey.”

You stopped. Barely. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to ask if I… said something wrong?”

He looked so unsure, so open, so soft. All you wanted was to walk back toward him. Say something. Say everything.

But you didn’t.

You gave him a weak smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” Then you left.

No final goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.

And that was the last time you saw Soobin. Before the auditions, the debut, the lights and cameras and screams and fame turned him into someone the whole world watched. You’d think about that moment by the fence. About how he would’ve done anything for you, if you’d only let him.

But you hadn’t.  Because somewhere deep down, you still believed you were the thing that made people sick. And you couldn’t let him catch it too.

So instead, you let him go. Quiet. Clean. Cowardly.

And the worst part?

You were never sure if he even hated you for it.

—

The soup was gone. The dishes were rinsed, half-drying on the rack.

The living room was dim now, only the lamp in the corner still on, casting long golden light over everything. The night had settled in soft around you—quiet, still, deceptively calm. Soobin was sprawled out on your couch, legs long and socked feet hanging off the edge like he forgot how tall he was. You sat on the floor with your back against the coffee table, scrolling through a playlist on your phone, pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of his presence. Of the warmth of his thigh brushing the cushion where your elbow rested. Of the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were looking.

“Wanna watch something?” you offered, keeping your voice casual. “You haven’t seen the new season of that show you liked, right?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, quiet for a second. “I kinda just wanna sit like this.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. Your mouth had gone dry. Because the way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was simple. Earnest.

Like this.

With you. In your space. With your things and your scent on the throw blanket and the memory of your hand on his guiding a knife hours ago. He turned his head a little, resting his cheek on the back of the couch.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” he said again. “Not just tired, quiet… It’s like…you’re thinking too much.”

You stared ahead at the wall, the grain in the wood, the dust in the lamp’s halo of light.

“I’m always thinking too much.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But this feels different.”

You drew your knees up to your chest, arms wrapping around them.

“I just…” You hesitated. “I think I’ve forgotten how to be around you.”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, trying to laugh, trying to swallow the tension, “we hang out like this and it’s supposed to feel easy, but it doesn’t anymore.”

He looked at you carefully. Slowly.

And then, softer than before: “Why doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer, then got up.

You thought maybe he was going to leave. But instead, he walked over and sat beside you on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder. Close. Warm.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

You turned your head. “You just did.”

He gave you a look, but there was no bite to it. Only hesitation.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

Your heart thudded.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not—” You exhaled hard. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?”

You turned your face toward your knees, hiding your expression. But his voice followed, low and careful.

“You didn’t do anything,” I say again, quieter this time—almost a whisper, like if I say it soft enough, maybe it’ll unravel the knot tightening in my chest.

Soobin stays still. Not a word. No response. He just waits.

And somehow, that silence makes everything harder to bear.

I press my cheek against my knee, voice muffled and uneven. “It just got me thinking… back in high school. That field trip to the mountains.” You don’t know why you’re bringing this up now. 

I feel the faintest tilt of his head, a subtle sign he’s listening, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“After that trip…” I trail off, twisting the sleeve of my shirt around my fingers, the fabric rough beneath my skin. “I don’t know why—” The words catch in my throat, and the room feels heavy with unspoken things. I swallow hard. “I don’t know why I stopped talking to you.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Because I know the truth, but it’s too fragile, too raw to say out loud.

Finally, I steal a glance at him—just for a moment.

His face softens. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, maybe something else too. Something like understanding. Or forgiveness.

And in that quiet exchange, it feels like a small crack opens in the wall between us—fragile, but real.

He shifts beside me, the couch groaning beneath his weight. Then, softly:

“I didn’t know,” he says.

His voice is different now. Not teasing. Not soft for the sake of comfort—but careful. Honest.

“I thought…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I thought maybe you didn’t like me. That I was too much.”

My heart stutters.

“You weren’t,” You say quickly, instinctively. “You weren’t too much. You were just…”

You falter again. He looks at you now—really looks at you—and you feel like he’s seeing through every version of you you’ve built up over the years.

“I overheard some guys talking about you,” You keep going, twisting the sleeve of your shirt around your fingers. “They said you were going to ask me out, maybe confess something.”

So much silence. 

“And it just... freaked me out.” 

You don’t say it lightly. You say it like a confession, like a weight lifted from your shoulders but also like a wound reopened. Because it costs you something to admit.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” You admit, voice catching a little. “The idea that you might like me... that I might have to say it back.”

You finally glance at him—just for a second. His face softens. A flicker of surprise, maybe something else.

“So I did the worst thing,” You confess, taking a shaky breath. “I avoided you.”

You swallow hard. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d forget. But I never did.”

He stays quiet longer than you  want. You think maybe You’ve ruined everything.

“You know,” he says after a long moment, “I used to think about that field trip a lot.”

You turn toward him.

“I kept wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t.”

He nods. “I know that now. But back then…”

His voice drifts. There’s a different kind of sadness in it. Not bitter. Just the kind that comes from remembering a version of yourself who didn’t know better.

“…I guess I needed you to say this more than I realized,” he finishes.

You both don’t say anything for a while after that. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full of things finally said, finally heard.

Then—like the Soobin you’ve always known—he cracks a crooked grin, glancing sideways at me.

“So…” he says, light but sincere, “now that we’ve established we were both emotionally constipated teenagers…”

You snort. “You’re the worst.”

He nudges your shoulder again, softer this time. “Just saying. We had a lot of potential for a coming-of-age drama. Tears, longing stares, tragic misunderstandings.”

“And a bad soundtrack,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, though something twists in your chest. “You would’ve done well with a sad ballad.”

“Oh, definitely,” he murmurs, looking forward now, like he’s watching a movie that only he can see. “Fade to black. Cue emotional credits.”

You smile faintly at that. Or maybe you try to. Because the warmth between you—the comfort, the quiet—it feels like something that could settle. Something that could stay.

But then the silence stretches again. Not like before. This one sharpens. Something shifts in the air, almost imperceptibly, and you feel it before you hear it. The way Soobin suddenly exhales, the weight in his shoulders changing.

You glance at him.

He’s not smiling anymore. His eyes darken with something unsaid—an emotion too raw to voice but too heavy to hide.

In that moment, the space between you changes. It’s no longer just a shared past. It’s a crossing point.

A line drawn. Between what was… and what could be.

And somehow, without words, you both know it.

This is the turning point.

The moment everything begins to change. His eyes darken, intense and searching, as they lock onto yours. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you—breath mingling, hearts hammering in sync.

guys...i reached the 1000 word block GO TO PAHT TWO

[bintheredreamedthat]

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 | 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 : ̗̀➛

summary: when global idol Choi Soobin returns to his quiet hometown for an unexpected hiatus, the last thing you expect is to run into him—the boy you once shared everything with...until you cut him off without a word.

you swore you’d never let yourself want him again. he swore he’d stop waiting for you to look back. but this time, neither of you is quite ready to walk away.

cw: sub!soobin, dom!reader, idol!au, angsty!!, fluff, slow and i mean slowburn, friends to lovers, mentions of death, implied depression, mental health issues (pls take care of urselves), unprotected sex, smut, reader just can't process emotions well

wc: ~30k... forgive me...or love me idk....

make sure to read part one first:)

part one | part two

You glance at him.

He’s not smiling anymore. His eyes darken with something unsaid—an emotion too raw to voice but too heavy to hide.

In that moment, the space between you changes. It’s no longer just a shared past. It’s a crossing point.

A line drawn. Between what was… and what could be.

And somehow, without words, you both know it.

This is the turning point.

The moment everything begins to change. His eyes darken, intense and searching, as they lock onto yours. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you—breath mingling, hearts hammering in sync.

His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer, his touch burning through the space between you.

You don’t hesitate. Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, drawing him nearer. The moment his lips crash against yours, it’s electric—fierce and urgent, a storm that’s been building for years finally unleashed.

He tastes like everything you’ve missed, every stolen memory and secret longing wrapped into one.

Your body arches toward him, breath hitching as his hands roam with desperate tenderness—holding on, never wanting to let go. The kiss deepens, raw and hungry, like a confession and a promise all at once.

When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths ragged, giggling like children. 

“I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long I thought I’d forget what it felt like,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

You laugh breathlessly, tears pricking your eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming flood of everything you’ve been holding in. 

As he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, you can't help but notice the way he stares at you shivering at the gesture. Your heart leaps at the reaction, while a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His other hand moves upwards, fingers tangling in your hair. He pulls you closer, your breaths mingling again and your voice is a whisper now

"You drive me crazy. You always drive me crazy."

“Binnie…” you moaned, the nickname slipping out before you could stop it—familiar, once innocent, now thick with something deeper.

It tumbled from your lips again, laced with want, each syllable drawn out by the ache curling low in your stomach. What used to be playful now felt intimate—like a secret only he was allowed to hear.

And from the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on your waist tightened, you knew he felt it too.The shift. The heat. The need.

It was no longer just a kiss. No longer just a moment.  It was everything you’d never dared to ask for—now finally, finally burning to the surface.

You can feel the heat pooling in my stomach, and the ache for him to hold you closer, to feel every last inch of him.

As you say his name again, the sound of it now thick with desire, he pulls you even closer, his grip on your waist becoming almost possessive.

“Binnie…” you whisper again, softer this time.

His breath stutters against your skin. His hands flex at your waist like he’s fighting himself, like he doesn’t know what to do with the way your voice—your voice—saying his name like that, is undoing him from the inside out.

And then he exhales, shaky and low.

“I’m never going to hear that the same again,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You’ve ruined it.”

You smile, slow and dangerous, and he swallows hard. It’s the kind of look that would’ve made him stammer back in high school—the kind that would’ve gone over his head completely. But now? He sees it. Feels it.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his fingers digging gently into your sides like he’s grounding himself.

“Say it again,” he mumbles, barely audible.

“What, Binnie?” you breathe against his ear.

He shudders.

You feel him melt a little into you—like all the tension he holds on stage, the posture, the polish—it’s gone. Right now, it’s just him. Just Soobin. Yours. Finally, yours. 

“God,” he mutters. “I think I’d do anything you told me to right now.” The words slip out like a confession, quiet and stunned, as if he’s only just realizing it himself.

And when you pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him—his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the wide, dazed look in his eyes—you realize he means it.

Every word.

So you give it to him.

You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing over the flushed apples of his cheeks. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct. Like his body already knows—this is where it belongs.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” you murmur, voice lower now, threading through the tension in the room. “Unless it’s because you want it. Not because I said so.”

His breath catches again.

“I do,” he says, so quietly it’s barely audible. His fingers dig a little tighter into your waist. “I do want it. Want you.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment everything drops.

You kiss him again, slower this time, deeper—like a promise. He melts into it, like he’s sinking, like his body belongs in your hands and knows it. He can’t stop panting like a dog in heat, the sounds shooting straight to your core. Something inside you snaps.

You guide him back with a firm hand at his chest, and he follows without hesitation, breath catching as the back of his knees hit the couch. He sinks onto it slowly, still watching you like he can’t believe this is real—like he’s afraid to blink.

“Wait—” he starts, his voice hoarse, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say simply. And that’s the end of it.

Something in his shoulders loosens—just a little. But his fingers are still fisted into the comforter like he’s grounding himself. Like he doesn’t trust his body to stay still otherwise.

You lean in, hands on his thighs, and kiss him again—deeper this time, more demanding. And he responds beautifully, mouth parting, letting you take exactly what you want.

You slide your hand under the hem of his hoodie and he shudders, hips twitching up involuntarily at the feel of your fingers on his skin. He breaks the kiss with a soft gasp.

“Please…” he murmurs. You don’t know if he’s asking you to keep going or to slow down. Maybe even he doesn’t know.

“Desperate bunny” You coo. Tugging the hoodie off over his head, and he helps without thinking, eyes never leaving yours. He looks wrecked already—hair mussed, lips swollen, flushed all the way down his throat.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and he lets out a low, desperate sound that you feel echo in your stomach. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch.

You guide them—one to your waist, one to your back.

“There,” you whisper against his jaw. “You can hold me.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut as he grips you like you’re the only real thing in the room. You start trailing kisses down his neck, and he whimpers. The kind of soft, breathy sound that tells you he’s gone—completely at your mercy.

You suck gently at a spot just below his ear, and he grips your hips tighter, head falling back with a soft groan.

“God,” he breathes. “I’m not gonna survive this.”

You smile against his skin. “You’ll be fine, Binnie.” You nip lightly at his throat. “You’re doing so well for me. Such a good bunny…” You purr. 

That breaks him. You feel it—his whole body tightening, breath faltering, hands flexing against your back like he’s barely holding himself together.

And the way he looks at you when you pull back, lips parted, eyes dark and glassy—like you’ve completely unraveled him with just your touch—makes your heart slam against your ribs.

Not because you’ve won. But because he’s giving it to you, willingly.

Your fingers trail down his bare chest, slow and deliberate, watching the way his breath stutters, the way his abs flex beneath your touch. He’s trembling now—trembling—and it makes something deep inside you coil tighter, hungrier.

“Binnie,” you whisper, and the way he looks at you—ruined, reverent, like he’d follow you anywhere—makes you ache.

“I don’t think I can be quiet,” he confesses, breathless, almost dazed. “You’re… I can’t think straight when you’re touching me like this. ”

You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then don’t be quiet.” You kiss just beneath it, your voice low, velvet-smooth. “I want to hear you.”

He lets out a broken sound—a half-whimper, half-gasp—as you grind down slightly against his lap, and his hands instinctively tighten at your hips. But he doesn’t move you. He waits. Lets you move. Lets you guide.

He lets out a strangled sound—half-whimper, half-moan—as you grind against him again, slow and deep. His fingers dig helplessly into your hips, but he still doesn’t try to take control. He’s letting you have it. Letting you lead.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he chokes out, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s saying it. “You’re so—fuck,—you’re so pretty.”

You feel the words hit you everywhere at once—low in your stomach, high in your chest, curling around the edges of your thoughts.

You look down at him—completely undone, lips parted, eyes glassy with need—and he’s still murmuring it like a prayer.

“Pretty… you’re so pretty,” he breathes again, hands sliding up your waist like he needs to memorize you. “I can’t—I don’t know what to do when you look at me like that.”

You press your forehead to his, your hands framing his flushed face. “You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur. “Just let me have you.”

And when you roll your hips again, he gasps—head falling back, throat exposed, another desperate “pretty,” slipping past his lips like he’s completely forgotten he was ever capable of holding back.

And you swear, in that moment, you could break him just by existing.

You kiss him again, deeper, hungrier, your mouths meeting like gravity’s pulling you together. And he gives you everything—his sighs, his hands, the soft little noises he tries and fails to hold back. His body was so responsive to every touch, every word, every inch of pressure you apply. You let your hand slide down, cupping him through the fabric, feeling the heat and hardness pressing against your palm.

It’s dizzying—the way he lets go for you. The way he doesn’t want to take control.

And you feel it in his every movement, every stuttered breath:

He trusts you with all of it. And when you slow just long enough to look down at him, hair falling between you, lips swollen, skin flushed, he whispers like he’s confessing a secret he’s never said aloud:

“I’ve never wanted someone like this before.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle now. “I know.”

And the way his hands curl around your back like he’s never letting go?

That says everything else.

You press your hips forward again, slow and deliberate, and Soobin lets out a strangled moan, his jaw slackening as his eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed. Your hand grips his hardened length firmly, poised to finally release him from his confinement.

“Oh my god—” he gasps, back arching slightly beneath you. “Please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, fingers raking down his chest, nails catching lightly on every muscle that jumps beneath your touch. “Use your words, Binnie.”

He shudders. Actually shudders. His grip on your hips goes tighter, but he still doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. He just gives—waiting, aching, obedient.

“I— I don’t know,” he breathes out, completely overwhelmed. “I just—need you. Need more.”

The raw, unfiltered honesty of the moment tightens your chest, but you don’t hesitate. With steady hands, you pull down his sweatpants and boxers in one smooth motion, finally freeing him from the minutes of teasing.  The tip was red and leaky, ready to be pumped over and over again. 

You lean in, noses brushing, your voice a whisper against his lips. “Fuck, why the hell are you so big?” It throbs in your hand. 

And then you roll your hips harder, dragging delicious friction between you, and the sound that rips out of him is filthy. Desperate. Like he’s coming undone under your hands alone. 

His fingers flex at your thighs, his breath hot and ragged. “Fuck—” he swears for the first time tonight, and it sends heat flooding through you.

You kiss down his neck again—slow, lingering, open-mouthed. You nip at the spot just above his collarbone and feel him tremble. He tilts his head instinctively, baring his throat for you.

“You like that?” you whisper against his skin.

He nods—helpless. “Y-Yeah. I— I want to be good for you.”

You sit up slowly, hands sliding down his arms to where he’s gripping the sheets now, knuckles white.

“You are good for me,” you say, voice low, teasing. “So good. So pretty. Look at you…”

You grind down again and watch him react—how he bites his lip, eyes squeezing shut, head falling back. A mess of breathless curses and whimpers spill from his mouth like he doesn’t even realize he’s making them.

“Binnie,” you breathe, leaning in close again, lips brushing his ear, “do you want to be mine?”

His whole body tenses, like the words hit something deep. He nods quickly, eyes flying open. “Yes. Yes—please.”

And fuck, the way he says it—like it’s a prayer, like it’s something sacred—it makes you feel powerful and soft and achingly in love all at once.

You kiss him again, deeper, more desperate, your bodies moving together now with friction and rhythm and want. You were pumping him so hard, the slick sheen of his precum coating your palm, some of it tracing a slick path down to his taut stomach.

He tried to stifle his moans, pressing his lips together thinly, but it was no use—those soft dimples deepened with every sound escaping him. An angelic face, but beneath it all, he was just a dirty whore. 

The room is hot. Breathless. His name is a broken thing on your lips. Yours is a mantra on his.

And through it all, he lets you lead. Lets you have him.

