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kysstar · 10 days ago

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ENOUGH | KANG YEOSANG [birthday special 🎉]

pairing : : kang yeosang x fem!reader

synopsis : : it’s yeosang’s birthday, but comeback schedules keep him busy — until he comes home to a sweet surprise from you.

genre : : pure fluff

warnings : : none except yeosang being down bad for the reader

word count : : 1.7k

author's note : : happy birthday to our baby lemon! i love him so so much he deserves the whole world 🤧

—Yeosang woke up before the sun cracked over the skyline, the bedroom still dim and painted in that pre-dawn gray. He blinked slowly, body heavy with the ache of constant rehearsals, but he stayed quiet. You were curled into him, hair messy, breathing soft against his shoulder. He smiled, thumb grazing your arm in slow, absent circles.

You had wanted to make breakfast for him. The kind of breakfast that meant something — the one with his favorite fruit, the little rolled omelets he always swore tasted better when you made them, and coffee that was mostly milk, just the way he liked it. But he couldn’t stay. There was a stage today, an early call, and schedules stacked back to back.

Still, he stayed in bed a moment longer, his gaze tracing the curve of your cheek. You’d set an alarm, probably planned to wake with him, but he’d turned it off the second it buzzed. You needed sleep too. So he slid away from your warmth as gently as he could, lifting the blanket only just enough to slip out, moving like a shadow across the room.

Yeosang got dressed silently, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the room. He turned back to you before leaving. You were still asleep, your cheek pressed into the pillow, hair a mess, mouth parted slightly. He leaned down, brushed your hair back gently, and kissed your forehead, then your temple. Then, with a touch as light as the morning air, he kissed your lips.

“Leaving already?” you mumbled, voice husky and slow, one eye barely open.

He smiled softly, brushing your hair back. “Yeah… got work, remember?”

You shifted closer, your fingers lacing with his. You brought his hand to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, eyes still half-closed, clinging to that dreamy haze between sleep and wakefulness.

“Take care,” you whispered, your smile sleepy and small. “Happy birthday again, Yeo.”

His chest tightened with something quiet and fond. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you, thumb brushing over your knuckles. Then, finally, he whispered, “Thank you, darling,” and kissed your hand back.

He gave your hand one last squeeze, tucked the blanket a little higher over your shoulder, and made his way to the door. Just before leaving, he turned for one last look. You were already drifting back to sleep, lips curled into a faint smile, your hand still resting where his had been.

He smiled to himself, quietly, and slipped out into the morning light.

—The door clicked open quietly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the apartment. Yeosang stepped in, his shoulders weighed down with more than just the long day. It was nearly 11 PM. He had told himself he’d try to be home by dinner — that was the plan — but plans didn’t always work out in this industry.

There were still stages to rehearse, surprise birthday cakes from staff, a team dinner with the members he couldn’t say no to. They’d booked a private room, everyone clapping, laughing, sharing stories over bowls of hot stew and grilled meat. It was nice. But even as he smiled and raised his glass, part of him was somewhere else — here, with you.

He had texted you hours ago. I’ll be late. I’m sorry. I really wanted to spend tonight with you. You replied with a heart. But he knew how much you looked forward to birthdays — his birthdays.

So when he stepped inside, the dark apartment didn’t surprise him. You’d probably gone to sleep. He sighed, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. His heart sank a little, quiet and low. Of course you were asleep — it was late, and he'd missed it.

But then — before he could take another step — the room lit up.

Balloon strings swayed near his feet. Streamers crisscrossed the walls. And right in the middle of the living room, a banner spelled out Happy Birthday in bold, glittery letters. The dining table was covered with dishes — all his favorites — neatly laid out, still warm. And in the center sat a cake. Uneven frosting, a little crooked, but it was clearly homemade.

And there you were. Standing behind it all with a giant smile, hands raised in the air like a game show host.

“Happy birthday!”

Yeosang took a step back, letting out a breath that turned into a laugh, then covering his face with both hands, overwhelmed in the best way.

You walked toward him, gently pulling his hands away. “Hey,” you said, voice soft now, your fingers curling around his. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks. “Do you like it?”

He smiled, a little shy, the corners of his mouth curving in that soft, boyish way. “You didn’t have to.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? It’s your birthday. I should’ve done more.”

You stepped back, letting go of him just long enough to gesture to yourself. “Look! I even wore your favorite dress.” You twirled slowly, the hem flaring out, the fabric catching the warm glow of the lights.

But Yeosang didn’t look at the dress. His eyes stayed locked on you, unmoving. You tilted your head. “How do I look?”

He didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, took your wrist gently in his hand, and pulled you into him. His lips met yours in a sudden kiss, soft but sure. You gasped, a little surprised, but melted into it quickly, wrapping your arms around his neck. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, while his other hand rose to your cheek, grounding you both in that moment.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, “I love it.”

You giggled, cheeks already starting to warm as you grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the table. “Come on, come on,” you urged, making him stand right in front of the cake. He followed easily, still a little dazed, like the whole night had thrown him off in the best way.

You clasped your hands behind your back, swaying slightly. “I tried to make it myself,” you said, biting your lip. “It was supposed to be chocolate, but I think I messed up the frosting — it was too runny at first, so I added more sugar, then it got too thick, and don’t even ask what happened with the middle layer—”

Yeosang reached over and gently pressed a finger to your lips. “It’s pretty.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

He nodded, and your eyes lit up. That smile of yours — wide and glowing — nearly knocked the breath out of him. His heart squeezed a little. He clenched his jaw just to fight off the urge to squish you right there.

You quickly grabbed the lighter and lit the single candle in the center of the cake, then broke into the birthday song, singing with exaggerated cheer.

Yeosang didn’t take his eyes off you the whole time. He wasn’t even really listening to the song — just watching the way your shoulders swayed, the way you looked at him like no one else existed in the world. He didn’t even realize you'd finished until you gently nudged him with your elbow.

He blinked like coming back from a dream, turned to the cake, and leaned down to blow the candle out.

You clapped softly like it was tradition, then reached for the knife, cutting a small bite of the slightly uneven cake. Instead of grabbing a fork, you picked it up with your finger and held it up to his lips.

He leaned forward, letting you feed him. The frosting smudged the corner of his mouth a little.

“How is it?” you asked, hopeful.

He chewed, nodded with bright eyes. “It’s very nice.”

You smiled, relieved. “Really?”

Before he could say more, you sneaked a swipe of icing onto your fingertip and smeared it across his cheek in one swift motion.

His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. You gasped dramatically and took off running before he could speak.

“Yah!” he called out, chasing after you.

You ducked behind the couch, laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach. Yeosang darted around the other side, trying to corner you.

He leapt over one end of the sofa and you shrieked, skittering past the hallway and straight into the kitchen. You reached the counter, spinning around just as his arms wrapped around your waist, catching you in one clean pull.

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I give up!”

He pressed you gently back against the counter, trapping you between his arms. One brow arched. “Really?”

“Really,” you grinned, eyes squinting as you tried not to laugh harder. “I’m waving the white flag.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock thought. Then he leaned in slowly, cheek brushing against yours.

You whined. “Yeo!”

He started laughing, completely unbothered, clearly proud of himself. “I think we’re even now,” he said smugly. Your pout only made him grin wider.

Yeosang reached over to the counter, grabbed a few tissues, and turned back to you. He gently dabbed at the icing on your cheek, eyes focused like it was delicate work. You stood still, letting him clean you up, your smile lingering even as you tried to pout. He didn’t say a word, just moved quietly, then wiped his own cheek with the last corner of the tissue before tossing it into the bin.

Then he turned back and slid his arms around your waist again, drawing you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You rested your hands on his chest, looking up at him.

“After your comeback,” you said, “we’ll celebrate it properly. With everyone. A big party.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly, fingers playing absently with the hem of your dress. “This isn’t enough?”

You shook your head gently, your voice soft. “I mean—this is special. But I mean something bigger. With your family, with the guys. Everyone together.”

He said, “Well… you’re here.”

You gave him a small smile. “Well, I’m not enough.”

His brows pulled together at that, a subtle frown forming. He leaned in closer, cupping your face again like you might disappear if he didn’t hold you properly.

“Darling,” he said, voice firm but tender, “you are more than enough.”

#𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 #kang yeosang x reader #yeosang x reader #kang yeosang #yeosang #kang yeosang oneshot #yeosang oneshot #yeosang fluff #kang yeosang fluff #yeosang ateez #kang yeosang ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez oneshot #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #yeosang scenarios #yeosang fanfic

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kysstar · 11 days ago

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NOTHING BUT A BET? | PARK SEONGHWA (requested 💕)

pairing: park seonghwa x fem!reader

synopsis: seonghwa makes you fall in love with him, plays with your feelings just for a bet. when the truth comes out, you are left heartbroken.

genre: angst, hurt-comfort, fluff

warnings: mentions of y/n, heartbreak (happy ending!)

word count: 5k

—The living room of the off-campus house was pulsing with bass-heavy music, bodies pressed wall-to-wall, red cups in hand. On the battered brown couch sat three-quarters of a chaos unit—Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Wooyoung—drunk off their asses, and Yeosang, who might as well have been their designated babysitter, sipping the same watered-down drink for over an hour.

