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levanterhaze · 3 days ago

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ENDGAME, hwang hyunjin

✦ swimmer!hyunjin x f!reader ― enemies to lovers, or idiots to lovers? this chapter is pure teasing and hyunjin being flirty and silly

✦ synopsis ― At university, she’s got it all: grades, committees, a perfect reputation. The only problem? Hyunjin, the golden boy swimmer she’s supposed to tutor. Smug, competitive, and impossible to deal with, he’s always pushing her buttons. But as his perfect facade cracks, she starts to see the real him. Resisting his charm? Way harder than she expected.

✦ (5.9k) ― Wow, I was so excited for this one! I decided to post it earlier (because yes?) and wanted to give a few warnings before we start: this story will be a series. And it is PURELY FICTIONAL. None of the characteristics of the SKZ relate to reality. This will not happen in any way, either to them or to their relatives, who are also not connected to real-life relatives. Throughout the plot, we will discuss themes such as anxiety and physical abuse (nothing sexual). If you feel comfortable reading this, I'm happy for you to continue, but if you feel uncomfortable or triggered by these topics, I ask that you stop here and respect your limits.

You say you're sorry, but it's too late now So save it, get gone, shut up 'Cause if you think I care about you now Well, boy, I don't give a

“Please, have a seat, Miss.” Dean Moon gestured to the chair like he was hosting brunch, not summoning you at 8:03 in the morning with zero context.

You smiled, a nervous, overly polite kind of smile and sat down, legs crossed at the ankles like this was a test you didn’t study for but were still expected to ace. Your heart was beating loud enough to sue for noise pollution.

“Good morning, sir.” Sweet. Polite. Borderline fake. “Did something… happen?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry!” He laughed, shaking out the sleeves of his suit jacket like this was totally casual and not setting off every internal alarm you had. “This meeting is for... other purposes.”

Right. Totally reassuring. Your spine relaxed by exactly half a centimeter, but your hands were still sweating through your skirt like they had a personal vendetta. Sure, you hadn’t done anything wrong, but guilt is a shape-shifter. It sneaks in even when you know you're innocent. And your scholarship? Always felt like it could vanish with one administrative sneeze.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. Dean Moon’s secretary poked her head in and announced someone else had arrived.

He smiled. “Send him in.”

You frowned. Him?

And then… of course. Because if life was a movie, the next scene would be accompanied by a dramatic string quartet.

The empty seat beside you was no longer empty. A tall figure strolled in like he had a personal fan blowing wind through his neck-length black hair. Slim build, smug aura, that walk that screamed, I know you hate me and I thrive off it. Hwang Hyunjin.

He dropped into the chair like it owed him money, backpack hitting the floor with a soft thud. Didn’t even spare you a glance. Rude. Predictable. On brand.

Dean Moon let out a breath that sounded like it had been aging in a wine cellar.

“Miss, are you already acquainted with Mr. Hwang?”

You turned your head, the disdain subtle but intentional. Hyunjin finally looked at you, his gaze sharp but undeniably amused. A smile, barely there, half-smirk, half-provocation, appeared on his lips.

You returned it. Just enough not to be rude.

“If this is another lecture, go ahead, Mr. Moon.”

Hyunjin stretched out like he owned the place, one leg flung out, arms loose, casual in the way that made you want to slap the arrogance right off of him. Meanwhile, you sat perfectly upright, hands clenched in your lap, trying not to soak through the fabric.

God, what was this meeting?

“Actually, Mr. Hwang, I’m not here to punish you,” the dean began, tone clipped, direct. “The truth is, this is a last attempt to get you back on track.”

The silence that followed was heavy, almost surgical in how it cut through the room. You shifted slightly in your seat, uncomfortable, not because of what was being said, but because you didn’t understand why you were here to witness it. You knew of Hyunjin. Everyone did. But you'd never exchanged more than passing glances. And now, somehow, you were being dragged into whatever academic mess he’d managed to spiral into.

“In case you’re unaware,” the dean continued, voice calm but edged, “sitting beside you is one of our most distinguished journalism students. She runs the campus newspaper, holds membership in one of the university’s most selective sororities, and sits on nearly every committee worth being on.”

You gave a polite smile. A humble one. Maybe even a little smug. Because, well, he wasn’t wrong. You’d worked hard for this reputation, and being that student had its perks. At the very least, it earned you some room to breathe in a cutthroat environment. This wasn’t bragging. It was just... fact.