Every gasp. Every shiver. Every soft, ruined plea that falls from his mouth.

There was something dizzying about the way you fit into him—how he was all height and warmth, and yet somehow, he made space for you. Let you lead. Like he didn’t mind giving up control. Like he wanted to.

And maybe that was what unraveled you the most—not his size, not the weight of him beside you—but the way he gave in so easily. Willingly. Like he trusted you to guide him wherever this was going.

You move your hips again—deeper this time, slower—grinding down on his cock now with delicious purpose. His head jerks back against the pillows, neck exposed, jaw slack as he lets out a ragged, wrecked moan that vibrates through your spine. 

His hands are on your hips now, but not guiding. Just gripping. Holding on. Like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart completely.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice hoarse, shaking. “Please… I can’t—”

“You can,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, feeling him twitch beneath you. “And you will. For me.”

He whimpers—actually whimpers—his fingers trembling as he digs them into the curve of your waist like he’s trying not to lose himself. Every roll of your hips has him gasping now, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the sensation, all the need clawing up his spine.

“Too much,” he whispers, but he’s not asking you to stop. No, if anything, he’s begging you to keep going. “You’re too much.” His hands flew up to cover his flushed cheeks, hiding the mess of emotions behind them. But you gently brushed them aside, wanting to see every inch of his face as he teetered on the edge, closer and closer to coming undone.

You lean in, kiss him like you’re claiming him. And he melts. His hands, his body, his breath—all of it surrendering to you.

“Then fall apart for me,” you murmur against his lips. “Let me have it. Let me have you.”

And he does. Oh, he does.

His hips jerk up into yours, involuntary now, his moans spilling freely—loud and unfiltered and so damn pretty. You ride the rhythm you’ve built between you, pulling him deeper into the pleasure until he’s completely lost to it.

Your hands never stop moving—his chest, his shoulders, his hair, his face. You want to memorize all of it. The way his mouth falls open. The way his eyes roll back. The way he gasps your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I’m—” he chokes, voice wrecked. “I— I’m—”

You hush him with a kiss, your pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

And when he finally breaks, it’s breathtaking. He moans—loud, drawn-out, beautiful—his whole body going taut beneath you as the pleasure overtakes him, rolls through him like a wave crashing into shore.

You didn’t slow down. Your hand moved faster and harder, desperate to draw out every drop, to claim all of him at this moment. You ride it with him, your name echoing off the walls, his grip bruising, grounding.

And when it’s done—when his body finally collapses back into the mattress, boneless and shaking, chest heaving—you don’t move.

You stay there. Straddling him. Watching the way his lips part and close, trying to catch his breath. Watching the way his lashes flutter. The way his fingers loosen, like he’s still clinging to you in his sleep.

“Still alive?” you whisper.

His eyes crack open, dazed and glassy, and he gives you the softest, most wrecked smile you’ve ever seen.

“Barely,” he croaks. “You… destroyed me.”

You lean down, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.You barely let him catch his breath, grinning wickedly down at his flushed face.

“Thought you were done?” you tease, voice low and dangerous.

Soobin blinks up at you, chest still rising and falling, lips swollen and parted like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious.

“Oh, I’m serious,” you say, peeling off your top, your breasts bouncing the moment the fabric slipped away. Your eyes met Soobin’s, and you saw the way his mouth parted, practically drooling at the sight. 

One hand tangled was in his hair as you pressed your body down against his. You pressed your bare skin against his chest, feeling the goosebumps rise where your tits met his warm skin. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

His breath hitches, a shiver running through him. “You’re evil.” He whimpered. 

You laugh—a soft, sultry sound that makes his knees weaken.

“Maybe I am,” you whisper, leaning down to nip at his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

He groans, tilting his head, eyes dark and pleading.

You don’t even give him a second to breathe before your hands are everywhere—gripping, exploring, claiming. Your nails dig in just enough to make him shiver, your touch teasing every nerve awake. 

His breath hitches, his eyes fluttering open and wide, wild and desperate, like he’s on the edge of losing control—and honestly, so are you.

“Please—” he gasps, voice cracking, like he’s barely holding himself together. “I can’t—”

But you don’t stop. A thin string of slick clung to the fabric as you slipped off your panties, your arousal undeniable. Without hesitation, you stuck it in his mouth, and he responded with a low, approving groan.

You grind down on him, slow at first, then faster, harder. The sound of him breaking apart under your touch is music—ragged gasps, sharp intake of breath, desperate whimpers that make your pulse slam. 

You smile, lips brushing his ear. “Wanna speak, bunny? Huh?—You wanna speak?”

You grip his big, throbbing cock, as if about to finally free him from his misery—but not before teasing him first. You drag it slowly back and forth along your entrance, slipping just the tip in for a moment before pulling away again.

His hands clutch your hips like you’re his last lifeline, pulling you impossibly closer.

His eyes squeezed shut, his groans growing louder as if he was struggling to hold back words he couldn’t say. You were still caught in a haze—partly cruel, wanting to push him to the edge—but deep down, you knew he was savoring every moment.

You were getting eager now—the sight of him trembling beneath you made your stomach tighten with need. You both were desperate, but it was him who was truly unraveling, barely holding on. You finally gave in, slowly easing him inside. But then he got greedy—his hips snapped up, filling you all at once, forcing a low, breathless yelp from your lips.

“Little fucker,” you breathed, gripping his stomach for support as you tried to adjust to the sudden stretch.

His whole body trembles, every muscle taut, every nerve on fire. You feel the tension coil tighter and tighter until it snaps, and he loses it—shaking, gasping, clutching you like he’s never felt anything like this before.

You slam your hips down, relentless now, and he cries out. No control left—just instinct, just sound. Raw, hoarse, helpless. His nails dig into your thighs, head tossed back against the sheets, chest heaving like he’s drowning in it.

“F-fuck, Ah—!” he gasps, voice cracking completely.

He’s shaking under you. Physically trembling. Muscles flexing as he tries—and fails—to hold it together. His eyes roll back when you grind down slow, cruel, and deep. He’s not even speaking anymore—just noise. Beautiful, wrecked noise.

“Look at you,” you growl, fisting your hand in his hair, yanking his head up until he’s forced to meet your eyes. “You’re so easy for me.”

He whimpers, his mouth falling open, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen and slick.

“You like this,” you murmur, tone low, dominating. “You like it when I use you like this.”

He moans—loud—and tries to nod, but he’s dizzy, broken, his whole body twitching under yours.

“Say it,” you demand, grinding down harder, rolling your hips with punishing rhythm. “Say you want to be used.”

“I—I wanna be used,” he cries out, panting, frantic, voice ragged and so fucking gone. “I want—I want everything. Take it. Take all of me—fuck, please—please don’t stop—”

You don’t.

You speed up.

Faster. Harder. Slapping skin and heavy breathing and Soobin’s voice falling apart, barely more than whines now. He’s close again—you can feel it, the way he tightens beneath you, the way his nails bite into your skin like he’s bracing for impact.

“I can’t—I can’t—” he sobs, wrecked and gasping.

“You can,” you snap, grabbing his jaw so he’s looking at you, staring straight into his ruined, desperate eyes. “You’ll take it like a good fucking boy.”

And then he loses it.

A full-body tremor wrecks him as he comes undone—loud, raw, shattering. He’s babbling through it—your name, broken pleas, helpless sounds torn from his throat as he rides the edge into oblivion.

You don’t let up.

You ride him through it, holding his face, kissing him through every last quake of his climax, until he’s gasping into your mouth like he’ll fall apart without it.

And when it’s over, when he collapses into the mattress like his bones no longer work, eyes glazed, chest heaving, completely destroyed—you lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

His voice breaks into a muffled moan, eyes wild and glassy, mouth parting as he spills over the edge. Only then do you remove his gag. 

You ride the wave with him, holding him close as he collapses against you—utterly undone, completely yours.

He’s panting, dazed, utterly wrecked—his fingers still gripping your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You’ve–” He breathes, voice ragged, “You’ve ruined me forever.”

And you grin, knowing exactly what you’ve done—and loving every second of it. But you’re not done. 

Pinned. Open. Helpless.

You roll your hips again, slow and deep, and his whole body jerks.

“Ah—!” he gasps, head tossing back against the pillow, arms trembling. “Too much— I just came, I—!”

You lean in, lips at his ear. “Last one baby, I promise. Give me one more, kay?”

His breath hitches. His hands fist the sheets.

“N-no,” he whispers. “I just— I— I don’t know if I can take it—”

“Oh, you will,” you murmur darkly, fingers gripping his chin to turn his dazed, tear-glossed eyes back to yours. “You will. You give me everything, remember?”

He nods, breathless, lips trembling. “I’m yours. I’m— I’ll do anything! I can come again! Again!”

“I’m gonna make sure you never forget this.” You whisper, biting down on his jaw, making him moan. You roll your hips harder, pace punishing now, and Soobin breaks.

Every sound he makes is louder, messier—panting and begging, a litany of your name mixed with curses and gasps and half-sobbed moans. He’s twitching with overstimulation, body jerking uncontrollably beneath you.

“I— I’m gonna—fuck, please let me—”

You grab his wrists and pin them above his head, riding him harder.

“Not yet,” you hiss. “You’re gonna take every fucking second I give you, Soobin.”

“Please—pleasepleaseplease—”

And when you finally let him, it’s catastrophic.

He screams your name, whole body arched off the bed, muscles locking as he comes undone—again—louder, harder, longer than before. He’s so overstimulated. He doesn’t even know where he is anymore, just gasping and crying and thanking you through it, like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. You came with him, letting your moans spill out, chanting his nickname over and over again. 

And the second he collapses again, twitching, boneless, ruined—your lips find his temple.

You ease off him, moving with the gentlest touch now, like you’re trying not to break the fragile thing he’s become. Your hands slide over his sweat-slick skin, tracing lazy, soothing circles on his chest and down his arms.

His breath is still shaky, shallow, the rapid pounding of his heart settling into something softer — something more intimate. His eyes flutter open, bleary and glazed, and when they find yours, they’re full of quiet awe.

“You did so good,” you whisper, voice thick with warmth and something deeper. “So strong, so perfect.”

He tries to smile, but it falters, so you lean down and press a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He catches your wrist, holding your hand against his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Y/N,” he breathes, voice husky, “I— I never knew…”

You tilt his head up gently, fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair.

“That I could top you?” you finish for him.

He laughs softly, the sound like a release. “That you’d be into it.”

His eyes squeeze shut again, and when they open, there’s a softness there you haven’t seen before — a quiet surrender, a trust, and maybe, just maybe, something like love.

The silence between you isn’t empty anymore — it’s full. Full of everything you couldn’t say, everything you’re both feeling.

And as his head rests against your collarbone, his breath steadying, you know this isn’t what you thought it was anymore. 

Suddenly, the weight of everything crashed down on you—too sharp, too real. You’d just crossed a line with Soobin, shared something so raw and fragile, and yet all you could feel was the bitter sting of what it meant. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were friends. Nothing more. Have you really forgotten that? Forgotten that this—whatever this was—was doomed to end before it even began? 

He had to leave at some point. Maybe for good. How could you dare to want him, to claim him, when all of it felt so temporary? Like chasing a ghost that would slip through your fingers the moment you reached out. The fear squeezed your chest so tight it was almost painful. You wanted him—needed him—but the cruelest truth was that you might never have him at all. And maybe that was the hardest thing to admit.

He’s quiet for too long—long enough that the skin at the back of your neck prickles. When he finally speaks, it’s soft. Careful. Almost like he doesn’t want to say it.

“…I’m going back.”

Your heart thuds. “Back?”

He turns his head slightly, meets your eyes.

“My hiatus,” he says. “It’s over. I’m flying out next week.”

The words land hard. Too fast. Like someone slammed a door without warning. For a second, you forget how to breathe.

“Oh,” you manage. Your throat tightens. “That soon?”

He nods. Doesn’t elaborate.

And just like that, something cracks again. You don’t mean to react, your stomach twisting in ways you don’t understand—or maybe understand too well.

He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes flick down, watching the small movements of your hands.

“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you,” he says quietly. “I just… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. You try to find something light to say, something stupid like ‘big stage, bright lights, back to being famous,’ but nothing comes out.

He watches you carefully now, expression unreadable.

“I wanted to see you,” he added after a moment. “Before I left.”

Your chest pulls painfully tight. You blink hard, trying not to let that mean too much. But it already does. It does.

“Oh,” you say again, like it’s all you’re capable of. “Cool.”

And god, the way he flinches—so subtly, like he’s trying to hide it—it guts you. “This is stupid,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “I should be happy for you.”

“You can be both,” he says, voice gentler now. “Happy for me… and still sad.” 

You look at him then, and you hate that he’s saying all the right. “Are you… ready?”

He exhales, long and uneven. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Are you okay with it?” he asks, finally meeting your gaze. Your eyes lock, and it’s like standing at the edge of something. Not a cliff. Not a beginning. But something in between.

“I mean…” you start, heart in your throat. “It’s not really my decision.”

He frowns a little. “That’s not what I asked.” You hate that he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants you to say something he’s not brave enough to say himself.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just got used to having you around again.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a confession. But it is. And something flickers in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe. Or guilt. Or something else you can’t name. Your fingers clench tighter, and your voice—when you find it—comes out softer than before. Too even. Too measured.

He doesn’t respond at first.

Just watches you. Noticing, probably, the way your expression stiffens even as you try to keep it neutral. The way you shrink a little inward, shoulders curling in like you’re bracing for something.

The silence stretches again. Then he says it—soft, almost like a thought he wasn’t meant to speak out loud. You get up from his lap, dressing yourself. He does the same. 

“I could stay.”

You blink.

“What?”

His jaw shifts. Not tense. Just… trying.

“I’m saying…” He exhales hard, rubs the back of his neck. “If you wanted me to. I could… put things on hold. A little longer.”

Your heart trips over itself.

“No,” you say quickly, instinctively. Too fast. 

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

“Because,” you snap—sharper than you mean to. “That’s not fair. You just said you’re going back. That’s your job, Soobin. It’s your dream.”

He flinches, just barely. But he recovers, voice is lower now. Steadier.

“I know what I said. I know what I used to want.” He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words—something raw swimming behind his eyes. “But things are different now.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” he says, firmer this time. “You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t looked at everything here—your mom, this house, you—and wondered if maybe this is where I should be instead?”

The words hit like thunder. Your breath catches. He keeps going.

“I could help,” he says, softer now. “With your mom. With everything. If you asked me to stay, I would.”

You take a step back.

It’s too much. Too fast. Too dangerous.

“No, Soobin,” you say again, voice tight. “You don’t get to throw your whole life away just because you feel—”

“I’m not throwing anything away!”

“You are! You have the life that you’ve worked so hard for. Trained, sacrificed for—you love it. ”

“I love you more!”

The words ring out into the silence, sharp and clear.

And it’s too much. You laugh—but there’s no humor in it. It breaks, hollow. “Don’t do that.”

He stares. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t say things like that,” you whisper. “Not when you know I can’t ask you to stay.”

“You could,” he says, quietly. “You could ask.”

“But I won’t,” you say, voice rising now. “Because that would make me selfish. And I’m not selfish, Soobin. I won’t be the reason you wake up one day and wonder what you missed out on.”

“I don’t care about missing out!” he bursts out, frustrated now. “Don’t you get it? It’s not about the stage anymore. Not when I’m here. Not when I’m with you.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. Your throat is too tight. Your chest is full of something that hurts too much to name.

And he sees that. He sees it—and something in him changes. Soobin stands slowly. Not like he’s ready to storm off. Not even like he’s angry. Just… like something inside him has given up trying to stay soft.

“I’ve never asked you for anything,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges now.

You lift your head, startled.

“Back then,” he goes on, and there’s a tremble in it now. “When we were younger, and you stopped talking to me—I didn’t push. I didn’t chase you. I didn’t ask why.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking somewhere past you, like if he meets your eyes now, he’ll shatter.

“I thought maybe you needed space. Or maybe I just didn’t matter enough. So I told myself it was fine. That I could handle it.”

His voice is starting to crack.

“But I never stopped thinking about you.”

You open your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re about to say—maybe sorry, maybe something too big to say in one breath—but he shakes his head, cuts you off.

“I didn’t come back expecting anything,” he says. “Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even a second chance.”

He finally looks at you then. Really looks.

“I could’ve gone anywhere else, but…I just wanted to be around you again…”

Your heart twists.

“I would’ve been happy just sitting next to you for the rest of my life if that’s all you wanted,” he says, quieter now. “Because when I’m around you, it feels like I can breathe again. Like I remember who I am.”

Your lips part. A sound escapes you—small, helpless.

“So please,” he says. “I’m asking now. For once, I’m asking.”

He takes a step forward.

“Don’t push me away.”

You feel the words like they’re hands around your ribs. Like they’re shaking you loose.

Because he means it. All of it. This is Soobin, who never asks for more than people give, who always takes what he’s offered and never complains. Soobin, who stayed soft even when the world tried to harden him.

And now he’s here—bare, wide open—and he’s telling you he would stay.

If you said the word, he would stay.

And that’s what ruins you.

Because you are the one who would break him by letting him.

You shake your head, voice breaking as it comes out. “You’d hate me for it eventually.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You say that now.”

“I’d never hate you,” he says fiercely, like it hurts to even hear it. “I’d give up everything if you just told me you wanted me to.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

Your breath catches. The room is tilting.

“And that’s why I can’t ask,” you whisper. “Because you would. And then every time you looked at me, I’d wonder if you resented it. If you missed it. If you hated the life I gave you instead of the one you built yourself.”

You turn away. You can’t bear the look on his face. “I can’t be the reason you walk away from something you love.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, low and hollow:

“So I’m just supposed to walk away from you instead?”

That breaks something in you. Completely.