“Listen,” Wooyoung slurred, elbowing Hongjoong, “I’m telling you—out of all of us, I’ve had the best luck with girls.”

Hongjoong nearly spit his drink. “You literally got ghosted last week.”

“That was a fluke!” Wooyoung said, offended. “Besides, look at Seonghwa. You think he’s smooth? He’s just got that tragic pretty boy thing going on.”

Seonghwa scoffed, tipping back his cup. “Please. I could pull anyone here if I wanted to.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung leaned forward, smirking. “Anyone?”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Anyone.”

Wooyoung turned his head dramatically and pointed across the room. “Except her.”

In the far corner, you sat cross-legged on a beanbag, talking animatedly with your friend, gesturing with your cup. Your laugh carried through the noise—clear, unbothered. You looked like someone who didn’t care who was watching. And that annoyed the hell out of Seonghwa.

His face twisted. “Oh, her?”

Yeosang looked up from his drink. “You mean Y/N?”

Wooyoung nodded. “Yep.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Good. I wouldn’t want to pull her.”

Hongjoong snorted. “Why? Scared?”

“Not scared,” Seonghwa muttered. “I just—don’t like her.”

“Hwa, you’ve never even talked to her,” Wooyoung pointed out, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t need to. She’s everywhere. Top of every class, president of three clubs, always with people. Perfect GPA and somehow still has time to go out and laugh at parties like she doesn’t have five deadlines tomorrow.” Seonghwa downed the rest of his drink. “People like her are fake.”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow. “So you hate her for... existing?”

Seonghwa ignored him. “She’s fake. No one is that perfect without playing a part.”

“Or maybe,” Wooyoung said, “you just can’t stand someone being better than you.”

That hit harder than he expected. Seonghwa didn’t flinch—but he didn’t answer, either.

“So,” Wooyoung grinned, pushing his luck, “what if we make it interesting?”

“Oh god,” Yeosang muttered.

Wooyoung ignored him. “You say you can pull anyone. I say you can’t pull her. So prove it.”

Seonghwa looked at him, slowly. “You want me to make her fall for me.”

“Exactly.”

Yeosang sat up straight. “That’s messed up.”

“It’s not serious—”

“You’re playing with someone’s feelings.”

“If she even falls for him,” Wooyoung said, glancing at Seonghwa. “Which she won’t. She’s smart. She’ll see right through you.”

Hongjoong looked up, frowning. “This feels kind of gross.��

Yeosang chimed in again, more serious. “Yeah. You’re drunk. She hasn’t done anything to either of you. Don’t mess with someone’s feelings because of a bruised ego.”

But Seonghwa was already watching you again, eyes narrowed. You looked so untouched by the mess around you, like you didn’t even see him.

He looked back at Wooyoung. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Yeosang stared at him. “This is messed up.”

“Relax,” Wooyoung waved him off. “It’s just a dumb bet.”

But Seonghwa wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re on.”

—The dorm room smelled like instant ramen and coffee. It was too small for four grown men, but no one really cared. Yeosang was lying on the floor, hoodie hood pulled over his head like a corpse in mourning. Hongjoong was perched backwards on his desk chair, arms resting on the backrest. Wooyoung had claimed the beanbag, limbs everywhere. And Seonghwa, of course, was stretched out on his bed like he paid rent for the whole place.

“Did you guys read the email yet?” Hongjoong asked, yawning. “About the project.”

“Yeah,” Yeosang mumbled from the floor. “Thought it was gonna be groups, not pairs.”

“Professor Lim said it was too chaotic last time,” Wooyoung said. “Too many slackers hiding in big groups.”

“He’s not wrong,” Seonghwa added lazily, one arm behind his head. “Half of us didn’t even read the brief last time.”

There was a pause as they all pulled out their phones. A few seconds of scrolling—and then silence.

Yeosang was the first to speak. “No way.”

Wooyoung sat up straight. “Oh my god.”

Hongjoong blinked at the screen, then slowly turned his head to look at Seonghwa.

“…What did you do?”

Seonghwa didn’t even open his eyes. “Why?”

Yeosang sat up. “You and Y/N. You’re assigned together.”