“Cool. So what?”

His voice cut through the room like glass cracking. Flat, indifferent. You blinked at him. What a joy it must be to have the emotional range of a houseplant.

“I’m telling you this, Mr. Hwang, because your professors have brought something to my attention that deeply concerns me. Your academic decline isn’t just unfortunate, it’s unacceptable.”

The air in the room tightened. You shifted again. Not from discomfort, this time, but from the tension radiating off the dean’s voice.

“And before you even start, I’m well aware of your injury. And your medical reports.”

“So?”

You turned your head slightly, surprised at how unfazed he looked. Either he didn’t care, or he’d perfected the art of pretending not to.

“You see,” the dean continued, voice slower now, like he was spelling out something he wasn’t sure either of you wanted to hear, “you two are opposite ends of the same rope.”

You frowned. “Sorry, sir. I’m not sure I follow.” You tried to keep your tone neutral. No one likes sounding clueless in front of an audience.

He offered a small smile. “You are, without question, one of our best students, perhaps the best. And you” he turned to Hyunjin, expression thinning into something halfway between pity and patience. “were the best athlete we had. Emphasis on were.”

Another pause. Another silence. Then he dropped it.

“That’s why, after careful discussion, your professors have reached a consensus. We’re implementing a support plan for you, Mr. Hwang. Effective immediately, your academic tutor for the rest of the semester will be her.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. And then the words finally settled. What?

Your gaze darted between the dean and Hyunjin, a smile pulling at your lips out of pure disbelief. Your mind immediately jumped to your planner, your back-to-back deadlines, your committee meetings, your editor responsibilities, your already chaotic calendar and there it was: absolutely no space for babysitting disinterested swimmers with an attitude problem.

And yet, here you were. Congratulations.

“To be fully transparent,” Dean Moon said, leaning forward with a sigh that carried the weight of way too many faculty meetings, “you’re in a rather... delicate position, Mr. Hwang.”

Hyunjin didn’t blink. You, however, were already bracing yourself.

“You’re currently failing at least five classes. You haven’t competed in months because of your injury and then there’s the never-ending trail of... questionable decisions you seem to collect like trophies.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

The words came out sharp, dismissive, and soaked in arrogance. You frowned, biting your tongue for exactly two seconds before speaking up.

“Dean Moon, I completely understand the importance of all this, but, honestly, I’m already drowning in responsibilities. The newspaper, the committee, the sorority... and, well, I still need time to study.”

The dean nodded like he’d been expecting the objection. “I hear you. That’s why we’ve decided to bring in an additional member for both the paper and the committee to help carry the load. I know it’s unconventional, but truthfully, I couldn’t think of another student more qualified than you for this role.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but you did. It felt like someone had just handed you a gold star and told you that you were the blueprint. Meanwhile, Hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh and shifted in his chair like he was being forced to attend a school play.

“I’m still here, you know,” he muttered. “And I don’t need a babysitter.”

Dean Moon turned to him, tone cooling. “Mr. Hwang, I’ve always appreciated the contributions you and your family have made to this university. But that doesn’t excuse your current behavior or your choices. It would be a shame to lose you.”

Lose him? You straightened slightly. That wasn’t just a warning, it was a threat. He could actually be removed. Just like that. Athletic golden boy or not.

The dean turned to you again, his expression softening. “And as for you, Miss… Your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. Which is why we’re considering you for the Paris exchange.”

You froze. Wait. Paris?

Your brain struggled to process the words. Only three students were selected for that program every year, fully funded, six months in the most picturesque city on earth, studying, exploring, breathing art and culture. It was the kind of opportunity people wrote in their scholarship essays just to sound ambitious.

Something flickered in your chest. Excitement? Hope? Guilt?

Because as incredible as the offer was… this wasn’t how you imagined earning it. You’d built your reputation through years of effort. You weren’t the kind of student who needed an arrangement to win anything. And yet, could you really say no?

Exchange programs didn’t exactly fall out of the sky.

“Is that all?” Hyunjin asked, voice bored, eyes fixed on a point somewhere far away from reality.

The dean nodded once, brisk and final.

“Yes. That’s all.”

But it didn’t feel like just anything. Not to you. Not anymore.

You both rise at the same time, the chairs scraping faintly against the polished floor. Hyunjin looks at you, more specifically, through you, as if you're just another obstacle in his day, one that had the audacity to breathe in his path.