Tears spring up before you can stop them, hot and stinging. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it,” he snaps, and it startles you—because Soobin doesn’t raise his voice, not like this. “I’ve had the dream. I’ve been living it. And yeah, it’s everything I thought I wanted, but—” He chokes on a breath, eyes glassy now. “But it’s not enough anymore. I feel so alone! I’m surrounded by all these people, but I still feel so alone”

He steps back like he can’t stand being this close.

“You’re what I want now. You’ve always been who I’ve wanted ”

You close your eyes briefly, fighting the lump in your throat.

“I can forget about this—” you whisper, your voice trembling, fragile like a thread about to snap. “We can forget all of it. Maybe we can just… go back to being friends.” You take a shaky breath, eyes dropping to the floor. “Start over. Take it slow. Like nothing ever happened.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, you hear the quiet rise and fall of his chest as he draws closer, the space between you shrinking, charged with everything left unsaid. The air feels thick, heavy—like it’s holding its breath, waiting.

“Friends?” His voice cracks, barely more than a whisper but filled with pain. “After everything—after all this time… for God’s sake, I was inside of you!”

He swallows hard, the words hanging heavy between you. “How can you even say that? Pretend like it never meant anything?”

He swallows hard, eyes glistening with something raw and real.  “That wasn’t just friendship. And I can’t pretend it was!”

One hand on the handle. The other hangs loose at his side, like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like he’s still waiting, hoping. One more beat. One more breath. One more—

He takes your silence as an answer. 

“I never asked you for anything,” Soobin says quietly. His voice is hoarse now, ragged around the edges. “Not back then. Not when you stopped talking to me. Not even when you came back and looked at me like you forgot how.”

You freeze.

He doesn't turn around. His voice is all you get now—low, tired, but laced with something sharp and real.

“I didn’t ask for closure. I didn’t ask for an explanation. I didn’t ask for you to make it make sense. I waited.”

Your throat tightens.

“I waited for you to understand your own feelings on your own. I told myself I’d be okay with whatever you gave me, even if it was just friendship, even if it hurt.”

His hand curls tighter around the doorknob.

“But don’t you dare pretend like this is only about me wanting to give something up,” he says, and now his voice shakes. “You’re scared of asking for anything—and you’ve convinced yourself that pushing me away is some kind of mercy.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry.

“You’re not protecting me,” he says. “You’re punishing yourself.”

The words hit so hard it feels like they echo.

“I would’ve stayed,” he murmurs, almost to himself now. “I would’ve stayed in a second if you asked.”

And then—finally—he turns.

Eyes red. Mouth trembling, even in silence.

“But you never do.”

The door opens. Cold air rushes in. And this time, when it shuts, there’s no pause. No hesitation. Just finality.

And you—

You stand there.

Alone.

And the silence that follows isn't just quiet. It's empty. It's the sound of everything you've swallowed down crashing all at once—grief, guilt, want, love.

You slide down the wall, hands pressed to your mouth like you can hold it all in. Like you can stop it from flooding out.

But you can’t.

Because for the first time, you realize—

You didn’t just lose him. You let him go. 

Again. 

And that might be worse.

—-

The house felt emptier than usual. But maybe that was because everything inside had been packed away.

Three months had passed. 

The walls were bare now—no pictures, no post-it reminders in your mother’s handwriting. Just the echo of the sounds of slow mornings and kettle whistles, the rustle of laundry. Now it was all cardboard boxes and silence.

You stood in what used to be the living room, a single envelope in your hand—the keys. Final, cold, weightless in your palm.

The funeral had been quiet. She would’ve wanted it that way.

You still weren’t sure if the tears you cried were from the loss or the months that led up to it. That slow unraveling. The way her hands started shaking. The way she stopped recognizing your face in the last few days. The way everything else—the memories, Soobin, that night—blurred at the edges under the weight of grief.

There hadn’t been time to mourn just one thing.

You pressed your fingers against your eyes. Breathe in deep.

You had signed the lease to your new apartment in the city a week ago. A tiny studio. Just enough for one person and whatever version of herself she was becoming. You hadn’t told anyone. Not even the people who had drifted in and out of your life over the past few months like waves—well-meaning, but never staying long enough to hold onto.

Especially not Soobin.

You hadn't spoken since that night.

He’d left without saying goodbye. Just like he said he would if you didn’t ask.

And you hadn’t.

You told yourself it was for the best. That he had his career, his world, his spotlight. That you were too tired, too broken, too much to ask anyone to stay.

But in the quiet moments—when the hospital corridors emptied, when the rooms of this house grew quieter and quieter—you thought about him.

About the way his voice cracked when he said “You’re not protecting me. You’re punishing yourself.” About the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that felt like home.

And now, with the only home you’d ever known gone, you wondered what it would feel like to see him again. If it was too late. If it had always been too late. Your phone buzzed. A moving company reminder. You pocketed the keys, looked around one last time, and walked out the front door, locking it behind you.

Not looking back.

—

You’d been unpacking all day.

The new apartment was still hollow around the edges—boxes half-unpacked, shelves empty, curtains barely hanging by borrowed command hooks. It didn’t feel like home yet. Not really. But you were trying. One drawer at a time.

You tugged open a beat-up shoebox from the closet, not remembering what was in it. The lid gave a soft creak, and inside: mostly junk. Old receipts. A cracked phone case. A bracelet you’d thought you’d lost.

And underneath it all—

A photograph.

Your breath caught.

It was a picture of you and Soobin. One of the few that had ever been printed. You were younger. Smiling. He had his arm slung around your shoulder, laughing at something off-camera. Your cheeks were flushed, his head tilted toward you like he couldn’t help it.

You remembered the moment. Not the joke, not the photographer—but the feeling. Warm and thoughtless and easy.

You stared for a second too long before something slipped free from the folded edge of the photo.

A ticket.

Crisp. Untouched. Front row. 

Your heart dropped. How did this get mixed up with these?

You recognized the date immediately—it was for the show he never told you about. The one he’d planned to surprise you with. The one that would’ve happened just days after the fight.

Your throat closed. The paper felt like fire in your hands.

On the back of the ticket, in his handwriting—neat but a little rushed:

“Hope you’ll come. I saved this for you. —Binnie”

You sat down hard on the floor, the cardboard edge of the box pressing into your ankle. You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Because this wasn’t just a ticket.

It was a maybe. A what if.

A version of the story that didn’t end in slammed doors and silence. You thought you’d buried all this with the move. That packing up the house, the grief, the memories, would be enough. But here it was—alive again. Right in your lap.

And suddenly the space around you didn’t feel so empty. It felt haunted.

By his voice.

By his last words. 

“You’re what I want now.”

And god, wasn’t that the problem?

Because maybe you’d wanted him, too. Maybe you still did. And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t ready to let that be the end. 

You stare at the concert ticket in your hand like it might dissolve. The paper is a little worn, soft around the edges—tucked inside the photo frame behind that picture of him grinning with your hand squishing his cheek. You don’t even remember putting it there.

But he did.

The date on the ticket hits you like a slow punch to the chest—it’s for the week after your fight. Which means months have passed since then. Months since you last saw him. Since either of you said anything that wasn’t left hanging in silence.

You reach for your phone before you can talk yourself out of it, fingers moving on autopilot as you pull up the group’s official website. The tour page loads slowly, and you skim over the dates with your heart in your throat.

And then, there it is. As if fate—or something crueler—had a hand in it, the band is launching their world tour.

Starting in Seoul.

You sit back on your heels, chest tightening. Maybe you weren’t the only one hoping you’d change your mind. Maybe you weren’t the only one who left something unsaid.

You thumb over the edges of the ticket, heart racing.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, you tap the call button. 

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end is warm. Familiar.

“Hey,” you say softly. “I know this is kind of random but… are you still into concerts?”

Your old friend laughs. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

“…Wanna come to one with me?”

There’s a pause. “Is this—wait. Is this your first K-pop concert?” She squealed. “Just who exactly made you suddenly wanna lose your K-card?!”

You don’t say yes. You don’t say who.

But the silence speaks loud enough.

—

The venue was bigger than you thought. Vast and buzzing, like it had a pulse of its own. Lights blurred overhead in dizzy halos—neon pinks, electric blues—casting everything in a dreamlike glow. Bodies pressed close in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with anticipation and perfume and sugar and something sharper—something that smelled like adrenaline and nerves.

You stood off to the side, tucked into a spot with a decent view of the stage but far enough from the center that you wouldn't be swallowed by the chaos. You weren’t trying to be seen. Not by the crowd, anyway.

You’d change outfits three times before settling on something simple but quietly flattering—nothing loud, but something that felt like you on a good day. Not because you wanted attention.

Because you wanted to feel like you were enough.  Enough to be here. Enough to see him again.

Your friend bounced beside you, wide-eyed and electric, already filming short clips on her phone and pointing at the light rig with a gasp every time it shifted. She had no idea what this meant to you. None of them did. You weren’t even sure you knew anymore.

The ticket—creased, worn soft along the folds—sat in your jacket pocket, right over your heart. The one he’d left for you. The one you’d found months later, tucked between the pages of a book you hadn’t touched since he left. You hadn’t told anyone. Not even her.

You told yourself this was for closure. That you were here to prove something—to yourself, maybe. That you could see him again. That you could stand in this place, surrounded by everything he’d become, and not fall apart.

Just once, to say you did it. Just to know it was real.

The lights dimmed.

And the crowd screamed.

The sound hit you in the chest like a wave, a thousand voices crashing all at once. The stage lit up in pieces—spotlights cutting through the dark like stars waking up one by one.

You held your breath. And waited.

Because he was coming.

And you didn’t know what would hurt more—if he looked for you. 

Or if he didn’t.

The lights pulsed with the beat, the music building like a wave ready to break. Then the band stepped onto the stage, moving in perfect sync—their energy electric, alive.

And there, among them, was Soobin. His hair caught a flash of light—not the deep shade you remembered, but blonde now, the kind that shimmered under the spotlights. It suited the version of him the world knew. The idol. The leader. The one who’d just returned from hiatus to thunderous applause.

But it wasn’t the new look that got to you.

It was the look in his eyes.

Not the way they sparkled on screen. Not the fanservice smile he threw into the crowd like confetti.

No—under all of that, there was something else. A heaviness in the way he moved. A subtle delay in how he turned, how he held his mic like it was heavier than it should be. The others were all fire and ease, but Soobin—he looked like he was carrying something under his skin that didn’t belong there. Something only you could see.

No one else noticed. The crowd screamed, and phones lit the darkness like stars, all of them watching the stage with hearts in their throats. But your eyes were fixed on the quietest thing about him—the shadow behind the shine.

He looked… tired. Not just physically. Not just jet lag or the weight of performance.

Tired, despite returning from a break a few months ago. It was the kind of tiredness that lingers in the corner of your smile and settles in your shoulders. The kind you don’t talk about unless someone asks in exactly the right way.

And no one would ask. Not here.

But you saw it. You felt it. And that did something to you.

Your breath hitched. He turned slightly—just a tilt of his head, the way he always did when he was scanning the crowd, like part of him was still looking for something. Someone. His eyes moved across the sea of faces and—somehow—they landed on yours.

It didn’t last more than a second. But it was enough.

The roar dulled to a hum in your ears. The bass, the screaming, the chaos—all of it faded. Because the way he looked at you wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t a fanservice glance, or a moment meant for the cameras.

It was… recognition.

For a moment, everything else blurred into silence and shadow. The crowd’s roar faded to a distant hum. The lights softened, the noise dulled, and all you could see was him.

His gaze steady, searching. Vulnerable, almost.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your throat went dry, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The moment your eyes met—brief, electric—something inside you shifted, unraveling the neat story you’d been telling yourself for years.

You realized, with a sudden, sinking clarity, that you never really saw him as just a friend. Not truly.

Not when you were kids running through backyards and secret forts, laughing under the sun like nothing else mattered. Not when you were teenagers stealing glances and exchanging words half-spoken, tangled in moments you’d long since buried under excuses and distractions.

You were too busy—too caught up in everything else—to notice how your heart had quietly rewritten the rules all along. The late-night talks that lingered longer than they should. The way his laugh caught your attention more than anyone else’s. The way his presence filled spaces you didn’t realize were empty.

You’d called it friendship because it was simpler. Because admitting anything else felt too fragile, too dangerous. But here, now, watching him move beneath the stage lights—hair catching the glow, eyes sharp and searching—you knew.

This was never just friendship.

And maybe it never would be. The music swelled around you, but inside, everything had gone quiet.

You folded the truth carefully, like a secret you weren’t sure you were ready to share—even with yourself. Because sometimes the hardest thing isn’t letting go. It’s finally seeing what you never allowed yourself to see.

And realizing that what you want most might be something you’ve been waiting for all along. 

—

The show ended in a blur of lights and noise, the final chord ringing through the venue like a heartbeat. The band stood center stage, bowing, waving, smiling like they hadn’t just poured every ounce of themselves into the last two hours. 

Except Soobin. He smiled too, bowed, waved like he was supposed to—but you saw it. The flicker. The disconnect. Like he was running on autopilot. Like part of him never left the wings.

The lights came up. Your friend grabbed your arm, practically bouncing in place. “That was insane, oh my god—did you see when Soobin winked? I swear he looked right at me!”

You gave a tight-lipped smile. Nodded. You couldn’t speak. Not without unraveling.

She was already unlocking her phone, filming the last bursts of confetti raining down like snow. “We have to beat the merch line,” she said, tugging at your wrist. “Come on—before they run out of the good stuff!” 

“I’ll catch up,” you said, too fast. “I… forgot something.”

She blinked, barely glancing up. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just—go.” She hesitated, but the lure of limited edition hoodies was stronger than concern. “Okay, but don’t disappear, alright?”

You nodded. Watched her fade into the crowd. And then you were alone.

Not really. Thousands of people still filed out around you. Security guards waved glow sticks, vendors shouted, screens still flashed promo clips above the stage.

But somehow, in the space where your friend had stood, a strange calm settled. Like everything had been waiting for this moment. Like the noise was fading into something you could finally hear underneath it all. 

You slipped down a different corridor—toward the side exit. Not planned. Not even really thought out. Just felt.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he hadn’t even seen you. Maybe this was you spiraling over a look that meant nothing.

But maybe not. Because there’d been something in the way his gaze had paused. The same way it used to—when you were younger. When you were his person.

And maybe, just maybe, part of him still looked for you in every crowd. So you waited.

Outside, the air was sharp with cold and leftover adrenaline. You leaned against a railing near the staff exit, tucked just out of sight, the city buzz pressing in at the edges.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for.

Closure? Confirmation? Or maybe… maybe for the one person who might actually see you back.

And if he didn’t come? You’d pretend it was never about him in the first place.

But if he did—

You didn’t let yourself finish that thought.

Not yet.

You didn’t know how long you stood there—alone in the cold, your heart punching behind your ribs like it had unfinished business. The crowd had thinned. Fans scattered, laughing and buzzing, holding bags of merchandise like victory trophies. But the staff exit remained guarded. Closed. Untouchable.

Still, you stayed. Maybe you were being stupid.

You turned the concert wristband over and over on your arm, your thumb brushing the faded ink. Soobin had seen you. He had. You weren’t making that up. That look hadn’t been a coincidence.

And if it was…

You couldn’t leave without knowing.

Driven by something you couldn’t name, you stepped forward. Toward the nearest staff member—a young guy in a black hoodie and earpiece, standing by the side gate. He looked bored. Tired. Probably on hour ten of being yelled at by teenage girls.

You swallowed your pride.

“Hi,” you said, voice calm. Too calm. “I just—I need to talk to someone from the band. Please.”

He blinked. Raised a brow. “You and about a hundred other people tonight.”

“I’m not—” you faltered, but powered through. “I’m not trying to sneak backstage or anything. I just need—just one minute. With Soobin.”

That did it. His expression shifted from neutral to mildly annoyed. “Look, I get it. You’re a fan. You’re not the first one to try this.”

You stepped closer, desperate now. “I know him.”

His look turned skeptical. “Everyone thinks they know him.”

“I do!” The word cracked out of you before you could stop it, rawer than you meant. You tried to reel it back in, but your throat was already tightening. “Please. Just tell him I’m here. He’ll—he’ll know.”

The guy sighed, already turning away. “Sorry, we can’t—”

“…Wait.”

The voice cut through the shuffle of feet and security orders like a pin to a balloon.

You looked up.

And there—just past the blur of guards and equipment cases—stood a man, hoodie up, mask dangling from one ear, brow furrowed as he squinted in your direction.

You hadn’t seen him in person before. Just a few clips and the occasional fan edits. 

But right now?

He just looked… confused. And then—

His eyes widened.

“No fucking way,” he muttered, coming to a full stop. “Is that—?”

A nearby staff tried to usher him forward. “Yeonjun, please—”

Yeonjun held up a hand without even looking. “Hang on.” He pointed—right at you. “You. Come here.”

Your feet didn’t move. He blinked at you again, as if to make sure you were real. “Holy shit. It’s actually you.”

The staff member at the gate hesitated, torn between obeying orders and the man currently breaking protocol like it was breathing.

Yeonjun sighed and waved his hand again. “She’s fine. She’s not some sasaeng or whatever—she’s, like, a fossil from Soobin’s past or something.”

You winced. “Fossil?”

He grinned a little, stepping closer as the gate creaked open just enough to let you pass. “Hey, I’m shocked too. What are you doing here? Did Soobin finally DM you after months of brooding in silence?”

You stepped through, still dazed. “You know me?”

Yeonjun gave you a look. “Are you kidding? You were, like, the main character of his pre-debut sob story. You think we don’t all know who you are?”

Your stomach flipped.

“Come on,” he said, turning and motioning for you to follow. “He’s still inside changing. I’ll bring you.”

You blinked. “Now?”

Yeonjun smirked. “You flew under the radar this long. I say let’s freak him out a little.”

You followed him down the corridor, nerves crawling up your spine. The noise of the stadium had faded behind you, replaced with the hum of overhead lights and the low buzz of post-show energy in the halls. And your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Because if Yeonjun recognized you instantly—

What was Soobin going to do when he saw you?