“Really?” Seonghwa said, voice perfectly blank, like he’d just heard the weather forecast. He opened one eye, mock surprise in his tone. “That’s convenient.”

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “Don’t play dumb. What did you do.”

Seonghwa gave a slow, smug stretch and sat up against the wall, phone still resting on his chest. “I might’ve… browsed Professor Lim’s office hours.”

“You hacked him?” Hongjoong’s voice cracked.

“Don’t be dramatic. I just… nudged the spreadsheet a little.”

Wooyoung stared. “You literally committed academic fraud.”

“Relax,” Seonghwa said. “It’s not like I changed grades. I just made a better match.”

Yeosang ran a hand down his face. “This is so messed up.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond. He was leaning back against the wall, jaw tight with focus now, thumbing through his phone like the rest of the room didn’t exist. The buzz of the old desk fan hummed in the background, filling the silence with something just above white noise. His screen lit up—a DM notification.

From you.

He tapped it open. The message was short, polite, perfectly worded. You weren’t exactly friendly, but you weren’t cold either.

You: “Hey. Saw the partner list. When are you free to start working on the project? I’m good for evenings after 5, or weekends if needed. Let me know what works.”

Seonghwa reread it, twice. You really didn’t suspect a thing. No hint of suspicion, no passive aggression, nothing. You were just trying to be efficient.

Seonghwa: “Evenings work. Friday, maybe? Library or the cafe near campus?”

He hesitated, then sent it. Almost immediately, the typing bubble popped up.

You: “Let’s do the library. Easier to talk than in the cafe. I’ll bring the outline.”

He stared at your name in the message thread for a second, then backed out and tapped into your profile.

Your feed was clean but not curated—nothing felt fake. Study sessions at cafes, blurry photos from concerts, the occasional sunset from your dorm window. You didn’t post often, but enough. There was a rhythm to it, subtle but steady.

He scrolled through a few shots. You always had a cup with you when you studied. Sometimes tucked into the corner of the frame, other times front and center—iced coffee, mostly. Long plastic straws and condensation on the cup. Always the same place, always the same drink.

You also posted books—fiction mostly. Some film photos. A couple of shots from club events, one of you standing next to a booth you clearly helped organize, laughing at something off-camera. You looked at ease in those pictures.

He watched that photo a second too long before locking the phone and setting it face-down beside him.

This wasn’t going to be easy, not with someone like you. You didn’t try too hard. You didn’t need to. That was the difference.

But that didn’t matter. Because Seonghwa had already decided. He wasn’t backing out now. He was going to make you like him. Trust him. Fall for him.

And then?

Well.

He’d win.

—The library wasn’t packed, but there were just enough people scattered between tables to keep it from feeling dead. You’d picked a corner spot by the window—habit, really. Good lighting, fewer distractions, and easy to disappear into. Your laptop was open, and you’d already laid out your highlighters and printed notes, trying to look more focused than you felt.

Your eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of your screen.

Five minutes past.

It wasn’t a big deal. But still—you weren’t sure what to expect from Seonghwa. You didn’t know him. Not really. You’d seen him across classrooms, heard him speak when he had to. He wasn’t rude, just... hard to read. Always composed, never lingering too long in conversation. He gave the impression of someone who kept a deliberate distance.

And yet, here you were. Paired together.

You couldn’t lie—you were curious. Nervous too, maybe. You didn’t get nervous often, but something about this felt unfamiliar.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke your thoughts. You looked up.

Seonghwa walked in like he wasn’t in a rush—dark jacket layered over a hoodie, hair pushed back like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after walking in the wind. He wasn’t making an effort to look good, but somehow he still did. His expression was neutral, unreadable as always, but he was carrying two iced coffees.

He set one down in front of you.

You blinked. “You brought coffee?”

He nodded, slipping into the seat across from you. “Figured we’d be stuck here a while. Didn’t know what you liked, but this seemed safe.”

You looked down at the drink, mildly surprised. Iced coffee. Light on the milk. Just how you usually ordered it. You picked it up without thinking. “This is actually my favorite.”

His eyebrows lifted a little. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

He cracked the smallest smile. “Same.”

There was a small pause, not awkward, just quiet. You watched him take a sip of his own drink before leaning forward slightly to glance at your spread of notes.

“You’ve already started?” he asked.

You nodded, sliding a printed sheet across the table. “Rough ideas. I figured we’d need some kind of structure before we start writing.”

He looked it over, eyes scanning the page. “This makes sense. Clean layout.”

You were relieved he didn’t push back on anything. From there, the conversation settled into something... surprisingly easy. You discussed the angle for your project, divided tasks without tension, even threw in a few quick references to past classes that you’d both suffered through.