His gaze drops, then climbs, slowly, deliberately, as though he’s analyzing an artifact from a long-dead civilization. You don’t flinch. You just meet his eyes and hold the stare, expression unreadable.

“I expect to see results, Mr. Hwang. We’re all counting on you.”

The dean’s voice cuts in, formal and final. Hyunjin shifts his attention toward him, and you watch his jaw tense, a single line etching itself between his brows. He bends to pick up his backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and walks out without a word or even a glance back.

You offer the dean a courteous nod and step into the hallway, the carpet beneath your shoes muffling your steps. The lighting hums faintly overhead, casting shadows down the corridor. As you round the corner, you spot Hyunjin ahead, already halfway across the campus square. His headphones, previously tangled in his oversized hoodie, are finally in place, the cords bouncing against his chest as the wind ruffles his dark hair.

Of course he didn’t wait. You quicken your pace, your shoes clearly not designed for pursuit. “Hwang Hyunjin!” you call out, breath catching on the second syllable.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. You watch him walk like nothing exists behind him, like you don't exist behind him.

You roll your eyes, more annoyed than winded, and keep going. By the time you reach the front of the cafeteria, you manage to close the distance and tap him on the shoulder.

“Hwang Hyunjin.”

He turns, pulls out one earbud, and lets it dangle around his neck. His face is blank, slightly flushed from the breeze, but his expression reads like a page you weren’t invited to write on.

“What?” he says, like he’s genuinely confused. Like you’re a stranger who just mistook him for someone else.

“I wanted to know how this is going to work.”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

“What’s going to work?”

“The tutoring.”

At that, he lifts his chin, as if you’ve finally said something that registers on his radar.

“Right. That,” he says slowly, like the concept physically pains him. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

And then, he turns. Just turns and walks away, easy and unbothered, as if that conversation had run its course. As if you weren’t still standing there trying to make sense of his absolute lack of interest in saving his own academic life.

You call after him, not letting it slide. “Wait… are you serious? You heard what Mr. Moon said. You’re failing half your classes. If you keep this up, you’re not just sitting out a semester, you’re repeating it.”

Hyunjin glances back over his shoulder, eyes dull like he's already somewhere else.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you say, voice syrupy with sarcasm. “But it sounds like you’re the one who missed what the dean said.”

Before he can respond, he closes the distance between you in a single, measured step, too close, too confident.

“I don’t give a shit what the dean says,” he says, low and steady, eyes burning with something between defiance and boredom. “And I sure as hell don’t need a babysitter. Especially someone like you.”

The words hit hard, but not in the way he wants. You don’t flinch, just narrow your eyes. Because this? This isn’t just arrogance. This is him being deliberately cruel.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you say, keeping your voice calm even as your fists curl at your sides.

He smirks like he’s just won something.

“Cool. Then we’re even, miss perfect.”

And with that, he turns on his heel, headphones already slipping over his ears as if the entire confrontation was just background noise.

Within seconds, he’s swallowed by the crowd, just another student with too much ego and not enough accountability. But you’re left standing there, jaw tight, pulse high, and one thing suddenly very, very clear:

This is going to be hell. And you’re not letting him win it.

You were halfway through pretending to study when Goeun slid into the sorority living room holding two iced coffees like they were offerings to the gods.

She handed you one, and just the smell of sweet caramel hit your bloodstream like adrenaline. For a second, a blissful second, you forgot Hyunjin even existed.

The disappointment hadn’t left, though. Not because of him, God, no. You weren’t losing sleep over some washed-up golden boy with a bad attitude and a face that knew it. What stung was Paris. A dream that had always felt lightyears away, suddenly handed to you like a wrapped gift, only for someone else’s mess to start untying the bow.

The dean’s voice still echoed at the back of your mind like a song you didn’t want stuck in your head. Hyunjin this, Hyunjin that. All you really knew about him was that he used to swim like his life depended on it, stacked medals like trading cards, and then vanished from the pool after one bad injury.

That, and his whole reputation for turning campus into his personal dating app. His name alone probably made half the girls in school short-circuit.

“I’m so tired I could sleep with a straw in my mouth,” Goeun groaned, collapsing into the seat across from you at the white table like gravity had won.

You snorted and took a sip. It was already past ten, but if you wanted to keep your GPA alive, this was the only time your planner didn’t scream busy.

“Don’t even get me started. Today chewed me up and spit me out.” You scrolled your iPad again, trying to decode an article that now looked like alphabet soup. The words blurred together. Nothing made sense.