And more terrifying—what were you going to say?

—

Yeonjun walked ahead of you, casual like this was just another Tuesday. But your heart pounded like it knew the truth—that this wasn’t ordinary. This was a moment years in the making. A moment that had lived in silence and distance and every what-if you’d buried.

He paused outside a door.

“Wait here,” he said, turning to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Gotta give the guy a fair warning before he passes out.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already through the door.

Muffled voices. A brief shuffle. A half-laugh. Then—silence.

Then the door creaked open again.

“Go ahead,” Yeonjun said, voice low now, more serious. “He’s in there.”

You stepped in slowly.

The dressing room was brighter than you expected—clean, quiet, still humming faintly from the adrenaline of the show. A couple of bags were strewn near a couch. Makeup wipes and water bottles littered the counter.

And then—there.

Soobin stood in front of the mirror, half in his jacket, half out of it. His blonde hair was slightly damp near the nape, his cheeks still flushed from performing, eyes rimmed with a leftover haze of makeup.

He turned slowly. As if he felt you before he saw you.

And then he froze.

Completely.

You couldn’t breathe.

Neither could he.

His jacket slipped off one shoulder, forgotten.

“…You’re here,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. Your voice caught in your throat. “I am.”

He didn’t move. His eyes searched yours like he was still trying to convince himself you were real—like you might vanish again if he blinked too long.

“I thought—” His voice cracked slightly. He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d actually come to one of these.”

“I didn’t either,” you said honestly.

That made his lips twitch, just barely. A bitter, quiet kind of smile. “So why did you?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him.

The Soobin who tried too hard to make you laugh when you were sad. The one who waited for a sign from you that never came.

And the one who stood in front of you now—taller, broader, his voice deeper, his presence heavier. Someone adored by millions.

But still yours. Still him.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I guess I stopped pretending it didn’t matter.”

Something in him cracked then—visibly. His shoulders softened, his jaw loosened, and for a moment he looked like the version of himself you thought you’d lost.

“I waited,” he said, voice barely steady. “I waited so long for you to just… say something.”

“I know.”

“I thought that would be the last time I’d see you again.”

“It wasn’t.”

He nodded slowly, looking down at the floor like it held the answer to everything. And then you stepped forward. Quiet. Careful.

Soobin looked up just in time to see you reach for him. You weren’t sure who moved first—your arms or his—but suddenly you were holding him, or maybe he was holding you, and it didn’t matter because it was real.

His arms wrapped around you tight, his head dropping to your shoulder like he’d been holding something in for years.

“You’re really here,” he whispered again, voice shaky. You nodded into the space between you, your hand curling into the back of his jacket. “I should’ve been sooner.”

“I don’t care.” His grip tightened. “Just—don’t go yet.”

You didn’t answer. You just stayed there. Two hearts pressed close after too long apart.

The room around you faded. The years between you fell silent.

And when he finally pulled back—just enough to see your face—his eyes were glassy, lips parted like he had a thousand things to say and no idea where to start.

But all he said was, “I missed you.”

And you—aching, breathless, wide open now—said, “I missed you more than I ever let myself admit.”

You leaned back enough to see him fully, your heart still caught somewhere between your throat and your ribs. And when your eyes met again, you saw it—bare, unguarded.

Soobin swallowed hard. His voice came out low.

“I used to picture this, you know.”

Your brows pulled together, confused. “Picture what?”

“You. At one of our shows.” His lips twitched, like he almost laughed but couldn’t find the humor. “For a long time, I told myself it didn’t matter. That you were busy. Or not into the music. Or just… not thinking about me.”

Your chest clenched.

He shook his head slightly, his voice thick now. “But every time we went to a new city, every time I walked on stage, part of me looked for you anyway. Stupid, right?”

You opened your mouth to say something—but he beat you to it.

“I think… it’s what kept me going,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “The hope that maybe one day, you’d be there. Just once. That I’d look out into the crowd and—see you.”

Your throat went dry.

“I wasn’t expecting tonight,” he continued. “And when I saw you—I thought maybe I was hallucinating.”

“You weren’t,” you whispered.

He gave a soft, sad laugh. “I figured. You’ve never haunted my imagination that vividly.”

You reached for his hand without thinking, squeezing gently. He looked down at where your fingers curled into his like he didn’t believe it. Like he thought he’d dreamed this whole thing up in the back of a van somewhere on tour.

But when he looked up again, the vulnerability in his eyes had shifted into something heavier. Sharper.

“I heard about your mom,” he said quietly.

The words land like a slow drop into a deep well. Echoing. Heavy.

You blink. The fluorescent light overhead suddenly feels too bright. Too loud.

“She…” His voice wavers. “My mom called me. After the funeral.”

You don’t know what to say. You just look at him.

“I wanted to go back,” he says. “So badly.”

You still don’t speak, and he rushes to fill the silence—like it’s unbearable.

“I asked,” he says. “I begged, actually. Just a couple days. I didn’t care if it meant missing rehearsals or interviews. I just—I thought maybe if I showed up, you wouldn’t have to stand there alone.”

Your heart aches at the image. You, at the edge of a grave. Him, halfway across the world, fighting against something he couldn’t control.

He swallows hard.

“But it was right in the middle of comeback prep. We were shooting back-to-back. And I was already behind from the hiatus and—”

His words break off. His jaw tightens like he’s holding back something he can’t afford to spill.

“They said no,” he finally says. “Flat out. No travel. No delay. No exceptions.”

You stare at the floor. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” he says. Then, softer: “But it felt like it was.”

Something in you splinters. Because you remember the hours spent staring at your front door after the funeral. Hoping. Wishing. Wondering if he even knew.

“I thought about texting,” he says after a pause, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. “So many times.”

You breathe out slowly, the tightness in your chest aching.

“I had your number memorized,” he continues, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Kept opening your contact… then closing it before I could.”

Your voice falters as you ask, “Why didn’t you?”

He looks at you with quiet, steady eyes—no blame, no bitterness—just honest sadness.

“Because you pushed me away,” he says softly.

The words land heavier than you expected—not harsh, just true. And the way he says them… it’s like he’s still trying to understand it himself.

“You stopped talking to me,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “After that night… you never reached out.”

You swallow hard, the memory tightening painfully in your throat.  “I thought you regretted it,” he continues softly, almost like he’s afraid to say it aloud. “Maybe I showed you a side of me that scared you.”

There’s a deep exhaustion in his voice—not anger, just the weariness of someone who’s waited a long time for answers.

“And when I heard about your mom,” he says quietly, “I thought maybe none of that mattered anymore. That I should’ve reached out.”

He breathes out, uneven and soft.

“But then I start to remember everything again, I start overthinking the parts where everything might’ve went wrong.”

You close your eyes, a wave of shame and regret beginning to overwhelm you.

“I wanted you there,” you whisper, voice breaking.

“I wanted to be there,” he says, barely audible.

“But I didn’t think I deserved it,” you confess, voice trembling. “Not after everything I did. Or didn’t do.”

He takes a slow, careful step forward—just enough to close the distance between you. His voice is low, tender, filled with something that makes your chest pull tight.

“I would’ve come in a heartbeat,” he says quietly. “Even if you’d slammed the door in my face. I just needed to know… that you wanted me.”

Your breath catches. But even as the warmth of his words wraps around you, something sharp twists inside.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For pushing you away. For not saying anything. For disappearing when you were the last person who deserved that.”

He opens his mouth, but you shake your head gently, not done.

“When I saw you tonight. Up there,” you say, voice cracking just a little. “And I kept thinking… you looked tired. Even after all this time off. And I know it’s stupid, I know I’m probably just imagining it, but—”

You swallow hard.

“I couldn’t stop thinking… what if it’s my fault? What if I’m the reason you still look like that?”

His eyes soften in a way that makes it harder to breathe. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t rush to tell you you’re wrong. He just closes the last bit of space between you and reaches up—slowly, deliberately—like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

His fingers brush your cheek. Warm. Solid. Real.

“You’re not the reason,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “But you’ve always mattered. That’s the difference.”

Your chest caves in a little at that, like something heavy inside you just gave out. But it’s not pain this time—it’s relief. The ache of being seen. The beginning of forgiveness.

“Do you?” he asks softly. “Want me?”

You nod, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

And this time, there’s nothing in the way. No excuses. No silence.

Just the truth, finally spoken.

And him—still standing right in front of you, waiting. Still choosing you.

You take a shaky breath, finally letting the words tumble out, raw and trembling.

“I’ve always wanted you,” you admit, voice small but steady. “More than just a friend. But I pushed you away—so many times—that I can’t blame you if you wanted to move on.”

Your eyes flicker down, too ashamed to meet his.

“I was scared… scared that if I let myself want you, I’d lose you like everything else I cared about. Like my mom. Like everything I tried to hold onto.”

You take a shaky breath, words spilling faster now, like something long dammed-up finally cracking.

“I thought if I stayed quiet, if I kept you at arm’s length, I could keep you safe from… whatever it is that keeps breaking the things I love. I know it’s not rational. I know it’s not fair. But I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to risk you.”

Your voice breaks, and still, you go on.

“And I know that’s selfish, and cowardly, and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for it. If you stopped waiting. If you found someone who wasn’t—”

“Stop,” he says suddenly, softly—but firm enough that it halts the spiral cold.

Your eyes snap up to him, breath caught in your chest.

He steps in, closing the space between you, his hands warm where they hold your face now, steadying you.

“It’s always going to be you,” he says quietly. No hesitation. No uncertainty.

“Whether you say it back or not. Whether you need time or space or silence. Whether it hurts sometimes,” he adds, his voice a little rough now, eyes shining with something raw and unwavering, “it’s still you.”

You shake your head, backing away half a step as the panic starts to claw up your throat.

“You don’t get it,” you whisper. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Soobin watches you carefully, but you keep going—voice rising, cracking, tripping over itself.

“You’re surrounded by people who shine, Soobin. People who fit in your world. People who are beautiful and talented and full of ambition, and I’m just—” You bite your lip, blinking hard. “I’m not like them. I’ve never been like them.”

Your hands twist at your sides, fists clenched with everything unsaid.

“I get tired. I shut down. I ruin things before they can matter. And I don’t say the right things, and I mess up when it counts. I push people away, and I don’t know how to fix it when they’re gone.”

You pause, breath shaking. His silence doesn’t feel like judgment—but it still terrifies you.

“You deserve someone who wants the spotlight with you,” you say, softer now. “Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get hard. Someone who doesn’t freeze or fall apart. I’m not that. I never was.”

You look down, unable to meet his eyes anymore. “No matter how much we want each other, in my heart I know I could never be that perfect one for you. ”

For a moment, there’s only your breathing—and then, his.

Slow. Steady.

Then Soobin takes a step forward, closing the space again, and lifts your chin with careful fingers until your eyes meet his.

His gaze is calm, but resolute. No doubt. No hesitation.

“I didn’t wait for perfect,” he says gently. “I waited for you.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t care if you’re messy. Or scared. Or still figuring things out,” he continues, voice low and sure. “I’m not asking you to be anyone else. I never was.”

You try to look away again, but his hands frame your face now, soft but certain.

“I know who you are,” he whispers. “And I’ve always wanted you anyway.”

And somehow, that breaks you more than anything else.

Because he sees the worst of you—and still stays.

And maybe that’s what love really is.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Your throat tightens too hard to speak, and suddenly the tears you’ve been holding back break free—hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks before you can stop them.

“I love you,” you choke out, barely able to breathe through it. “God, Soobin, I really love you.”

It shatters the air between you.

He goes still for half a heartbeat, like the words hit him square in the chest.

Then something in his face cracks open. The emotion that floods his expression is raw—soft, overwhelmed, and fiercely tender all at once. His eyes shine like he’s holding back his own tears now, lips parted like he’s trying to remember how to speak.

And then he does.

“I love you too,” he breathes, like it’s the only thing that’s ever been true.

“I’ve always loved you.”

He says it like a promise, not a confession. Like it’s something he’s been carrying quietly, carefully, waiting for the day you’d believe it.

His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your tear-streaked cheeks as if trying to wipe away years of pain, of silence, of almosts.

“I would’ve said it back then,” he murmurs, forehead resting gently against yours. “A thousand times. If I thought you were ready to hear it.”

This was the kind of love that waits in the dark. That doesn’t vanish, even when it's pushed away. That sees your mess and stays anyway.

And now, finally, you're not running.

You’re letting yourself be held.

His hand lingers on your face, warm and steady, as if he’s anchoring you to this moment—right here, right now. Slowly, he leans in, just enough for his breath to brush your skin. Your pulse quickens, the space between you charged with something unspoken and electric.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you close the distance the rest of the way, resting your forehead against his. It’s a gentle connection, fragile but full of meaning.

His fingers slide from your cheek down to cradle the back of your neck, his touch careful and reverent—as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

You breathe him in, the subtle warmth of his skin, the faint scent of soap and something uniquely him. Then, soft and slow, his lips find yours—tentative at first, asking permission. When you respond, his kiss deepens slightly, not rushed, just savoring the closeness.

You let your hands find his waist, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the reality of him. The world outside fades away. It’s just you and him, two hearts quietly beating in sync, finally allowing everything that’s been held back to start unfolding.

Just as the two of you start to relax into the quiet happiness between you, the soft click of the door opening breaks the spell.

A staff member peeks in, clearing their throat softly. “Soobin, it’s time to get dressed for the send-off.”

He sighs, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he glances at you.

“Duty calls. This heartthrob’s got to get back to work.” he says, voice low but warm.

You nod, a little breathless, reluctant to let go of the moment.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, breaths mingling, hearts pounding — and then, suddenly, the tension breaks.

Soobin lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe this is real.

“You’re such a dork,” you say, grinning, cheeks flushed.

“Hey, I could say the same about you,” he shoots back, eyes twinkling.

You both start giggling — quiet at first, then louder, the sound bubbling up and filling the space between you.

Your hands still rest on his waist, but now they fidget, nervous and excited.

“So,” he says, still smiling, “does this mean we’re officially done with the silent treatment?”

You nod, laughing again. “Yeah. I think I owe you a million apologies. And maybe a hot pot to make up for it.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he grins, reaching for your hand and giving it a playful squeeze.

You squeeze back, heart fluttering—and then narrow your eyes. “Also, just so we’re clear… if I ever see you letting anyone out there touch your hair or your dimples, I will start swinging.”

He raises a brow, amused. “Noted.”

You poke at his chest. “You’re mine now.”

That grin spreads again—wide, soft, and smug all at once. “I’ve always been yours.”

You blink, thrown for a second.

He shrugs, eyes twinkling. “If you actually listened to my interviews instead of just staring at my face, you’d know that.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse you—”

“You were definitely just watching for the jawline.”

“Oh my God—”

“Or maybe the hands?”

You swat at him, giggling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” he says, catching your wrist gently and pulling you close again, “are exactly who I was hoping to make out with tonight.”

You’re smiling so wide it hurts. Laughing and warm and completely undone by him.

A soft knock interrupts the moment—this time more urgent.

Soobin glances toward the door, then back at you with a crooked smile and a sigh. “Okay, okay, I’m really going this time.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

But just as he reaches the door, he turns back one last time.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says gently. “Promise.”

There’s something soft and serious in the way he says it. Like he needs you to believe it—like he’s saying more than just a goodbye.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

He grins again, slower this time, then leans halfway out the door before popping back in, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Oh—and if you get bored,” he adds, “you’re allowed to wander. But only a little.”

“Wander?” you echo.

He shrugs, stepping into the hallway. “Just don’t go too far. I wanna find you right where I left you.”

And with that, he disappears behind the door, swept away by the hum of voices and the sound of his name being called.

You stay where you are, the smile still playing on your lips, hand still faintly warm from where he held it.

For the first time in forever, everything feels light.

And you let it.

thank you for reading, ill see you guys in july for txt cb! <3

[bintheredreamedthat]

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 | 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 : ̗̀➛

summary: when global idol Choi Soobin returns to his quiet hometown for an unexpected hiatus, the last thing you expect is to run into him—the boy you once shared everything with...until you cut him off without a word.

you swore you’d never let yourself want him again. he swore he’d stop waiting for you to look back. but this time, neither of you is quite ready to walk away.

cw: sub!soobin, dom!reader, idol!au, angsty!!, fluff, slow and i mean slowburn, friends to lovers, mentions of death, implied depression, mental health issues (pls take care of urselves), unprotected sex, smut, reader just can't process emotions well

wc: ~30k... forgive me...or love me idk....

i was really inspired by netflix's new kdrama called "our unwritten seoul" and their friendship to lovers dynamic but was also gobsmacked at txt's new tour dates announcement after writing this so...PERFECT :DDDD. this is basically both of those things. you can tell because of the humidifier mention. like bro it's so random.

part one | part two

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the space as sunlight filters through half-open blinds, casting a warm glow on the cluttered desk. You, dressed in a cozy sweater and gingham pajama pants, sit up right on your bed, losing track of time as you doom scroll on reels. Your cat, Peanut, curls up beside you, purring contentedly.

You pause, glancing at the clock—8:45 AM. With a sigh, you set your phone down and begin your morning routine which basically just consisted of just washing your face. As you make your way to your living room, you begin to tidy up last night’s dirty dishes that sat on top of the coffee table.

Your house is modest but filled with personal touches: framed illustrations, a collection of obscure game discs, and a bookshelf overflowing with novels.

After you get yourself dressed, you step outside for a walk, your sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic thuds. You pass by the local café, where the barista waves at you, and the bookstore, where you stop to browse the new arrivals of manga. Afterwards you take the bus to the nearby hospital. 

This had become your routine every Wednesday—a bit repetitive, perhaps, but it was what you enjoyed. The endless stretch of countryside outside your window had never been the life you envisioned in your twenties.

You had imagined a high-rise apartment in the city, a high-paying job, and a life surrounded by people who didn't know your name—all amidst the buzz of urban life. But circumstances have kept you here, in your hometown.