It wasn’t small talk, exactly, but it wasn’t stiff either. Just enough to start feeling like a real collaboration. A few times, you caught his eyes lingering—not in a weird way, just… watching.

You didn't overthink it.

When your laptop finally closed and the table was cleared of papers, Seonghwa leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing out the window before turning to you again.

“When do you want to meet next?”

You shrugged, thinking. “Wednesday works, if you’re free.”

“Same time?”

“Same place?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That works.”

You gave him a small smile, tapping your pen on the table. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He looked at your almost-empty cup, then back at you. “Anytime.”

—By Wednesday, everything felt like it was hitting at once. Third day of the week, but it might as well have been the seventh. Assignments had stacked up out of nowhere, your inbox was overflowing, and your club meetings were overlapping to the point that you didn’t even remember what you were supposed to be preparing for anymore. You hadn’t slept properly in three nights, unless you counted the accidental thirty-minute nap you took on your textbook at 3 a.m.

Your stomach was empty, your brain was foggy, and you were five minutes early to your meeting with Seonghwa—mostly out of habit.

You sat at the same table, eyes scanning over the notes you'd already read three times, just trying to hold focus. You weren’t sure you were absorbing anything anymore.

Then you heard him approach.

Same calm pace, same neutral energy. He placed a cup in front of you again—iced coffee, no words at first—and sat down. But this time, he didn’t dive into the project.

“Are you okay?”

You glanced up, blinking at him. He frowned. “You look tired.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just… midweek stress. It’s whatever.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Did you sleep?”

“Some,” you lied.

“When did you last eat?”

You hesitated. “I don't remember.”

His jaw tensed, and he leaned back slightly, eyes still on you. He didn’t press again, but he didn’t look away either. You dropped your gaze back to your notes, reaching for a pen, but before you could write anything, his chair scraped back.

You looked up, confused. “What—”

“We’re not doing this today.”

You blinked. “What?”

Seonghwa was already standing. “You’re out of it. You won’t retain anything we go through, and you’ll just end up feeling worse.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, firmer this time, more out of instinct than truth.

He shook his head. “No. You’re running on fumes. Come on.”

You didn’t move. “Seonghwa, we have deadlines. We can’t just—”

Before you could finish, he reached out and gently took your hand, tugging you up from your seat.

“Come on,” he said again, softer this time. “Trust me.”

You looked at him, searching for sarcasm or some kind of joke, but there was none. Just quiet sincerity. And maybe a bit of concern he wasn’t trying very hard to hide.

You sighed, shoulders slumping. Maybe he was right. Maybe the project could wait one night.

The campus convenience store was mostly empty by the time you and Seonghwa walked in. The lighting was a bit too bright, the music too random, but it was familiar. Comforting, in a weird way. Rows of snacks, instant meals, drinks in neatly stacked coolers—it felt like the kind of place where time slowed down.

You trailed behind him, still a little dazed from earlier. Your body hadn’t caught up with your brain yet. You weren’t used to someone pulling you out of your spiral before you crashed. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

Seonghwa moved with purpose, scanning the shelves like he did this often. He tossed a few things into the basket—ramen cups, a small pack of seaweed snacks, two bottled waters, and something sweet you hadn’t even seen. You reached over to add your own items, but he stopped you with a look.

“I got it.”

You frowned. “Let me at least pay for mine.”

He ignored that, heading to the counter before you could argue.

You followed him anyway, reaching into your bag as the cashier rang everything up. But just as you pulled out your card, Seonghwa blocked you with his arm.

“I said I got it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He looked at you sideways, mouth tugging up into a small smile. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

You stared at him for a second, then exhaled. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Outside, the night was cooler than before. The two of you found a seat at one of the tables outside the store—plastic and slightly uneven, but it worked. You peeled the lid off your ramen as Seonghwa passed you a pair of chopsticks, then cracked open his own cup like he’d done this a hundred times.

There wasn’t much talking at first. Just the quiet hum of vending machines behind you, the distant noise of other students passing by, and the soft clatter of chopsticks against plastic bowls.

You took a long sip of your iced coffee and let out a tired breath.

Seonghwa looked over, raised an eyebrow, then reached across the table and took the cup right out of your hand.

“Hey—”

He stood up and tossed it into the trash behind him without hesitation.

“What the hell?” you said, half-laughing, half-serious.

He came back, unfazed. “You don’t need more caffeine. You need food and sleep.”