“You need rest, babe. The exams are in two months, and let’s be real, you’re gonna ace them. Everyone knows that.”

“There’s no such thing as a sure thing,” you muttered, eyes locked on the screen. “I want a good grade, not a gamble.”

Then you heard it, the creak of footsteps, followed by Soojin’s entrance, wearing what could only be described as an outfit with intentions. Her lipstick was fading, her heels were in hand, and she was smiling like someone who had stories she wasn’t sure she should tell.

She waved lazily. “Night,” she said, crossing to the table.

“Where were you?” Goeun asked, her nose wrinkling slightly. The air around Soojin practically reeked of tequila and cheap beer.

“Party,” she answered, completely unfazed.

“It’s Monday,” you said flatly.

She held up her hands. “I know. But Chaewon dragged me. One of the frats was having a thing.”

Of course they were. Nothing screams “academic excellence” like a beer pong tournament before midterms. What surprised you was Soojin being home early from said party.

“So? What happened?” Goeun narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, everything was fine until some girl full-on slapped Hwang Hyunjin across the face. Like, open-handed. Public. Loud. Called him a bunch of names. A real mess.”

You blinked. Well, that got interesting fast.

“I don’t know who she was,” Soojin added with a shrug, “but she had serious rage in her eyes. Minho shut the whole thing down after that. Everyone bailed.”

You just sipped your coffee, expression neutral, but the tiniest smirk tugged at your mouth. You didn’t know the girl either, but you respected her. Honestly? He kind of earned it.

“I’m dead,” Soojin yawned, wiping at her smudged eyeliner. “Good night, girls.”

Her footsteps echoed as she disappeared up the stairs, leaving the scent of liquor and drama behind her.

“Frat boys are so predictable,” Goeun muttered, dragging out the word with a dramatic eyeroll.

You hummed in agreement and took another sip. The caramel was still sweet. The burn of ambition was still hotter.

“That place is a disaster,” you added, shaking your head. “I’m shocked the house hasn’t caved in yet.” You didn’t look up from your screen.

“From what I hear,” she said, almost absently, “it’s still standing because of Hyunjin.”

You glance at Goeun, curiosity tugging at your expression.

“What do you mean?”

She takes another sip of coffee and speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, come on. He’s loaded. His parents went here, his dad donates to the university, probably has a building named after him or something. That’s why Hyunjin’s still treated like royalty even after pulling so much crap.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of crap are we talking about?”

Goeun leans in slightly, lowering her voice just for drama. “Rumors. But, like… he smokes around town, got into a fight with a basketball player not too long ago, broke the guy’s nose. And guess what? Nothing ever happens. No suspension, no consequences. Money talks.”

You absentmindedly tap your fingers on the table, your thoughts running miles ahead. Suddenly, the dean’s cold tone and loaded warnings about Hyunjin made more sense. He wasn’t just a fallen star, he was a cautionary tale. A kid who once had everything going for him and let it rot. And now, somehow, that mess of a boy was your responsibility? Your jaw clenches. Maybe the universe did you a favor by pulling that tutoring offer. Saving you the headache of trying to fix someone who clearly didn’t want to be fixed.

“Still,” Goeun hums, stretching her arms above her head, “he’s ridiculously hot. Shame he’s kind of a walking red flag.”

You can’t help but laugh, even if you shoot her a look of mock disapproval.

Goeun pushes back her chair with a sigh. “Okay, I’m calling it. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll collapse face-first into the floor.”

She grabs her coffee cup and heads toward the stairs.

“You coming?” she asks, her long black hair swaying behind her like a curtain.

You shake your head, offering a tired smile. “In a minute. Good night, Goeun.”

“Good night, genius,” she teases over her shoulder before disappearing upstairs.

The sun hits like a personal attack.

Golden, intrusive, and way too enthusiastic for someone running on five hours of sleep and three iced coffees. You smooth down the wrinkle on your light blue dress, hair still damp from the quickest shower known to mankind, when a knock echoes through the sorority house.

From somewhere in the hallway, Goeun’s voice floats out, groggy and suspicious. “Who the hell is it?”

A pause. Then a voice you absolutely didn’t expect to hear before noon or ever, if the universe had any sense of peace.

“I’m here to see the boss.”

Goeun blinks at the door like it just insulted her. “...Come again?”