At first, the monotony felt suffocating. The same roads, the same faces, the same small-town rhythm. Yet, over time, you began to find comfort in the predictability.

The quiet mornings, the familiar greetings, the slower pace—it all started to feel like home. You had traded the city's chaos for the calm of rural life, and while it wasn't the life you had planned, it was a life you were learning to appreciate. In the simplicity of the countryside, you discovered a deeper connection to yourself and the world around you.

You hated it from time to time, sometimes cursing and beating yourself up for staying with what feels familiar, but what could you do? 

—

As you stepped into the sterile hospital corridor, the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the soft hum of distant conversations. With a sigh, you adjusted the strap of your bag and made your way to room 307. As you approached the door, you noticed it slightly ajar. 

Pushing the door open, you see your mother first, who seemingly is having a conversation with another person in the room. Upon opening it further, you found that it was your mother’s best friend, Mrs. Choi, sitting beside the bed and chatting animatedly, that was keeping your mother entertained. Mrs. Choi looked up, her face lighting up with recognition. 

“There you are!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat to lead you to your mother’s bed. Her eyes flicked to the bags of home-cooked food hanging from your elbow and the two iced Americanos wrapped around your hands. “Looks like your mom will be eating for two all week!” she teased, taking the bags from you and placing them alongside her own on the bedside table. 

You let out a soft laugh, extending your arm toward Mrs. Choi. "This is for you, Mrs. Choi. You must've gotten up early this morning." You bowed slightly, politely offering her the other coffee in your hands.

“Oh dear, it looks like I’ll be having a caffeine rush today!” She joked, which made your mother let out a laugh as well. You look at both of them confused, yet still wearing a smile on your face.

You see her lift up an almost empty cup of coffee, one that was exactly from the same place where you got yours. “Ahh~, I see…” Your murmur. Mrs. Choi already bought coffee for herself. 

You set the other coffee down by the bedside table and turned to your mother, who was propped up on the bed, flipping through a magazine you had gifted her last week. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

Your mother looked up, offering a reassuring smile. "Better now that you're here." You smiled, sliding your hand down her cheek, your heart melting at the tender moment you were sharing.

Just then, the door swung open, and a nurse entered for your mother's morning check-up. You stepped aside to let her pass and shared a glance with the two ladies inside the room before making your way out to the hallway.

You always left the room during these times, finding that you became queasy when you saw the numerous needles they attached to your mom and the way they conducted diagnostics as if she were a machine.

Sitting down on one of the seats outside your mom’s room, you pulled out your phone to respond to some emails and refresh your news feed. A new headline caught your eye: “TXT’s Soobin to Temporarily Halt Activities Due to Health Reasons.” Your stomach sank as you skimmed the preview.

Curious and concerned, you clicked the link and quickly scanned the article, completely unprepared for what you might read. The piece confirmed that he had recently visited the hospital after showing signs of being unwell. Medical staff had advised him to take time to rest and recover.

As a result, Soobin would be absent from several upcoming events, including big awards and fan events. You scrolled down, hoping for more news, more updates. And then you saw it. A handwritten letter from Soobin himself.

Reading his words, you felt a mix of emotions—concern for his well-being, admiration for his dedication, and a deep sense of connection to someone who had been a part of your childhood for so long, despite losing contact several years ago. 

The article had been published just two hours ago, but you knew that Mrs. Choi (and assuming your mother), was already aware of the news. Why they had kept it from you, you had some inkling.

The last time someone took a break for health reasons was your mom. The doctors had said she just needed some time to rest, that she was overworked and needed a break from physical labor.

The very next morning, she had gotten a fever, and her sickness never went away—just slowly eating her up from the inside out. You had been so young then, too young to understand the gravity of it all. Now, as an adult, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. 

Soobin, your childhood friend—the person who had unknowingly been your anchor during the darkest times, was now facing his own battle. And you were left here, unable to support him or ask how he was even doing. 

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes and letting out a deep sigh. As you relished the silence of the sterile hallways, the occasional sound of footsteps and doors opening and closing punctuated the stillness. 

Then, you felt it—the unmistakable presence of someone standing before you. Without lowering your head, you slowly opened one eye, cautiously scanning your surroundings.

What you never expected was the very man whose face you had seen on your phone less than five minutes ago—standing there, staring down at you.

You jolted upright, your phone nearly slipping from your lap. Rubbing your eyes, you looked up at the man standing before you, his presence both unexpected and surreal. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the impossibility of it. But why would he be here? What reason could he have? The stress of the past week—no, the past months—had taken its toll. You wondered if this was just another symptom of your exhaustion, a moment of derealization. 

But this felt different. This felt real.

—

TWELVE YEARS AGO

It was a hot summer afternoon, the kind where the sun sat high up on the horizon, casting its hot rays over the neighborhood. The summer fair was in full swing, with the distinct smell of water from popped balloons hitting the pavement and street foods wafting through the air. Children darted between booths, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of pop music.

You and Soobin, inseparable since you were both knee-high and full of dreams, strolled leisurely through the fairgrounds. Your hands brushed now and then—not quite holding, but never far apart. Every few steps, you pointed excitedly at something: a glittering ring toss booth, a caricature artist drawing wide-eyed portraits, a balloon animal vendor with a long line of sticky-handed kids. The scent of nostalgia hung thick in the air, and the moment felt impossibly alive.

Then you saw it: the talent show sign-up booth, marked by a colorful hand-painted sign fluttering in the breeze. A flyer, curling at the edges. "Are you sure?" he hesitated, his usual confidence "Absolutely!" you insisted, grabbing the pen and signing both your names.

The day of the talent show arrived, and nerves set in. You and Soobin had decided to perform a duet—his favorite song at the time, "Twinkle," by Girls' Generation. You had practiced tirelessly, but now, standing backstage, doubt crept in.

"I can't do this," Soobin whispered, his usual smile replaced by a nervous frown.

“I’ll buy you endless Kara merch if you do,” You placed your hands on his shoulders, shaking him like a soda can. “Seriously. Light sticks. Albums. Posters. Even that ridiculous towel.” A beat passed—and then, like magic, his eyes lit up. “Really?”

You watched as Soobin sat up straighter at the mention of the girl group and you couldn't help but let out a huff at how easily he was convinced. “Wow...” You shook your head, exasperated. “Remind me to never call you if I get kidnapped.”

Soobin looked up at you with furrowed brows, as if genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

“They’d probably ask for your merch in exchange for me. Knowing you, you'd choose the merch.” He smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course.”

His nonchalance only fueled your annoyance. Without missing a beat, you grabbed him in a playful headlock, ruffling his hair. “Idiot,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

When your names were called, you stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding you momentarily. The audience's murmurs faded into a distant hum as the music began. Soobin's voice filled the air, and your nerves melted away. You sang your heart out, treating the talent show as if it were just a playful karaoke session. Soobin, however, seemed to belong on that stage. When the final note faded, the crowd erupted into applause—parents, teens, kids, strangers all clapping like they’d just watched something special.

You turned to Soobin.

He stood there, beaming, the mic still clutched in both hands like a prized possession. Then, without a trace of shyness, he bowed. A real bow. You stared for a moment—because in that instant, he wasn��t just your goofy best friend. He looked like someone born to be on that stage.

You stepped back, letting him shine.

That performance became a cherished memory, a testament to your friendship and Soobin's budding talent. Little did you know, that day planted the seed for his future in music.

–

“You're back.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, more a whisper to yourself than a question to him.

Soobin stood in front of you, barely resembling the old version of him that you always saw him as. Just his outfit alone–meticulously chosen, each piece exuding a quiet luxury. It wasn’t something you thought you’d see him in in a million years. You were accustomed to seeing him in school uniforms, always looking youthful despite being six months older than you. But the Soobin now before you was undeniably an adult.

His gaze swept over you, lingering just a moment too long. "You look..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Different."

The simplicity of his statement stung more than you expected. You had changed, hadn't you? But had it been for the better? You met his gaze, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the fluttering in your chest. "You look horrible yourself, too," you teased, trying to mask the unease creeping in.

Soobin chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, yet distant. "Fair enough," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. You wanted to ask him everything—about his life, his experiences, the years that had passed—but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you stood there, two people who once shared everything, now separated by time and circumstance. Soobin shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been a while," he said softly.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "A while."

The soft click-clack of the nurse’s cart rolling outside your mom’s room broke the comfortable silence between you and Soobin. Only then did you notice the small electronic device in his hands—so tiny it looked almost out of place in his grasp.

“Humidifier?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s a gift... for your mom. I went and filled it up with some water” he said shyly, as if embarrassed to be seen with such a thoughtful gesture. You couldn't help but smile at his bashfulness. “She’ll love it,” you reassured him, nudging him gently toward the door.

As you both entered the room, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the soft beeping of medical equipment filled the air. Your mom looked up, her face lighting up at the sight of you and Soobin together, briefly exchanging glances with Mrs. Choi. 

“Look who’s here,” you said, your voice filled with warmth. 

“I already saw him, honey,” she said with a playful smile, her voice tinged with that familiar teasing warmth, then gestured toward the table beside her, where several bags were neatly stacked. “He helped bring those in earlier,” she added, nodding toward the tall figure behind you. 

You looked behind at Soobin, who was already crouched near the wall, carefully plugging the humidifier into the outlet. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, the soft fabric of his sweater bunching at the elbows as he adjusted the cord, making sure it didn’t tangle with the IV stand nearby. He handled everything with the kind of quiet precision you’d come to associate with him—gentle, but steady. 

The little device gave a soft mechanical hum as it came to life, a faint mist beginning to rise from the spout. Soobin straightened up, brushing his hands together as if completing a sacred task, then glanced at your mom with a nervous half-smile.

"I set it to low," he murmured. "So it won't be too much, just enough to keep the air from feeling dry."

Your mom tilted her head toward the thin ribbon of vapor swirling in the air, a flicker of surprise and gratitude crossing her face. "Thank you, Soobin," she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been feeling like my throat’s been made of sandpaper.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks turning a little pink again. "It’s nothing, really. I just… thought it might help." You watched the way your mom looked at him, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual—gentle, assessing, as if seeing him act like this reminded her of the old times and that made her quietly glad. 

Your mom’s eyes softened as she glanced at Soobin, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’re very thoughtful,” she said gently, reaching out to adjust the humidifier’s mist.

Soobin shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I just wanted to help.”

You caught the faintest shadow across your mom’s face—a quiet mix of pride and something else, something like a wish she could say aloud. But instead, she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, you’re doing a good job at it.” As if hinting at more than just showing gratitude for the gesture.  The mist from the humidifier caught the light, casting soft shadows on the white hospital sheets, and for a moment the sterile room felt just a little more like home. 

–

Before you knew it, time had slipped by, the way it always does when you're avoiding looking at the clock. The room had grown quiet again, the only sounds were the soft whir of machines and your mom’s slow, steady breathing. You stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your clothes, more out of habit than anything else. Soobin followed suit just like always, moving a half-step behind you, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to leave yet.

Outside, the corridor was still and cold under the harsh fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else—something tired. You walked side by side, just close enough to feel his presence but not enough to brush shoulders. The silence sat between you, not uncomfortable, but not easy either. 

“So,” you said, voice catching slightly in your throat. “When did you get back?”

He glanced over, offering you a small, almost sheepish smile. “I assume you know?”

Right—the headlines. You’d seen them without even trying to. His name had been everywhere for days. It was hard to avoid when your past suddenly became the world’s news. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I saw.”

He let out a short breath of laughter. Not a real laugh—one of those quiet ones that feels more like a sigh. “They really don’t let you disappear quietly, do they?”

You wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came. What could you even say? That sucks? I’m sorry? I read every article twice, looking for signs you were okay? Instead, you settled on, “Looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but it wasn’t light or offhand. There was a drag to it, something unspoken anchoring the gesture. “Yeah. Forced break.” 

You raised an eyebrow, hoping a little teasing might soften the edges. “Forced break? Sounds like a long vacation.”

He gave you a half-smile, one side of his mouth curling up. “If only.”

The silence crept back in as you continued walking, your shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. It should’ve felt comfortable—you’d walked like this before, years ago, without needing to say much. But now? Now it felt like stepping around the edges of something you both weren’t ready to touch. You stole a glance at him. The curve of his jaw was more defined now, his hair a little longer than you remembered. He still walked with that same quiet presence, like he was trying not to take up too much space. But there was something else, too—something a little more closed off.

You swallowed. “So... what now?”

He looked over at you, not stopping, just watching. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I’ve never had this much free time before.”

You let out a soft huff of air, unsure if it was a laugh or just a release of tension. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, then after a beat, added, “kind of uncomfortable, honestly.”

You nodded, because you got it—maybe not in the same way, but close enough. You understood what it was like to be stuck between chapters, unsure what comes next or who you're supposed to be without the thing that defined you. For a moment, you considered saying something real. Something like, I missed you or you don’t have to pretend around me, but your throat tightened. You hadn’t earned that kind of closeness anymore.

So instead you said, “Guess it’s a new kind of challenge.”

He gave you a look—mild, but maybe grateful. “Yeah. But... maybe not the worst kind.”

You nodded again, lips pressing into a thin line. And still, the things you wanted to say hovered behind your teeth. You wanted to ask how he was really doing. If it felt like everything had stopped too suddenly. If he was scared of what came next. But none of that would come out right, not with all this space between you.

The silence settled again as you both neared the elevator, the hum of lights overhead a constant backdrop.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual but failing, “where are you staying?”

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing over at you with a small smile. “Uh... just down the street, actually. Back in my parents’ place for a bit.”

You blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He let out a short breath. “Kind of surreal.”

You scoffed, the sound too sharp but real. “So... we’re neighbors again.”

He laughed, a real one this time. “Guess so.”

You nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Weird.”

“Definitely weird.”

Another pause. Another silence. But this one wasn’t so stiff. It settled more naturally between you, like maybe it didn’t need to be filled.

You both stood there, not really moving, not really sure what to do next. Just... hovering in that space where familiarity and distance existed at the same time. Where you wanted to say remember how easy this used to be? but knew neither of you quite had the words.

Maybe it would take time. Maybe it would stay awkward like this for a while.

But still, there was something in the quiet that felt like a beginning.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, but neither of you moved.

You thought that was it—that this was the part where you’d say goodbye with a tight smile and an awkward promise to “catch up later.” But instead, Soobin turned, leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, and said, “Want to walk for a bit?”

You blinked. “Around the hospital?”

His mouth tugged up slightly. “We’ve had weirder hangouts.”

That was true. Once upon a time, your “hangouts” included hiding in stairwells during school festivals and playing cards in the back of the library while pretending to study. So maybe walking quiet halls and dodging nurses wasn’t that strange after all.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I better go, lots of things to do today.” 

He nodded. Then, with one last glance at you—long enough to hold, short enough not to ask too much—he turned and walked down the hallway, his steps slow, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

You stayed where you were, hands in your pockets, the echo of his words still lingering in the air.

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. And you'd be lying if you said you hadn’t looked him up that very same night you saw him again. After that day, it was like something broke loose inside you—some quiet restraint you’d kept for years.

You found yourself scrolling endlessly through his performance videos, one after another, chasing something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was your way of making up for all the time you’d forbidden yourself from watching them.

It wasn’t because you resented him. Not really. But it had always been easier to pretend you weren’t curious than to admit the truth: watching him chase his dream made something twist in your chest. Not bitterness, exactly—just jealousy.

A quiet, aching sort of envy that you never wanted to confront. He had gone out there and done what he said he would. He lived it. All while keeping you completely in the dark. Not a message, not a word—not even a hint of what his life had become.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—not that he left, but knowing it was your fault he never reached out. 

You remembered the night he left. You didn’t know it was the last time you’d see him, not then. He said something vague about having a “big audition” coming up the previous week, and you, always the loyal friend, had smiled and wished him luck, unaware that he would succeed to the point where he was at now. You hadn’t known that "audition" would become the beginning of a chapter that didn’t include you.

At first, you hesitated. You told yourself he'd text first. Call. Drop by. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually, you stopped refreshing your messages, stopped checking your phone late at night like a fool and stuck your nose into your studies. 

The only person who stayed by your side, from your father passing, through your mother getting sick, was now gone. And you couldn’t bring yourself to be the one who reached out first, fearing that you would only receive the silence you thought you deserved. 

So you buried it. Packed it into the same mental box where you kept all the “what ifs” you never wanted to admit you had. You stopped watching his interviews, muted hashtags, scrolled past his face without letting your eyes linger. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That people grow up, they move on. That it was nothing personal.

But seeing him again, in that hallway outside your mom’s hospital room, had cracked something open.

You hadn’t realized how much you still carried. How much weight was tied to his name, his voice, his smile. And now, after that one encounter, you were spiraling—late into the night, alone in your room, your screen glowing softly in the dark as you watched him perform with the same boyish intensity he’d always had, only now refined, polished. A professional.

There were moments when he’d show a dimpled smile between lyrics, or toss his hair a certain way, and you’d see glimpses of the boy you once knew. The one who used to walk you home after school. Who used to text you dumb memes and write notes on the edges of your notebooks when the teacher wasn’t looking. The boy who once promised he’d tell you everything.

But he didn’t.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—he had become someone the whole world knew, but not you. Not anymore. You didn’t deserve that chance. 

You set your phone down eventually, the videos still looping on autoplay, the sound dim. You stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the person on the screen with the quiet boy who used to sit beside you at lunch. Trying to figure out where the thread had snapped—and if there was any way to pick it back up again.

You weren’t sure. But part of you hoped—achingly, stubbornly—that he came back not just to rest… but to remember.

To remember you.

—

The next time you saw Soobin, it was raining on a Wednesday. 

Not the cinematic kind of rain that comes with thunder and dramatic declarations. Just a light drizzle that blurred the edges of the world and left your jacket damp where it clung to your shoulders.