You couldn’t help it—your mouth twitched. “You’re kind of bossy, you know that?”

He looked over at you, the faintest grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Someone’s gotta be.”

The conversation drifted after that. You ate quietly, occasionally sharing bites, occasionally throwing soft jabs at his snack choices. He talked more than he usually did in class, told you a story about his freshman-year roommate nearly setting their microwave on fire, and you laughed harder than you expected to.

Somewhere between bites and low conversation, something about him felt... easier. Like he wasn’t trying to impress you, he wasn’t performing.

When you finished, he stood first, gathering the trash into one bag. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back.”

The walk across campus was quiet, both of you watching your breath cloud up in the cool night air. When you reached the front of your dorm building, you stopped at the stairs.

“Well,” you said, turning to him. “Thanks. For the food. And... all of it.”

He shrugged, casual. “It’s nothing.”

You smiled, a small, honest thing. “Still. Thanks.”

He looked at you, eyes steady under the dim campus lights, and for a second it felt like something was about to be said. But then he just nodded.

“Get some sleep.”

You nodded back. “You too.”

And then you turned, walking up the steps, feeling lighter than you had all week.

—It was never dramatic with Seonghwa. He didn’t make grand gestures, didn’t say anything overly sweet or flirtatious. But you started noticing the little things. And somehow, those were the ones that stuck.

Like how he always showed up with an iced coffee before every study session, never asked, never forgot. Even when it rained. Even when you texted him, not to bother. It was always the same—light on the milk, just enough sweetness. Your order. He never made a big deal out of it, just set it down in front of you like it was routine now.

He kept snacks in his bag, the kind you liked. The ones you’d once offhandedly mentioned craving when you were running late and hadn’t had time to eat. The next time you met, he pulled out a packet without a word and tossed it across the table while you were setting up your notes.

Sometimes, when your energy was low and your eyes couldn’t focus on the screen anymore, he’d quietly pull your laptop toward himself and start working without needing you to say anything. Not taking over. Just picking up where you left off.

And the texts.

That surprised you the most. At first it was just about the project. Times, schedules, quick updates. Then it became something else—random observations from class, memes about how burnt out the semester was making everyone, late-night “still awake?” messages that somehow made you feel less alone.

You didn’t remember when it started exactly, but now, most nights ended with you lying in bed, phone glowing in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as you read through another one of his dry one-liners or the occasional deadpan voice memo. Sometimes you'd type out longer replies without meaning to, catching yourself enjoying the back-and-forth more than you probably should.

It was easy to tell yourself it was still about the project. But the project had started to fade into the background.

—Seonghwa knew his plan was working.

You were opening up, letting him in. Slowly, naturally. You laughed more around him now. Looked for him in lecture halls. Texted first. Smiled when he showed up with coffee like it still surprised you—like it meant something. And at one point, that’s all it was supposed to be: a strategy. A bet. A win.

But somewhere between the first fake smile and the first real one, he lost track of the game.

He didn’t mean to.

He didn’t mean to start looking forward to seeing your name light up his phone at 1 a.m. Or to memorize the way you tapped your pen when you were thinking. Or to notice how your nose scrunched ever so slightly when you couldn’t find the right word mid-sentence.

He didn’t mean to catch himself leaning in when you laughed, just to hear it better. He definitely didn’t mean to start picking out songs that reminded him of you, or saving stupid inside jokes in his notes app like some kind of idiot.

But the worst part?

He’d caught himself rereading your messages. Not just once. Often. Scrolling through your Instagram again—not to find leverage or patterns like he had in the beginning—but because your smile in those old posts made him feel something. Something still and soft and entirely outside his control.

And for a guy who usually kept everything locked tight, it was unsettling how easily you got past all that.

He didn’t mean to like you. He wasn’t supposed to. That was never the point.

But it was hard not to.

—The library was quiet, as it always was midafternoon—low light, the faint scratch of pens, pages turning, the occasional squeak of a chair. You weren’t planning to stay long, just grab a few books for the paper you were working on. Your steps were light, familiar with the shelves by now, weaving past rows without thinking.

You were about to leave when you heard Yeosang's voice.

“Hwa, how long are you going to keep this up?” Yeosang asked, his voice tense. “It’s not fair to her. You’re playing with her feelings.”

Your heart froze. Her?

Seonghwa shifted uncomfortably. “I—It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

Wooyoung chuckled lightly. “Come on, Seonghwa. You’re doing her a favor. She’s having the time of her life.”

You took a step closer, straining to hear, feeling a knot form in your chest.