You step out, one earring in, the other dangling between your fingers. Goeun turns to look at you, eyebrows arched so high they might detach from her face. “Girl, it’s for you,” she says, like you’ve committed a crime.

And then you hear it again, his voice. And it is him.

“Hwang Hyunjin?”

That single syllable detonates down the hallway. Suddenly, there’s a parade of girls in oversized t-shirts and pastel socks poking their heads out like gossipy meerkats.

“Wait. Is that Hyunjin Hyunjin?”

“The swimmer?”

“Why does he know where we live?”

Hyunjin doesn’t bother answering. He’s far too entertained. His eyes are locked on you from behind the half-wall of curious heads, and he’s got that same cocky tilt to his mouth, like he’s fully aware of the chaos he brings just by existing. The dark blue coat with the turned-up collar doesn’t help.

“Can we talk?” he asks, eyes flicking to your legs for half a second before snapping back to your face, just fast enough to feign innocence, just slow enough to make sure you noticed.

You sigh, already done. “Out. All of you.” A round of dramatic groans and not-so-subtle giggles later, you're alone again.

You brush past him, letting the door slam behind you, and head for the front garden, manicured, boring, better than talking in front of an audience. You stop on the path, turn around, arms crossed.

“You’ve got two minutes. Use them wisely.”

Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your dress. You catch it. Ignore it. Don’t give him that.

“I changed my mind,” he says, like it’s a weather report. “About the tutoring thing.”

You squint. “Oh, now you want a babysitter?”

He runs a hand through his hair like it’s scripted. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘I don’t give a damn what the dean says,’ and ‘I don’t need a babysitter, especially not one who thinks she’s better than everyone else.’ Ring a bell?”

He exhales through his nose. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly in the mood yesterday.”

“That’s one way to frame being a dick.”

He half-laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, fair.”

You tilt your head. “So now what, you realized flunking isn’t hot?”

“I realized I need to pass. And that maybe you’re not as unbearable as I initially thought.”

You blink. “Wow. I feel so honored.”

He gestures between you. “Look, I’ll keep my mouth shut, you explain whatever you need to, and in exchange, I don’t drown in academic probation. Sounds fair?”

You study him for a beat, but he doesn’t look away this time. And maybe there’s a flicker of something else behind his usual smirk. Not quite vulnerable. But not just cocky charm, either.

“Fine,” you say eventually. “But we do this my way.”

He grins. “So... should I text you or what?”

“Nope.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t give your number to guys who show up at your door looking like this?”

“I give my email to guys who think they’re clever.” You take his phone and type without looking. He watches, amused.

“An email? Really? Is this 2008?”

“There. Send me your schedule. I’ll see if I feel like making time.”

He glances at the screen and grins. “Professional. Got it.”

You’re already walking backward toward the house. “Your two minutes are up.”

“Right on time,” he says, that infuriating lilt in his voice like he’s permanently amused by something only he’s in on. “I’m late for class anyway.”

You don’t respond. Just turn on your heel and head back toward the house, pretending his voice doesn’t crawl under your skin the way it does every single time.

But then, as you’re grabbing the handle, it comes again, lighter this time, a little smug.

“See you in your inbox, boss.”

Your eye twitches. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough to make your molars ache.

When you push the door open, you’re hit with a wall of silence so unnatural it’s basically a scream. Inside, every single sorority girl has suddenly developed a deep interest in your life. They’re frozen in the living room like you just walked in trailing fireworks. Goeun, posted at the kitchen doors, takes a bite of her apple and grins.

“What are you doing just standing around? You have class in fifteen.”

Soojin bounces on her heels, eyes practically glowing.

“What did he want?” she blurts, breathless with secondhand drama.

“Nothing. Chill.” You brush past them like your life isn’t being dissected in real-time. “Anyway, I have class. You should too.”

More groans follow as you leave. Goeun slips out behind you, walking at your pace. She doesn’t speak at first, she never rushes things. You walk side by side down the path to campus. Morning sun, crowded sidewalks, emails piling in already.

“I don’t wanna be nosy,” she starts, which is hilarious, “but I’m seriously dying over here.”

You scroll through your planner. Journalism. Newspaper meeting. Linguistics. A day full of tasks designed to keep you sane.

“Then ask.”

“So… Do you know him?”

“I know of him.”

“Hmm.”

You side-eye her. “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“It means there’s clearly a story, and I’m offended you haven’t told me yet.”