You’d just finished your shift at the café near the hospital. You weren’t technically supposed to be working while your mom was still admitted, but she’d insisted—said the distraction was good for you. And truthfully, it was. It gave you something else to focus on besides white walls and the sound of machines beeping in the night.

You had your headphones in, your hood up, eyes on the sidewalk—when someone stepped into your path, blocking your way.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Soobin.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand, a bottle of something green poking out the top. His hoodie was damp, darkened around the seams, but he looked almost amused by it. Like the rain wasn’t a bother. Like maybe it reminded him of something.

Your headphones hung limply around your neck now. “You stalking me?” you asked, only half joking.

“I swear I’m not,” he said, lifting the bag. “I was headed to the hospital. Thought your mom might like these.”

You glanced at the label on the bottle. Herbal tonic. Your lips curved upward despite yourself. “She’ll roll her eyes when she sees this. But this is good, she needs these.”

He grinned. “Good. Then mission accomplished.”

You hesitated. You should’ve said goodbye, should’ve kept walking—but you didn’t. Something in the way he was standing, not quite stepping forward but not walking away either, mirrored exactly how you felt. Stuck in the middle. 

“Want to come up with me?” you asked finally. “She’s been asking about you.”

His expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You walked side by side again, like no time had passed—but with every footstep echoing on the hospital floor, you felt the gap between who you were and who you’d become. And still, he matched your pace without question.

Upstairs, your mom greeted him with a tired but genuine smile. You watched her lit up face switch over to a disgusted one in an instant as he handed her the tonic, made her laugh with something dumb, and you realized how easily he still fit into the spaces you thought time had sealed off.

Later, when she fell asleep and the lights dimmed around her bed, you and Soobin slipped out into the hallway again. It was quieter now. The storm outside had tapered into silence, and the air smelled faintly of rain on concrete.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely over your chest, the distance between you filled with everything unsaid.

“She still makes that face when she doesn’t want to take medicine,” he said, glancing at the door behind you.

You smiled faintly. “Some things never change.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You did.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what happens when you’re not around for eight years.”

His mouth tugged to the side in something between a grimace and a smile. “Fair.”

There was another beat of silence, but this one felt warmer. You glanced down the hallway, watching a nurse wheel a cart past the far end, the soft rattle of it fading into the hum of fluorescent lights.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “your mom was always really kind to me.”

“She likes people with manners,” you replied, then added, “and people who eat her leftovers without complaining.”

“She used to pack extra, just for me,” he said, eyes distant now. “Even when she said she didn’t have time.”

“She did that with people she loved.” The words left your mouth before you could decide whether or not to say them.

Soobin looked at you, and for a second, you almost couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. Too real.

The hallway buzzed faintly—the dull drone of fluorescent lights, distant intercom announcements, the occasional footsteps echoing down the corridor. Somewhere, a nurse’s soft laughter floated through the air.

The moment settled like dust, thick and heavy.

“I missed this,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Not just your mom. Not just the neighborhood. You.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, twisting it between your fingertips like a lifeline. He turned his head slightly toward you but didn’t push you for a response.

Instead, he said, “Can I show you something?”

You glanced over, curious despite yourself. “Now?”

He nodded, pulling his phone from his hoodie pocket with a slow, deliberate motion. He flipped through his gallery, swiping a few times, then handed it to you. A video.

Not one of the polished concert clips uploaded for fans, but a raw, shaky recording from a recent show. The camera was angled toward the crowd, thousands of tiny lights flickering like stars. Then it shifted to the stage—him, standing at the microphone, eyes closed, singing a slow, acoustic song. Your breath caught, chest tightening. He must’ve seen it on your face because he said softly, “Wrote it the week I moved to the city. Never released it.”

You watched the video again, seeing a side of him you hadn’t seen in years—vulnerable and unpolished. The words carried little references, tiny fragments of shared memories—a phrase you’d said once, a place you’d both known, a worn bench you’d sat on together.

“It was about you,” he said quietly. “Still is.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, heart pounding in your ears louder than the soft hospital hum. You handed it back, not because you wanted to stop watching, but because it felt too much to hold all at once.

Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different, like the air between you had shifted, charged with something fragile and new.

He stood slowly. “I should go. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You didn’t try to stop him, but as he turned, you called out softly, “Hey.”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

You gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that held hope and history all at once.

“Next time… don’t bring tonic. Bring peaches. She actually likes those.”

He laughed—a sound that was still boyish, warm, and real.

“Got it. Peaches.”

He walked down the hallway, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing behind him.

You stayed seated, staring at the empty space beside you, wondering how many more times you’d find the courage to let yourself take one step closer. 

—

It had been a long week.

You’d spent most of it moving between home and the hospital, the lines between day and night beginning to blur. Your mom’s condition hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t improved either—and somehow, that was its own kind of exhausting. Hopeful. Heavy. Endless.

So when the knock came on your door that Saturday afternoon—three quick taps and a pause—you almost didn’t answer.

But then you remembered the way he knocked.

You opened the door.

“Delivery,” Soobin said, holding up a brown paper bag like it was a peace offering. “One bottle of overpriced juice, and…” He pulled out a small carton with a mock ceremony. “Peaches. Fresh. Not those disgusting canned stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really took the note.”

“I aim to please.” He grinned, wide and shameless. “Also, the guy at the fruit stand said these were ‘kissing sweet,’ which made me deeply uncomfortable. So I had to buy them.”

You snorted, stepping aside to let him in. “That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for buying fruit.”

He walked in casually, already toeing off his shoes like second nature–- like he’d done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I missed your mom’s high standards. And your judgment.”

“Both still going strong,” you said, accepting the bag. “You want coffee or are you planning to make a dramatic exit again?”

He shot you a look. “That exit was graceful and respectful.”

“That exit was weird and full of emotional tension.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “So… par for the course?”

You tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

He sat on the edge of your couch, glancing around like he was taking inventory. You watched the way his eyes lingered on the bookshelf, the stack of hospital visitors passes on the table, the blanket still folded from when you'd last crashed there after a long night.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “Very... ‘haunted by fatigue but still trying.’”

You grinned. “That’s actually the theme of the whole apartment. You should see the bathroom.”

He laughed again—an easy, warm sound that made your ribs feel too tight.

You went to the kitchen, opened the bag, and found not just the peaches and juice, but a pack of sweet rice crackers tucked at the bottom.

“Are these for me or for her?” you called.

A beat.

“...Yes,” he replied.

“She’s going to eat all of these and then yell at me for letting you spend money on her.”

“Let her yell at me instead,” he said, already settling onto your couch like he owned the place. “I can take it. I survived our high school math teacher. Your mom has nothing on that woman.”

You smirked. “That teacher made you cry.”

He gasped. “I teared up. Once. And it was allergy season.”

“Sure it was.” It had been a strange comfort, having him around again—even if it was awkward most of the time.

“Thanks,” you said, shrugging and avoiding his eyes. “for not bringing tonic this time.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I learned my lesson. Peaches or bust.”

A silence passed. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It sat lightly between you, like an old friend resting its elbows on the table.

“So…” he said slowly. “You going to the hospital later?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just after dinner. They changed some meds, so they want someone to watch her overnight.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the mug. “Mind if I come with you?”

You looked up. Not because he hadn’t offered before. But because this time, he said it differently. Gently. Not just wanting to visit—but to be there. 

“…She’ll be happy to see you,” you said. “And if you bring those crackers, she might even be nice.”

He smiled, setting his mug down.

“Oh, and by the way,” you added, pretending to inspect a peach like it was under review. “She only likes the white ones. If you brought yellow—”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, already pulling a peach from the bag and rolling it across the table toward you. “Do I look like someone who would buy the wrong kind?”

You caught it mid-roll, lips twitching. “I don’t know. You’ve been gone a while. You could’ve turned into someone completely unreliable.”

He leaned back on the couch, arms stretched along the top cushion, looking maddeningly smug. “I’m still me.”

You turned the peach over in your hand, pretending not to notice how warm your cheeks felt.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.” 

—

NINE YEARS AGO

The living room was a mess. A good kind of mess—snack wrappers littered across the coffee table, cushions scattered like casualties, your shared laughter still lingering in the air like static. It was the Friday before the weekend, Soobin had waited for you to finish your badminton practice to walk you home to spend the rest of the afternoon with you. 

Soobin was on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other tucked underneath him, controller in hand, glaring at the TV screen with the same intensity he used when talking about stage lighting or choreography.

“You’re cheating,” he said flatly. You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m not.”

“You’re button-mashing,” he accused, pointing at your hands like he was building a legal case. “That’s not skill, that’s chaos.”

You grinned. “Chaos works.” A second later, his character flew off the edge of the map with a dramatic final explosion. KO. Soobin dropped his controller and flopped backward onto the floor like he’d just been shot. “Unbelievable. I come here in good faith and get demolished.”

You leaned over your knees, stretching out your arms with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe you just suck.”

He peeked at you through narrowed eyes. “I’m rethinking our friendship.”

“Because I’m better at Smash?”

“Because you’re a smug button-masher with no honor.”

You laughed, the kind that curled your shoulders inward and left a small warmth in your chest. This was easy. Ridiculously easy. Soobin had always been like this with you—quick to tease, slow to anger, all soft jabs and boyish huffs. Like a habit you never had to think about. He could go hours and hours just bantering with you about the most unimportant topics. 

You reached for the plastic bag sitting on the coffee table, rifling through until you found what you were really after. “You want the last peach?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Sat up like he’d been summoned from the dead. “I do. Really. Deeply.”

You held it just out of reach, twirling it by the stem. “Then admit I’m better than you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no peach.”

“You’re evil.”

You were about to answer—probably with something smug, possibly with another insult—when he lunged forward.

It wasn’t even a real lunge. More like an exaggerated grab, like he was trying to be ridiculous on purpose. But you misjudged the distance—he was faster than he looked—and suddenly he was right there, fingers overlapping yours, and the peach tumbled from your grip, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop between you. 

You both reached for it at the same time.

And then you were touching.

Just barely—his knuckles brushing yours, the pad of his thumb catching the back of your hand. Your knees bumped, one of his legs tangled slightly with yours from the way he’d thrown himself forward. The closeness was sudden. Clumsy. And absolutely still.

The peach sat in both your palms now, soft and overripe, a little dented from the fall. But you weren’t looking at the peach anymore.

You were looking at him.

He was looking back.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You could feel your heartbeat shift—quicker, louder. Like your body realized something your brain didn’t want to name.

He was close. Too close. 

There was something different about the way he looked at you just then. Like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe. Permission. Or maybe he wasn’t searching at all. Maybe he was just seeing you, for the first time in a way that wasn’t casual or safe or platonic. You told yourself to laugh. To say something to break it. But your mouth was dry and your fingers were still curled around the stupid peach.

God, you thought, this is just a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t make it mean something.

Because if you made it mean something, you’d have to face the fact that everything would change between you two, and you weren’t ready for that. 

And worst of all—you didn’t know if he wanted it too.

So you were the first to let go.

“Fine,” you said, easing the peach into his hands, forcing a smile. “You win. Peach privileges restored.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a second longer, then pulled back, sitting cross-legged again, the fruit cradled like a trophy.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice light again. Too light. “I’m going to crush you in the next round.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smirked. “Big talk from someone who just got obliterated.”

He took a bite of the peach—flesh soft, juice dripping slightly down his wrist.

You looked away.

Because watching him eat a peach had absolutely no right being that distracting.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a second.

“Just letting you enjoy your victory,” you replied, folding your arms.

“Mm.” He chewed, then added through a mouthful of fruit, “This is the taste of justice.”

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

He laughed, muffled but warm, like it lived somewhere behind his ribcage. Like it was meant just for you.

And later, after he’d gone, after the controller had been set aside and the cushions lazily put back, you sat on the couch and stared at the empty spot where his leg had touched yours.

It was nothing, you told yourself.

But your heart wasn’t convinced.

—

It had been three days since Soobin last came by to accompany you to the hospital. 

Not that you were counting.

Your mom was still in the hospital. Her condition was stable, but “stable” was the kind of word doctors used when they meant unchanged, when the machines still beeped and the days still blurred, and you didn’t know how to exhale without guilt.

So you kept your head down. Worked your shifts. Folded laundry. Refilled the humidifier in her room. Then, one quiet evening, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: You up?

You stared at it for a second too long, the number was foreign to your contact list. The number wasn’t saved. But the timing, the tone—it could only be one person.

Another message came in.

Unknown: This is Soobin, by the way.

Of course it was.

You: No. I’m sleep-texting. You

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Then came back again, like he was typing and deleting and thinking too much—just like always.

Soobin:

Maybe. Or just bored.

 Wanna walk?

You didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, you were outside. Hoodie zipped to your chin, hands in your pockets. The air was cool, kissed with the hush that only lived in your neighborhood at night.

A faint breeze moved through the trees overhead, the streetlamp buzzed quietly, and the sidewalk stretched out ahead like a question you didn’t know how to ask.

He was waiting by the gate. Same hoodie from the other night. Same hands buried in the front pocket. His hair was a little messier now, falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to push it back. He looked like someone trying not to look like he was waiting.

When he saw you, he straightened—not all the way, just enough to seem like he hadn’t been pacing.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft like he wasn’t sure if it would reach you.

“Hey,” you replied, tugging your sleeves over your hands. And then you walked. Not toward anything in particular. Just forward. Side by side. Close enough to hear the other breathe.

The silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… familiar. Like this was a rhythm you both used to know. Like your feet still remembered how to fall into step with his even if your hearts hadn’t caught up yet.

After a while, he spoke.

“I’ve been writing again,” he said, just above a whisper.

You glanced at him. His eyes stayed on the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

“Mostly bad stuff,” he added with a breath of a laugh. “But… some of it feels honest.”

You nodded. “That’s the hard part.”

There was a pause.

“I used to write when I missed home,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. But he kept going anyway, his voice quieter now. Like if he said it too loud, it would sound like a confession.

“I stopped for a long time. Everything started to sound the same. Even the stuff I wrote just for me—it didn’t sound like me. It sounded like someone trying to remember what real felt like.”

Your chest pinched. Because you recognized that feeling, even if it wore a different face.

“You mean the industry?” you asked, your voice gentler than you meant it to be. He nodded, hands tightening in his sleeves. “The schedules, the shoots, the interviews where they ask you how you’re doing and expect you to say you’re grateful.”

You looked over. His face was still turned ahead, but his jaw was set—like he was fighting back something that had been building for years.

“It looks big,” he said. “To other people. All the lights and cameras and screaming fans. But most of the time, it felt… small. Like I was inside this beautiful box I couldn’t leave. Like I was shrinking in a place everyone said I was meant to grow.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not at first. Because it was Soobin—your Soobin. The one who used to doodle lyrics on his wrists during exams. The one who used to talk about Seoul like it was a promise.

And now he was here. Telling you the promise didn’t keep.

“I used to envy you,” you murmured.

He turned his head slightly, startled. “What?”

“You had direction. Purpose. You left. While the rest of us stayed behind wondering what we were doing. You knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I pretended I did.”

You exhaled, eyes on the path ahead.

He slowed, enough that you had to slow too.

“I didn’t reach out,” he began to answer your life’s biggest question, “because I was afraid if I told you how bad it was, you’d tell me to come home.”

You stopped. Right there on the path.

“And that would’ve been so awful?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. “Me wanting you to come home?”

He looked down.

“It would’ve made it real,” he said. “Made me feel like I failed.”

The ache that had been sitting under your ribs stretched, deep and familiar.

The wind stirred again, carrying the sound of distant cars and rustling trees. Then, your voice dropped. “You know, Soobin… you did a good job.”

His eyes shot up to meet yours. Cautious. Almost confused. You let the words settle before continuing.

“I mean it. You chased something you believed in. You worked hard. You got somewhere people only dream about.” You swallowed. “You just… never took a second to see how far you’d gone. You kept running like someone was going to take it away from you.”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“You should let yourself rest,” you said. “You deserve to breathe.”

He looked at you like no one had ever said that to him before. Not in the way that mattered.

And maybe no one had. A silence fell again, but it was different now. Thick with emotion, weighted with years of distance and grief and care that had nowhere to go.

Soobin stepped forward—not enough to cross the space between you, but enough that you felt the warmth of him again.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly. 

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. So instead, you reached for the edge of your hoodie sleeve and twisted it around your fingers, grounding yourself in the way you used to back when emotions felt too big to hold.

And beside you, Soobin just stood there.

Not asking to be forgiven, not like he had to. 

Just… asking to stay a little longer.

–

The hospital room was quieter than usual.

Your mom was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her breaths came soft and even, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. The late afternoon light filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting thin gold bars across the white walls. Outside, the city buzzed softly beneath the window, too far away to touch.

You sat by the bed, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting in your hand. The chair creaked when you shifted. You’d meant to read. Meant to answer that message from work. But your mind kept drifting—backward, sideways, toward things that hadn’t happened yet but already pressed too heavy on your chest.

Soobin hadn’t texted since the walk.

Three days wasn’t long. Not really.

But you found yourself reaching for your phone more than usual. Pausing at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Imagining him leaning on the doorframe again, holding some half-thought-out excuse to stop by. You hated how easily hope made a home out of silence.

Your mom stirred, just slightly, eyes fluttering open. “You’re still here?”

You smiled faintly. “Where else would I be?”

She looked at you for a beat longer than usual. “You’ve been coming earlier,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “Staying longer, too.”

You shrugged. “There’s not much else to do.”

“Mm.” She turned her head to the side, watching you now. Not like she was accusing—more like she was waiting. “He’s been coming around again.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the window, at the sky that had turned that in-between color of fading blue and soft orange.

“Yeah,” you said eventually.

“He’s been good to you,” she added, gently. “I see it.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, heart doing that stupid thing again—like it couldn’t decide whether to clench or melt.

“He’s not staying,” you said. Your mom didn’t answer right away. That kind of silence said more than any reply.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know why it matters. It’s not like we’re… anything.”