“But I didn’t mean for it to—” Seonghwa started, but Wooyoung interrupted.

"Why are you complaining? You've won the bet! You made Y/N fall for you."

Your blood ran cold. The realization hit you like a wave crashing over rocks. The time spent with Seonghwa, the laughter, the shared moments—it was all a lie. A bet.

You couldn’t breathe. Everything between you and Seonghwa had been fake. He had never cared. He had only been using you to win a bet.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you stood there, frozen. You didn’t even realize Seonghwa had spotted you until his voice cracked through the air.

“Y/N…”

You shook your head, your vision blurring with tears. The betrayal cut deeper than you could have imagined. You took a step back as Seonghwa stood up, his hand outstretched.

“Please, Y/N, let me explain—”

But you couldn’t bear to hear it. You turned on your heel and fled, leaving Seonghwa calling your name behind you.

Seonghwa stood in the library, watching you leave, a sinking feeling in his chest. He wanted to chase after you, to explain, but how could he? The truth was out now, and he knew it. He had hurt you in the worst possible way.

Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Hongjoong sat in silence, the gravity of what had just happened settling heavily around them.

Yeosang sighed, his voice soft but firm. “I told you. You were playing with her heart.”

Seonghwa slumped back into his chair, guilt gnawing at him. He didn’t care about the dare anymore. He didn’t care about winning the bet. All he cared about was the girl who had just walked out of his life—the girl he had fallen for without realizing it.

—You tried to go on like nothing happened.

Assignments still had deadlines. Club meetings still ran late. Life kept moving, indifferent to your pause. But everything felt heavier now—like your body was dragging through water, every step a little slower, every breath a little tighter.

You kept your head down in lectures, sitting further from the front than usual. You stopped raising your hand. You stopped staying back to chat with classmates after. You weren’t trying to be dramatic—you just didn’t have the energy to pretend like you weren’t walking around with a chest full of cracked glass.

You avoided the library.

You used to love that place. It was quiet and familiar and reliable. Now, all you could see were the shelves where you overheard your own name, turned into a joke, a prize.

Now even the small things betrayed you. Every time your phone lit up with a notification, your stomach dropped for half a second—before you remembered you’d blocked his number. Every iced coffee you passed in someone else’s hand felt like a punchline you weren’t in on anymore.

People asked if you were okay. You smiled and said you were tired. Everyone was tired—no one questioned it. That made it easier to lie.

You still saw him sometimes. From across the courtyard. In the hallway. Once in class, slipping into a seat two rows behind you. You didn’t turn around. Didn’t flinch. But you felt it—his presence like static, loud even in silence.

You didn’t want to hate him.

You just wished he’d never made you think you were anything more than part of a game.

So you worked. You threw yourself into your clubs, let your schedule pile up until there was no room left to think. You said yes to things you didn’t want to do just to keep moving. Just to stay one step ahead of whatever it was that would catch up if you slowed down long enough to let yourself feel again.

But when you got home at night, and it was quiet, and your phone didn’t light up anymore—

That’s when it hurt the most.

—Seonghwa hadn’t expected the silence to last this long.

At first, he thought maybe you just needed space. A day. Maybe two. Enough time to cool off, process it, come back with questions he could try to answer. He told himself he’d explain everything—the bet, yes, but also how it stopped being about the bet long before he realized it.

But the texts stayed unread.

The apology he sent—long, quiet, honest—was met with nothing. Not even the little "seen" mark. Calls went straight to voicemail. When he tried to talk to you on campus, you didn’t even look at him. You just kept walking, like he wasn’t there.

And it was starting to eat him alive.

He saw it in your face first—how different you looked now. Not angry. Just... dulled. Like something in you had been dimmed. You walked slower. Didn’t meet people’s eyes. The same girl who used to light up entire classrooms with her energy was suddenly small, withdrawn. Like she was trying to shrink herself.

And every time he saw it—your silence, your avoidance, your tired, guarded eyes—it hit him like a second punch to the gut. Not because of the guilt, but because he missed you. More than he knew how to say. More than he thought he ever would.

He found himself scrolling through old messages late at night, the ones you’d sent when you trusted him. Jokes. Rants. Small, vulnerable pieces of your day. He used to reread them with a smile. Now, they just made his stomach twist.

He hated himself for playing the game. For thinking he could keep it all under control. For thinking you'd never find out. But more than anything, he hated how much of your light he’d snuffed out just by being careless with it.

He kept trying—short texts, brief glances in your direction when you crossed paths. Hoping for eye contact, for anything. Even a glare would’ve been better than your indifference. At least it meant you still felt something, but you didn't.