You sigh, adjusting your bag strap. “It’s nothing. It’s complicated. And annoying.”

“So… you hate him, but he calls you boss?”

You stop walking and look at her, deadpan. “Do I look like someone who fraternizes with men that call me ‘boss’ with a smirk?”

Goeun laughs. “You look like someone who might snap and kiss him just to shut him up.”

You scoff and shake your head, walking faster. “That’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said to me. Congrats.”

“Thanks, I try.”

You're nearly at the lecture hall now. You pause at the door.

“I’ll explain later.”

“You better.”

“See you later, G!”

At lunchtime, you sit alone on the patio. The sun is soft against your skin, warm enough to anchor you, to steady you a little for the rest of the day.

You eat slowly, smoked chicken on toasted bread, and scroll through the article you’re supposed to review for next week’s issue. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes it easier to concentrate. You’re mid-paragraph when the familiar ping of a new email pulls your eyes to the screen.

You almost ignore it.

But then the sender pops up like a warning flare: [email protected].

You hesitate for half a second, then click.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

You really couldn’t just give me your number? Who the hell sends emails anymore? Anyway, since you asked so nicely for my incredibly exclusive schedule... here you go.

You scroll down.

Classes from 08:30 to 11:30. Rest of the day’s open. Actually, I’ve got something on Thursday evenings. That’s the only time I’m not available.

His schedule is a mess, not because it’s packed, but because there’s nothing there. No training. No study sessions. No rhythm. No structure. Just... space. A lot of it.

You suddenly understand why the dean was so blunt about him.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

I’m not giving you my number. Seriously, don’t you train anymore?

The dean mentioned an injury. You doing anything about that, or just letting it rot?

You close the email tab and go back to the article. You don’t even make it through the next paragraph before another notification flashes on your screen.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

I vaguely remember someone saying something about physiotherapy. Idk. Who cares, now that I’ve got a hot babysitter to look after me?

You stare at the screen for a moment, blinking. You even reread it, just to make sure you didn’t imagine it. He really said that.

What an asshole.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

I already regret not trusting my first impression of you. Let’s get back to physiotherapy, actually. We’re setting up a meeting. Library. Tonight. 7pm. DON’T BE LATE!!!!

He replies within seconds.

From: [email protected] To: [email protected]

A meeting at the library? That’s hot. I think I’m starting to like this e-mail thing.

This is going to be absolutely hell.

You check your phone. 7:13 p.m.

Not a shock. Honestly, you’d be more concerned if Hyunjin ever arrived when he said he would.

The library feels heavier at night, rows of dim lamps, the faint hum of the AC, someone’s aggressive typing cutting through the quiet. You’re tucked away in the far corner, iPad propped up, highlighters lined like little soldiers. Everything is ready. He’s not.

By 7:15, you’ve decided this is a waste of time. You slide your notes into your bag, zip it halfway…

At 7:17, the door opens. And there he is, strolling in like it’s 6:45 and the world runs on his clock.

“Wow,” you deadpan as he approaches. “Seventeen whole minutes. A personal record. Did you get lost on your way to the most obvious building on campus?”

His bag hits the chair opposite you with zero remorse. “I was busy.”

You push your chair back. “Doing what, exactly?”

He’s already smirking, about to say something you know you’ll regret hearing.

“Actually,” you cut in, raising a hand, “don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

You’re halfway to standing when he tilts his head. “You’re leaving? Now that I’m here?”

“You wasted my time,” you say, voice sharper than you intended. “And somehow, you’re acting like I’m the unreasonable one.”

He leans back, legs stretched out under the table, the picture of infuriating calm. “You don’t think you’re being a little dramatic? It’s a few minutes.”

You laugh, short, sharp, not even close to amused. “Right. I forgot who I was talking to. You probably think your GPA fixes itself while you nap.”

His grin widens. “Doesn’t it?”

You just look at him. And of course, this is the part where you hate yourself a little, because even with that smug expression, he’s distracting. Uncomfortably so. It’s like he knows exactly how far he can push before you walk away.

“Sit,” he says, motioning to your chair. “I’m here now.”

You arch a brow. “Do you think that line works on anyone?”

“No,” he says without missing a beat. “But you’re not leaving.”

And that’s it. You don’t leave. You drop back into the chair like you’re doing him a favor.

Reluctantly, but still. You sit.

When the corner of his mouth pulls into that faint, smug smile, you look away, pretending you didn’t see it. Not worth acknowledging.