“But you want to be?” she asked softly.

You didn’t look at her. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “It doesn’t matter what I want. He came back because of his health. Because he needed space from all that. He’s not… this isn’t forever.”

And if you let yourself want something more like last time—if you gave it a name—what would happen when he left again?

She was quiet for a long time. Then, just as you were about to change the subject, her voice returned. “You know,” she said, “I think the hardest kind of love is the kind that feels temporary.”

You blinked. “This isn’t–this isn’t love.” You protested.

She didn’t argue. Just gave you a look that said she’d been your mother long enough to know when you were lying—to her or to yourself.

You shook your head, staring down at your hands. “It’s not like I’m holding onto something that could actually last.”

“But you’re still holding it,” she murmured.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because yeah. You were.

You were holding the way his voice sounded in quiet places. The way he never pushed when you went silent, just waited with that kind of patience that only people who’d known you for years could manage. You were holding the way he remembered the things you forgot you ever told him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

And it scared the hell out of you.

Because people leave. Sometimes they come back. But rarely do they stay.

Your mom reached out, her fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said gently. “It’s not okay to pretend you don’t feel anything.”

You didn’t respond.

You just stared at the sunlight crawling across the linoleum floor, and wondered how long you could keep pretending that what you felt was nothing.

–

The engine made a low, confused noise as Soobin turned the key. You braced your hand against the dashboard. Soobin sat up straighter, lips pursed like he was preparing for war. You couldn’t help watching the way his knuckles tensed on the wheel, the way he kept muttering to himself like this was more of a concert performance than a suburban test run.

"Okay," you said cautiously. "Brake. Check your mirrors. Put it in drive—no, that’s reverse. Reverse is—Soobin—!"

The car lurched backward, an alarming jolt that made your seatbelt dig into your collarbone.

“Okay! Okay! Got it!” Soobin slammed the brake, and the car shuddered to a halt. Your heart was somewhere near your throat.

“You almost ran over a mailbox,” you hissed, hands clutched tightly on your seat. “My mailbox!” 

He winced. “It’s still standing.”

“Barely.” He shot you a look. “I told you I didn’t finish my license! You didn’t have to volunteer your car for this.”

“I didn’t think this was what we’d be doing when you said you wanted to ‘catch up.’

“Out,” you ordered. “Switch seats.” He didn’t argue.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumbled, turning the key and reversing smoothly out of the lot.

“Aw,” he said, smirking. “You like me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

There was a beat of silence.

You circled back around the block, only to end up parked in front of your house once again. Soobin spotted the shed that sat behind your house, most importantly, what’s next to it. 

“No way,” he said, rushing ahead.

Sure enough, there they were. Your old bikes. Rusted at the chains, tires flat, but still recognizable.

“I can’t believe you kept mine,” he said, brushing off a handlebar like it was a relic.

“My mom was too sentimental to throw it away. She thought you’d come back.”

He paused.

The air shifted.

“Guess she was right,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond.

–

A few minutes later, you were riding through town—laughing, breathless, avoiding potholes and startled pigeons. Soobin’s bike creaked horribly, but he insisted on pedaling like he was racing someone only he could see.

You took the long route, past the bookstore where you used to loiter, the convenience store where he once bought you a yogurt drink with his last few coins, the bus stop where you used to sit until the streetlights flicked on.

Then he slowed. You turned to look—and watched, helpless, as his front tire clipped a curb and sent him flying.

“Soobin!” He landed with a thud, half in the grass, half on the sidewalk.

You dropped your bike and ran to him.

“Oh my God—are you okay? Why weren’t you paying atten–”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “That bus stop looks exactly the same.”

“You fell off your bike because of nostalgia?!”

He groaned. “I got caught off guard.”

“By a memory?”

“You looked back at me…,” he mumbled.

You stopped. The world stilled for half a second. Then you shoved that away. 

"You're bleeding," you said, kneeling next to him, choosing yet again to overlook the deeper weight hidden in his seemingly innocent words.

It wasn’t bad—just a scrape at his temple, but the sight still made something twist low in your stomach. You pulled a tissue that you luckily had in your pocket and dabbed at the cut. 

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmured, dabbing at the cut with soft fingers. “What if you end up with a scar? Your fans might actually riot.”

He winced, sucking in a breath.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m not,” you said, lips twitching.

“You’re not even trying to be gentle.”

“I am,” you lied—though your touch grew just a little softer.

But your hands had slowed. And now that you were this close, you couldn’t help but really look at him. His hair was a little damp, curling slightly at the edges. There was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek, and the cut on his brow was still fresh—but none of it dulled him. If anything, it made him feel more real. Not the polished idol with perfect lighting and stage smiles, but Soobin—your Soobin. 

The boy who used to race you home on bikes, who got grass stains on his knees and laughed until he fell over. And maybe that’s why your breath caught, just a little, because his eyes weren’t darting away this time. He wasn’t teasing or laughing. Just looking. Steady. Unafraid.

It felt like the earth was tilting under you.

He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist—soft, tentative. But you stood up before the silence could grow teeth.

“C’mon, head injury or not, we’re riding back. You can’t die dramatically knowing that it was a curb that took you out”

He laughed, clutching his ribs. “You’re such a comfort.”

You didn’t tell him that if he’d looked at you for one more second like that, you would’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Because your pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. And your heart didn’t know if it was from the fall…

…or from him.

—-

The rain started halfway through the ride home. Not a drizzle, not a soft mist. No, the sky decided to absolutely open up on you.

“Seriously?!” you shouted up at the clouds as you and Soobin coasted to a slow, skidding stop under a half-dead tree. Soobin was already laughing, clothes plastered to his skin, hair dripping into his eyes. “This is kind of perfect, though. Right? Very K-drama of us.”

You glared. “I’m going to get sick. You’re going to get sick.”

“I already feel stronger. This is character-building.”

You groaned and dropped your head back. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, wheeling his bike alongside yours, “but I’m starting to think you just like having an excuse to say my name angrily.”

You opened your mouth, ready to shoot something back—but a particularly angry clap of thunder cut through the air. You both jumped.

“Let’s just go home...” You muttered.

By the time you made it back to your house, you were soaked through—shoes squelching, hair matted to your cheeks, laughter still catching in your throats between shivers. You tossed your bike on the porch without care, unlocking the door as quickly as your frozen fingers would let you.

“Leave your shoes by the door,” you told him, kicking yours off with a squelch. “And try not to drip everywhere.”

Soobin peeled his hoodie over his head with a groan. “That’s an impossible task. I’m basically a human sponge.”

You grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at his face. “Here. Dry off, Mr. Sponge.”

“I’ll need a medal for surviving this ride.”

“You’ll get a warm meal and some dry clothes, and you’ll like it.”

He grinned, following you into the hallway. “Wait. Dry clothes?”

"Yeah. I think I still have one of your old sweatshirts lying around" you said over your shoulder, stopping just outside your room. You glanced back at him, standing awkwardly in the hallway, damp hair dripping and clothes clinging to him like a soggy afterthought. He looked like a miserable, oversized puppy.

"If it even fits..." you mumbled under your breath.

Because looking at him now, you weren’t so sure. He’d always been tall, but somewhere between the boy who used to sprawl across your couch and the man standing there now, he'd filled out—broad shoulders, long limbs, that quiet weight people carry when they've grown into themselves. It was weird. Familiar. 

“You still have that?”

You shrugged, trying not to overthink the warmth crawling up your neck. “It’s a good sweatshirt.”

“Can I have it back?”

“No.”

He laughed, and you disappeared into your room, pulling out the hoodie in question—still soft and oversized—and a pair of sweatpants you knew would be way too short on him, but it’d have to do.

You handed him the clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. “Go. Change. And hang your stuff up unless you want it smelling like mildew forever.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mock saluting.

When he disappeared behind the door, you exhaled. Why did this feel like something?

You pushed your wet hair back and padded into the kitchen to grab some water, heart still annoyingly thudding. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, and somewhere in the background, the bathroom door creaked as he rummaged through a drawer for a comb, a towel, who knew.

After changing into dry clothes, you settled onto the couch, towel in hand as you ran it through your damp hair. Without thinking, you reached into your pocket for your phone and opened reels—more out of muscle memory than intention.

You scrolled for a good minute before pausing.

There it was.

A video of Soobin. Blonde Soobin. All black suit, legs spread like he owned gravity, eating some sort of sour candy in that dazed, effortless idol way that did things to people.

The sound was some kind of slowed-down R&B  track. The caption read: “what do you mean he’s not my boyfriend??”

You snorted and shook your head, tapping the screen like you meant to scroll past it.

“You watching fan edits of me?”

You jumped, your heart skipping a beat.

Soobin was standing just behind the couch, freshly changed, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he rubbed at his damp hair. His cheeks were flushed pink—not from embarrassment, but from the lingering warmth of the shower. The faint scent of your soap clung to him, familiar and comforting.

You scrambled for words, panic rising in your chest. “N-no.”

He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady your voice. “It just popped up on my For You page!” you insisted, your tone shooting up an octave in protest.

“That’s not how the algorithm works,” he teased, eyes sparkling as he leaned in a little. “I can literally see you liked it.”

You huffed, flinging your phone onto the couch as if it had personally betrayed you. “I didn’t save it or anything.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, grinning as he walked slowly around the couch and flopped down beside you. The heat radiating from his body made the space between you feel smaller, cozier.

“I didn’t know you were into the blonde era,” he added with mock surprise.

You tried not to look at him, but it was impossible. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way that made your chest ache with something tender and unfamiliar. He smelled like your soap—clean, soft, and utterly real.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, crossing your arms defensively, “you looked ridiculous.”

He laughed—a low, easy sound that made your heart flutter. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You risked a glance at him—and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

Something electric passed between you, and it wasn’t from the static of the hoodie. It was heavier. Warmer. Your breath stuttered. You could say this, right? You were friends, right?

“You know,” you started, voice quieter, “it’s kinda unfair.”

He tilted his head. “What is?”

You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending not to notice the way his thigh was pressed against yours.

“You look like that, even if you’re just eating.”

He blinked.

The teasing fell out of his expression like someone had pulled a thread loose. You looked at him—really looked.

And there it was again. That thing that hung between you like a held breath. That invisible thread that pulled tighter and tighter every time you got close enough to see each other clearly.

His hand caught your wrist just as you were about to step away.

You froze, startled by the gentle hold, your heart skipping a beat.

His hand closed around your wrist—gentle, hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch you but couldn’t let the moment slip away without trying.

You froze.

Not because it was dramatic or shocking, but because your body had trained itself to notice every tiny shift around Soobin. The way his fingers were warm against your skin. The way his thumb hovered just slightly, like he thought about brushing it across your wrist but didn’t.

When you looked at him, really looked, he was already looking away—blushing.

His ears were a little pink at the tips, and the expression on his face was… shy. Maybe even a little self-conscious, like he was trying to laugh it off before you said anything that would make it worse.

“That clip you saw…” he said, clearing his throat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s not really me looking good or anything.”

You blinked. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, still not letting go of you. “That livestream—the one with the blonde hair and the… uh, the sitting posture.” He made a vague motion, embarrassed. “We were just coming off a performance. Everyone was still in stage makeup, and the stylists kind of go all out when there’s press watching. It’s not really how I… look. Normally.”

He wasn’t even making eye contact now, suddenly fascinated with a dent in the hardwood floor.

“I mean, they style us a certain way. The lighting’s good. The outfits are picked for us.” He glanced up, almost sheepish. “It’s not real-real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too busy staring.

Because here was Soobin—not the idol, not the polished version beamed out to millions—but your Soobin. The one who got defensive about reverse parking and couldn’t cook instant noodles without supervision. The one whose hoodie sleeves still hung past his wrists, whose hair was a little damp from the rain, whose voice always got smaller when he was trying to be honest.

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know that the moment he tried to downplay it, you somehow liked him even more. Your heart was doing something dangerous. Something stupid and fluttery. And warm. You smiled, just a little. “So what you’re saying is… the Soobin in that clip is false advertising?”

He huffed a laugh—still nervous, still a bit pink. “Exactly.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think it over, “I guess I’ll just have to get used to this version of you, then.”

He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours at last. “This version?”

You nodded, trying to act nonchalant even though your pulse was kicking wildly in your throat. “The version that wears wrinkled sweats and drips water on my floor and thinks too much about livestreams from six months ago.”

He smiled, small and real. “That version’s not very cool.”

“Good. I like him better.” You shrugged. “He reminds me of an old friend.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like a held breath. His hand was still on your wrist, warmer now. Closer. And even though neither of you said it, something shifted.

He lingered a second longer, still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing your skin in a barely-there touch. Neither of you moved, as if breaking the stillness might shatter something fragile between you.

And then, almost offhandedly—like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for days—he said, “You look good too, you know. Even after all these years.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But it cracked something open in you all the same.

You turned away first.

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” you said quickly, already halfway to standing. “Before I say something else embarrassing.”

He let go, fingers slipping away from yours slowly, reluctantly.

And you walked to the kitchen with your heart in your throat.

Dinner was on the stove.

But it wasn’t the only thing simmering now.

—

You stood in front of the pot, stirring with more intensity than necessary, trying very hard not to think about the compliment Soobin had just casually lobbed at your entire existence. His words still clung to your skin more stubborn than the rain had.

"You look good too."

What did that even mean? You were in an old hoodie, hair still damp, socks mismatched. You looked like a soggy couch cushion with a pulse.

Still. He’d said it. Earnestly. Like he meant it.

You stirred the pot a little too aggressively.

Behind you, Soobin leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you like he had nowhere else to be—and no desire to be anywhere else. He looked so at ease there, like he belonged in this space, in your space. The hoodie he wore—the one you’d cut around the collar back in high school during a brief “DIY fashion” phase—hung slightly off one of his shoulders now, exposing a sliver of collarbone. Your brain short-circuited every time your eyes drifted that way, completely unprepared for how something so small, so casual, could feel so intimate.

His eyes drifted toward the stove, then to you—quiet, lingering. He wasn’t staring exactly, but it was close. Like he was watching something he couldn’t quite name. Something small and domestic and too warm to look at directly. And when you caught it, just barely from the corner of your eye, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He dropped his gaze instantly, toeing at the rug with the tip of his sock like it had personally offended him.

“What… uh, what are you making?” he asked, voice soft. Like raising it too loud might break something fragile.

You tossed chopped onions into the pan with a hiss. “Soup,” you said. “It’s quick. It’s easy. And you probably won’t die eating it.”

Soobin gave a little laugh—short and breathy. “That’s a really strong endorsement.”

“I’ve seen your cooking, Choi. This is already an upgrade.”

He gasped, hand clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Three different instant noodles. All undercooked. All aggressively beige.”

“That was years ago!” he protested, a smile tugging at his lips. You nudged him with your hip as you passed behind him. “Just don’t set anything on fire, and we’ll call it a win.”

“I can be helpful,” he mumbled, already reaching for the cutting board. “You just… never let me.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re the one who told me not to let you near knives.”

“Right, but like…” He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was before.”

You handed him a block of tofu and the world’s dullest knife. “Okay, Chef of the Year. Tiny cubes. No bleeding.” He took it with an exaggerated sigh. “No faith in me at all.”

You turned back to the stove, only to hear the distinct sound of tofu being… destroyed.

You looked. “That’s a massacre.”

“I panicked,” he muttered, eyebrows drawn together like he was concentrating on defusing a bomb. You stepped beside him without thinking. “Here,” you said, adjusting his grip. “Like this.” Your fingers curled gently around his hand, repositioning his hold on the knife. Your chest brushed his arm. He stilled.

The silence bloomed wide. You felt his breath catch—just barely. Like a sound he wasn’t sure he should let out. When he turned his head, your faces were closer than they’d meant to be. Too close.

“I think I’m messing up on purpose,” he said, voice so low it barely reached you.

You blinked. “Why?” He hesitated. His eyes flicked to your lips, then away again, like he didn’t mean to. “Because, uh… getting corrected isn’t so bad?”

Your heart stuttered.

And for one wild second, you thought he might actually mean it. Not in a joke way. Not in a “we’re just friends messing around” way. But in the kind of way that stayed with you, long after it passed. You pulled back quickly, your voice higher than it needed to be. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are,” he mumbled, looking weirdly pleased with himself. You turned back to the soup before your face could fully betray you. “Dinner’s almost done.”

“Smells good.” The way he said it—it wasn’t loud or performative. Just warm. Quiet. Like he meant it and didn’t know how to say much else.

“I can, um… I can set the table,” he offered after a beat, fiddling with the towel draped over the chair. “If that helps.”

“It’s just two plates.”

“Still,” he said, moving toward the cupboard. “Feels like the least I can do.”

You watched him open drawers like he didn’t remember where anything was—even though he’d been to your kitchen more than once. Even though this version of Soobin—the soft one, the one who tiptoed through domestic spaces like they were breakable—was getting harder and harder to pretend didn’t feel different.

By the time you both sat down, your pulse still hadn’t settled.

He waited until you took your first bite before speaking again.

“This feels nice,” he said, toying with his chopsticks. “Like… familiar.”

You looked up. “Familiar how?”

He hesitated. “Like, I don’t know. Like we used to do this all the time. Even if we didn’t.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” There was a pause. He tapped his chopsticks together gently, then added, “Not like this, though.”

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew what he meant. Not with the late rain tapping at the windows. Not with the soft glow of the kitchen light, the quiet between bites. Not with the way his leg brushed yours under the table like it didn’t mean anything… except it kind of did.

He looked down at his bowl, then back at you, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s probably dumb. Sorry.”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not dumb.” You both sat in the quiet that followed, tension settling like steam in the air between you. Soft. Warm. Unspoken.

And still—he glanced at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time.

“This,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the part I think I missed the most.”

You didn’t trust yourself to ask what he meant. So you took another bite instead. But your fingers itched where they’d touched his. And you could feel the weight of the moment, real and quiet and waiting for someone to name it.