But that didn’t mean he stopped trying to make it right.

He stayed quiet, but he noticed things. Like how you started going to the smaller study room on the third floor instead of the main library. So he started showing up early and leaving things behind—small, easy things. A granola bar. A bottle of water. Once, a pack of your favorite gum.

No notes. No name. But he hoped you knew.

When it rained again and you left class without an umbrella, he watched you walk into it like you didn’t care. That night, there was a plain black umbrella left leaning against the door to your dorm. He didn’t wait to see if you’d take it.

He stopped texting. It took everything in him not to. He typed messages constantly, late at night—“I’m sorry.” “I miss you.” “Please talk to me.” But he never sent them. You deserved peace. Not pressure.

He didn’t want you to feel obligated to forgive him. He didn’t think he deserved it. But he hoped—selfishly, silently—that maybe, when you were ready, you’d see it. The way he was still here, even now.

And maybe you’d know he was sorry. Not just for the lie, or the bet—but for ever making you question the way you loved, the way you trusted him.

—You noticed the little things. Even when you didn’t want to. Even when you told yourself you were done with him.

The granola bar left on the desk in the small study room? You hadn’t mentioned that brand to anyone except Seonghwa—once, casually, during a study session weeks ago. You thought it was a coincidence at first. Then it happened again. A bottle of water. A coffee coupon tucked under a paperweight. No name. No note. But you knew.

And when it rained, hard and sudden, and you left your umbrella in a rush—again—there it was. Waiting outside your dorm, leaned up like it had been placed carefully, like someone made sure it wouldn’t fall over. Plain black, no label. Your old one had been just like it.

You never saw him drop anything off. He didn’t hover. He didn’t text. He didn’t chase you. But it was him. You knew it in your chest.

And that made it harder.

Because you were still angry. Still hurt. You remembered the way your heart stopped in the library. The way the air left your lungs when you heard your name twisted into something so careless. You remembered the silence when you stood there, books at your feet, and he didn’t run after you fast enough to stop it.

But then you’d see something small—like a snack tucked behind your laptop at the club room, or notes from a class you missed, printed and annotated the way you used to do for him—and your chest would ache in that awful, soft way.

Because even now, after all of it, you didn’t hate him.

You wanted to. God, you tried. But love doesn’t switch off like that. You loved the version of him that made you laugh, that remembered your coffee order, that walked beside you at night like it was second nature.

It frustrated you. Not because he was trying—but because a part of you wanted to trust him again. And that felt like a betrayal of yourself.

You didn’t owe him anything. You reminded yourself of that every time you caught your eyes lingering on the familiar slope of his shoulders in a crowded hallway. Every time you noticed the gum, or the coffee, or the fact that he still showed up—even if it was always from a distance.

But the ache never fully left. And it didn’t feel like it was going to. So, against your better judgment, you texted him.

“Can we talk?”

—The park was quiet, scattered with a few students walking or sitting on benches, but mostly still. You waited by the path near the tall row of trees.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him. “Y/N,” Seonghwa said, voice soft as he approached, careful not to move too fast, like he knew you might run.

You looked out past him toward the trees before speaking. “I’ve been thinking,” you said quietly. “About what happened. About you. About me.”

You took a breath. “It hurt, Seonghwa. More than I think I even let myself admit. I trusted you. I believed you were real with me. And when I found out it started as a bet, it made me question everything—every word, every moment. Like none of it was mine to hold onto.”

“I know,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I know I ruined that.”

You glanced down at your hands, then back at him. “But… I’ve also seen what you’ve done since then."

His expression cracked, just slightly—enough to let the regret show. “I didn’t want to make things worse. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it without crowding you.”

“I wanted to hate you,” you said. “I tried. But I didn’t. I don’t.”

That made him freeze. His eyes locked on yours. “I want to trust you again,” you said. “I do. But it’s not easy. It’s going to take time. And I’m not promising anything more than that right now.”

For a moment, Seonghwa stood frozen, processing your words. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch was warm, and careful, like he was afraid you might pull away. He gazed into your eyes, his own filled with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I swear to you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I will never, ever hurt you like that again. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m worth trusting. I promise.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the warmth of his hands on your cheeks grounding you as your heart fluttered in your chest. You could feel the truth in his words, the genuine regret and longing behind them.

Slowly, almost instinctively, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the tension between you melted away. When you opened your eyes again, Seonghwa was still watching you, his gaze filled with hope and affection.

You held his gaze. “No more games.”

“Never again.”

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