So neither of you did.

You just stayed like that—two bowls between you, hearts too full for your mouths to keep up.

—

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. A month, at least.

His mom had mentioned he was out of town visiting family—some cousin’s wedding, maybe. You didn’t ask too many questions. Just nodded, said “ah,” and tried to pretend your chest didn’t ache a little every time you passed his house, reminding you of how alone you felt the first time he had disappeared. 

In his absence, the days blurred. You slipped too easily back into your old routine—working, grocery store runs, folding laundry half-awake, hospital visits that drained more than they gave. You didn’t have time to miss him. You barely had time to be anything other than tired.

But that night… that night was different.

The doctor had been gentle, but that didn’t soften the words. Your mom’s condition wasn’t worsening—but it also wasn’t improving. They’d be moving her into a more intensive unit, “just to keep a closer eye.” That was what they always said. A closer eye. As if that made it better.

You left the hospital numb, your body moving through the motions—bus ride, walking home, dropping your keys in the dish like muscle memory. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed without meaning to.

And before you knew it, you were opening your laptop. Not the mindless doomscrolling of nights past. Not some clip appearing on your for you page by accident.

You typed it out yourself this time.

Soobin. Variety show. “Faves Fave.”

Intentional.

The screen filled with thumbnails—bright, curated images of him laughing, grinning, clutching his stomach as he teased his guests. You clicked one. Then another. Then another. It was like oxygen after two weeks of holding your breath.

He looked… the same. Familiar and not. Confident, magnetic, a little shy around the edges if you knew where to look—which, of course, you did.

And then you found that episode.

The one with the “dating coach” guest.  Just a cute concept—flowers, mukbang, the whole club presentation skit . You watched with your chin in your hand, blinking slowly as he fiddled with his sleeves and answered questions with his soft, hesitant smile.

Until the girl leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and asked with a teasing lilt, “Soobin-ssi, what’s your type?”

He laughed first. Ducking his head, already shaking it. “You’re gonna make me get in trouble…” The staff cackled. The guest encouraged him.

“Someone who… leads?” he finally said, face pink and gaze darting away. “I’m more… I think I’m usually… the follower type.” The camera zoomed in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking utterly sheepish.

You sat frozen, mouse hovering over the pause button. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

It was the way he said it—like it wasn’t meant to be scandalous. Just honest. Earnest. And yet your brain short-circuited.

He wasn’t lying.

Over the next few days, you found yourself spiraling. Not in a dangerous way. Just… quietly. Internally. You kept replaying his words—the shy, almost whispered confession that he liked being led. That he was the follower, not the leader. It was a simple thing, but it hit you in a way you didn’t expect.

You found yourself wondering what that really meant—how it would feel to be the one guiding him, to be the person he trusted enough to follow. It was strange how just thinking about it made your chest tighten, your skin buzz with something like electricity. You tried to tell yourself it was just the stress, the exhaustion, the endless waiting for your mom to get better. But you knew better.

When you saw him again, it was like the air between you had shifted, though nothing had really changed. You were hanging out like usual—talking, laughing, stealing quick glances at each other—but now every look carried weight. Every casual brush of your hands or accidental touch sent your heart racing.

Soobin was the same—soft-spoken, a little awkward, but somehow more open, more vulnerable. He wasn’t joking when he said he liked being led. You could see it in how he deferred to you on small things, how he hesitated before making decisions, like he was waiting for your cue. And you? You were barely holding yourself together inside.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up dinner—your hands still a little flour-dusted, the kitchen smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary. You wiped them on your apron, heart skipping in a way that was maybe more than just nerves about having company. 

When you opened the door, Soobin was there, standing with that familiar, slightly sheepish smile that always made your chest tighten. His hair was a bit tousled from the wind, and his eyes held that soft, tentative look you’d come to know so well.

 “Hey,” he said quietly, voice low like he was trying not to disturb the calm. 

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in. 

He kicked off his shoes like he always did—neatly, side by side by the door, like a good guest. Like someone who belonged.

You didn’t say anything, just followed him with your gaze as he wandered into the kitchen, peering into the pot on the stove.

“Ooh,” he said, drawing out the sound, his voice lilting with approval. “It smells like… actual food. I thought you were just gonna microwave ramen.”

You rolled your eyes, your heartbeat thudding annoyingly fast. “Excuse you. I am a cooking god.”

He was joking. You knew that. Just Soobin being Soobin—soft and playful and a little smug without realizing it. But the way he leaned against your counter, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, collar loose…

Yeah. This was going to kill you. Because he had no idea.

No idea that you’d spent two nights watching him on screen—smiling, laughing, stupidly talking about his ideal type like it was just another throwaway question. Like it hadn’t rearranged something inside you.

“I’m usually the follower type,” he’d said.

And maybe it was stupid, the way your brain latched onto that. The way your body responded like it had been waiting for an excuse. You turned away quickly, grabbing bowls from the cabinet with more force than necessary. Focus.

“So,” he said behind you, “what’s the occasion?”

“What?”

“You cooked. For me. Without bribery or threats involved.” He leaned over your shoulder, just barely, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. “Should I be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “Maybe I missed having someone around who bugs me while I’m chopping onions.”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity. “So I am but a tool for your entertainment.”

You could feel the heat of him behind you—just barely there, just enough to make it impossible to think straight.

Tool for your entertainment, he’d said.

You nearly dropped the ladle.

God, he had no idea what that did to you.

Your brain, already frayed from too many late nights watching his interviews on loop—watching him smile at someone else, laugh at someone else's joke—now seized on that one line, innocent and offhand, like your nervous system needed a final push toward collapse.

"I’m the follower type."

Most people would’ve let it pass. A throwaway comment. But not you. Not after hearing the way he’d said it—voice low, almost shy, like it had slipped out by accident. Like it meant something.

And now here he was. In your kitchen. Wearing your hoodie. Joking about being your “tool,” like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and was testing your ability to not spontaneously combust.

“Sure,” you managed, ladling soup into a bowl with what you hoped was a steady hand. “An incredibly useful tool.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Wow. I’ve been demoted to household equipment. I used to be someone.”

You bit your lip.

Don’t laugh. Don’t think about what he said. Definitely don’t think about what that would look like.

You turned to hand him the bowl—and instantly regretted it.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faint sprinkle of freckles near his collarbone, the soft curve of his throat. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. And worse—close enough to see his smile up close, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that felt entirely, devastatingly sincere; his dimples on full display. 

You passed him the bowl with a shallow breath, eyes on anything but his face. He took it gently. But didn’t step away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now. Too soft. The kind of softness that pried things loose.

You looked up. Mistake number two. His brows were slightly furrowed, gaze searching—not teasing this time, not even curious. Just… concerned. Like he could feel the ripple of something under the surface but didn’t know where it led.

“I’m fine,” you said too fast, too light. “Just tired.”

He didn’t argue, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t buying it completely. Still, he nodded, letting the moment settle.

You grabbed your own bowl and sat down quickly, needing the table between you. Needing space. Needing something solid to keep you from doing something stupid like saying the actual thoughts screaming in your head.

He sat across from you, legs tucked up like always, like your living room wasn’t any different from his. Like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just accidentally unraveled you with a single joke and a borrowed hoodie.

Like he belonged here.

And you let him. Of course you did. Even now, even with your pulse skipping and your thoughts stuck on that clip. The one where he’d smiled, soft and unguarded, and said “I don’t mind being told what to do,” and the room had laughed, but you hadn’t.

Because it hadn’t felt like a joke to you.

It had felt like a truth. One he hadn’t meant to share. One you couldn’t unhear.

And now it sat in your chest like a secret too big to hold. A glowing ember you couldn’t stamp out.

He slurped a spoonful of soup and let out a satisfied hum. “So what’s in this? Other than the tears you shed while I was gone”

You swallowed hard, fighting for focus. “Garlic. Herbs. A careful measure of what’s left of my sanity.”

He snorted. “Well, it’s seasoned perfectly.”

You gave him a weak smile, cheeks already warm, though it had nothing to do with the stove.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore. This wasn’t normal. It was familiar, yes—but in a way that felt dangerous now. Because the more he settled back into your life, into your house, into the clothes you used to sleep in—the harder it became to separate who he used to be from what he was starting to mean now.

He had no idea. None. He didn’t know that every casual smile, every soft laugh, every offhanded comment was completely undoing you. You glanced up—and found him already watching you.

You froze.

“What?”

He blinked like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… quiet tonight.”

You looked down at your bowl.

“Yeah,” you said again. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered, and in the stretch of silence that followed, you wondered—just for a second—if he saw it. The shift. The crack in your composure. The storm is blooming just beneath your skin.

But then he took another bite. Casual. Comfortable.

And you sat there, across from the boy who was quietly ruining your life, wondering how much longer you could pretend it wasn’t happening.

—-

EIGHT YEARS AGO

It had been the class field trip to the mountains—the last big outing before graduation.

Everyone had been buzzing about it for weeks: a whole day out of school. You hadn’t planned on going at first—too many people, too much noise—but your friends insisted. And somewhere deep down, beneath your careful excuses, you knew Soobin would be there.

And yeah. Maybe that was the real reason you said yes.

The day itself was easy. Light. The sun shimmered across the water, laughter bounced off the docks. Soobin had helped pass out life jackets, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back by the wind, that easygoing smile on his face. He was joking with everyone, relaxed—but his eyes kept finding you. When he thought you weren’t looking.

You caught him once. Watching.

He smiled. You looked away.

It should’ve felt warm. Comforting. Safe.

But then, later—when everyone was crowded around a picnic table, eating soggy sandwiches and swatting mosquitoes—you overheard it.

Two classmates, sitting a few feet behind you. One of them is his friend. The other a notorious gossip.

“I’m telling you,” one said, tearing into a juice pouch. “Soobin was gonna ask her to the lake.”

“Her? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said he’d do it if she said yes to coming. But then he got all weird. Said she shuts down whenever he gets close. But, like, you can tell. He does everything she says. It’s kind of sad.”

You froze, a sandwich half-bitten in your hand.

He was going to ask you. You hadn’t imagined it. The quiet tension, the soft attention—it had meant something. And maybe, just maybe, it still would have meant something.

But then came the second realization. The one that burrowed deeper.

He would’ve done it just because you came. 

Because you said yes.

Because he always listened.

Because he always followed your lead.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because if he liked you like that—really liked you—then that meant being wanted. Being chosen. Again. And what had that ever brought anyone?

Everyone you loved either left or got sick. That wasn't a coincidence. That was you.

You had started to believe, somewhere in the quiet dark, that maybe you were the problem. That maybe there was something inside you—ruinous and invisible—that made people go. Like you carried a sickness only the people closest to you ever caught.

And Soobin? Soobin was the kind of boy who would’ve followed you straight into the storm, no questions asked.

He didn’t deserve that.

So you shut down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You avoided his gaze. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. When the canoes got pulled out, you volunteered for the group on the other end of the lake. You didn’t even sit near him on the bus ride back.

And the texts, later that night? Left unread.

When he approached you in the hallway the next week, worry in his eyes, asking if something was wrong—you shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. And then walked away.

You never told him why. Never told him that your silence wasn’t about him. It was about you. What you believed you did to the people who loved you.

He didn’t chase after you. Not out loud. But you saw him watching you in class a few times after that. Quiet. Like he was waiting for a sign that never came. The last time you saw him was three days after the hike. He was standing by the bike racks after school, bag slung over one shoulder, kicking gravel. He looked up when you walked out with your friends.

You paused.

He straightened. Took a half step forward. “Hey.”

You stopped. Barely. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to ask if I… said something wrong?”

He looked so unsure, so open, so soft. All you wanted was to walk back toward him. Say something. Say everything.

But you didn’t.

You gave him a weak smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” Then you left.

No final goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.

And that was the last time you saw Soobin. Before the auditions, the debut, the lights and cameras and screams and fame turned him into someone the whole world watched. You’d think about that moment by the fence. About how he would’ve done anything for you, if you’d only let him.

But you hadn’t.  Because somewhere deep down, you still believed you were the thing that made people sick. And you couldn’t let him catch it too.

So instead, you let him go. Quiet. Clean. Cowardly.

And the worst part?

You were never sure if he even hated you for it.

—

The soup was gone. The dishes were rinsed, half-drying on the rack.

The living room was dim now, only the lamp in the corner still on, casting long golden light over everything. The night had settled in soft around you—quiet, still, deceptively calm. Soobin was sprawled out on your couch, legs long and socked feet hanging off the edge like he forgot how tall he was. You sat on the floor with your back against the coffee table, scrolling through a playlist on your phone, pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of his presence. Of the warmth of his thigh brushing the cushion where your elbow rested. Of the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were looking.

“Wanna watch something?” you offered, keeping your voice casual. “You haven’t seen the new season of that show you liked, right?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, quiet for a second. “I kinda just wanna sit like this.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. Your mouth had gone dry. Because the way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was simple. Earnest.

Like this.

With you. In your space. With your things and your scent on the throw blanket and the memory of your hand on his guiding a knife hours ago. He turned his head a little, resting his cheek on the back of the couch.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” he said again. “Not just tired, quiet… It’s like…you’re thinking too much.”

You stared ahead at the wall, the grain in the wood, the dust in the lamp’s halo of light.

“I’m always thinking too much.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But this feels different.”

You drew your knees up to your chest, arms wrapping around them.

“I just…” You hesitated. “I think I’ve forgotten how to be around you.”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, trying to laugh, trying to swallow the tension, “we hang out like this and it’s supposed to feel easy, but it doesn’t anymore.”

He looked at you carefully. Slowly.

And then, softer than before: “Why doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer, then got up.

You thought maybe he was going to leave. But instead, he walked over and sat beside you on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder. Close. Warm.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

You turned your head. “You just did.”

He gave you a look, but there was no bite to it. Only hesitation.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

Your heart thudded.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not—” You exhaled hard. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?”

You turned your face toward your knees, hiding your expression. But his voice followed, low and careful.

“You didn’t do anything,” I say again, quieter this time—almost a whisper, like if I say it soft enough, maybe it’ll unravel the knot tightening in my chest.

Soobin stays still. Not a word. No response. He just waits.

And somehow, that silence makes everything harder to bear.

I press my cheek against my knee, voice muffled and uneven. “It just got me thinking… back in high school. That field trip to the mountains.” You don’t know why you’re bringing this up now. 

I feel the faintest tilt of his head, a subtle sign he’s listening, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“After that trip…” I trail off, twisting the sleeve of my shirt around my fingers, the fabric rough beneath my skin. “I don’t know why—” The words catch in my throat, and the room feels heavy with unspoken things. I swallow hard. “I don’t know why I stopped talking to you.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Because I know the truth, but it’s too fragile, too raw to say out loud.

Finally, I steal a glance at him—just for a moment.

His face softens. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, maybe something else too. Something like understanding. Or forgiveness.

And in that quiet exchange, it feels like a small crack opens in the wall between us—fragile, but real.

He shifts beside me, the couch groaning beneath his weight. Then, softly:

“I didn’t know,” he says.

His voice is different now. Not teasing. Not soft for the sake of comfort—but careful. Honest.

“I thought…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I thought maybe you didn’t like me. That I was too much.”

My heart stutters.

“You weren’t,” You say quickly, instinctively. “You weren’t too much. You were just…”

You falter again. He looks at you now—really looks at you—and you feel like he’s seeing through every version of you you’ve built up over the years.

“I overheard some guys talking about you,” You keep going, twisting the sleeve of your shirt around your fingers. “They said you were going to ask me out, maybe confess something.”

So much silence. 

“And it just... freaked me out.” 

You don’t say it lightly. You say it like a confession, like a weight lifted from your shoulders but also like a wound reopened. Because it costs you something to admit.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” You admit, voice catching a little. “The idea that you might like me... that I might have to say it back.”

You finally glance at him—just for a second. His face softens. A flicker of surprise, maybe something else.

“So I did the worst thing,” You confess, taking a shaky breath. “I avoided you.”

You swallow hard. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d forget. But I never did.”

He stays quiet longer than you  want. You think maybe You’ve ruined everything.

“You know,” he says after a long moment, “I used to think about that field trip a lot.”

You turn toward him.

“I kept wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t.”

He nods. “I know that now. But back then…”

His voice drifts. There’s a different kind of sadness in it. Not bitter. Just the kind that comes from remembering a version of yourself who didn’t know better.

“…I guess I needed you to say this more than I realized,” he finishes.

You both don’t say anything for a while after that. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full of things finally said, finally heard.

Then—like the Soobin you’ve always known—he cracks a crooked grin, glancing sideways at me.

“So…” he says, light but sincere, “now that we’ve established we were both emotionally constipated teenagers…”

You snort. “You’re the worst.”

He nudges your shoulder again, softer this time. “Just saying. We had a lot of potential for a coming-of-age drama. Tears, longing stares, tragic misunderstandings.”

“And a bad soundtrack,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, though something twists in your chest. “You would’ve done well with a sad ballad.”

“Oh, definitely,” he murmurs, looking forward now, like he’s watching a movie that only he can see. “Fade to black. Cue emotional credits.”

You smile faintly at that. Or maybe you try to. Because the warmth between you—the comfort, the quiet—it feels like something that could settle. Something that could stay.

But then the silence stretches again. Not like before. This one sharpens. Something shifts in the air, almost imperceptibly, and you feel it before you hear it. The way Soobin suddenly exhales, the weight in his shoulders changing.

You glance at him.

He’s not smiling anymore. His eyes darken with something unsaid—an emotion too raw to voice but too heavy to hide.

In that moment, the space between you changes. It’s no longer just a shared past. It’s a crossing point.

A line drawn. Between what was… and what could be.

And somehow, without words, you both know it.

This is the turning point.

The moment everything begins to change. His eyes darken, intense and searching, as they lock onto yours. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you—breath mingling, hearts hammering in sync.

guys...i reached the 1000 word block GO TO PAHT TWO