You unlock your iPad, slide your notebook across the table, and start writing, quick, precise, every letter neatly lined like it came out of a typeface. Hyunjin leans back, watching you as if this is entertainment.

“Seriously, Hwang,” you say without looking up. “If you want this to work, you’re going to have to commit. At least a little.”

He rolls his eyes, but when you glance up, there’s nothing but a slow, knowing smile.

“Step one,” you continue, tapping your pen against the page. “Classes. Step two: training and physical therapy. When was the last time you trained?”

He hesitates, just long enough for the silence to feel deliberate. “A few months.”

You jot it down. “And your injury? How’d it happen?”

“Not relevant.”

“But your recovery is.” Your gaze stays fixed on him, steady. “You want to get back in the game, you can’t skip physical therapy.”

His eyes drop to the table, and the shift is instant, the air feels heavier, like you’ve stepped somewhere you weren’t meant to. He’s guarded now, sharp edges showing.

“What difference does it make?” he says finally. “I don’t even know if I’ll compete again.”

That stops you. You don’t know all the details, just that he was good. Really good. And that people didn’t just see him as another athlete; they expected things from him. Big things.

“You don’t want to compete anymore?” The question lands between you with a weight neither of you seem willing to pick up.

His frown deepens. Something about it tells you he still cares, maybe more than he wants to admit. But whatever’s holding him back? It’s winning.

And instead of answering, he slides his chair a little closer. That almost-mischievous curve returns to his mouth, like he’s about to change the subject in the most irritating way possible.

“And you?” he asks, leaning in like he’s about to call you out. “We both know my pretty face isn’t the reason you’re doing this.”

You give him a sugary smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “It’s not like you make it easy, sweetheart.”

One eyebrow lifts. “Paris? That’s what this is about?”

Your frown is immediate. “That’s… irrelevant.”

“Mm, not really.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s sport. “Because as far as I know, your scholarship to Paris depends on my performance, right?”

You fold your arms, spine straightening. “So what? Was that supposed to be a threat? Are you planning to tank my future just because you’re bored?”

His expression flickers, genuine surprise, maybe even offense. “I would never do that.” He pauses, studying you. “I’m saying… we could come to an agreement. That way we both win.”

You narrow your eyes. The thing with him is you never quite know if he’s playing a game or if he actually means it. Still, you let your voice soften just a fraction. “What kind of agreement?”

A slow grin spreads across his face, the kind that’s designed to make you suspicious. “Let’s make this work. But first… we should get to know each other better.”

That earns him a short, disbelieving laugh. You turn back to your notes.

“What?” he asks, like he can’t possibly understand why you’re not already swooning.

“You’re proposing we be… friends?”

“And would that be so absurd?” he says, laughing as he leans back again, the picture of someone who’s very sure you’ll eventually say yes.

You let out a long sigh. Not because it’s a bad idea, objectively, it isn’t, but because it’s going to be hell. You don’t usually befriend people like Hyunjin. The type with inflated egos, convinced the universe tilts in their favor.

Still, you pull your iPad closer and get to work.

Study schedule. Weekly PT sessions. Required readings. Office hours. Doctor’s appointments. You ask him for exact times, confirm class names, cross-check every missing assignment. He tosses in the occasional comment, something about your handwriting being “serial-killer neat”, but you tune him out.

For almost two hours, you work in silence, your focus razor-sharp while he scrolls aimlessly on his phone like this is all some free service you offer.

When you’re done, your screen is a perfectly color-coded battlefield: boxes, bookmarks, and a plan so airtight it could survive the apocalypse. You send it to him.

“Here.” You sit back, stretching your shoulders. “This is your life for the next month. Stick to it and you might actually make it.”

He checks his phone, opening the email. “Shit,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “You actually did it. I thought you were just being dramatic.”

You level him with a look. “If you forget anything, I will make you regret it.”

A grin tugs at his mouth. “So violent. And here I was, trying to call a truce.”

You snap your notebook shut. “I don’t have time for this.”

He leans forward, chin in his hand, gaze annoyingly steady. “Yet somehow, you still make time for me.”

You roll your eyes, shoving your things into your bag. He doesn’t push further, just watches, quietly, like he’s holding onto something he won’t say out loud.

And when you finally leave, he flips his planner open again. No smirk this time. Just silence. As if maybe, he’s actually going to try.

✦ if you want to be tagged, just lemme know!

#skz #stray kids #hwang hyunjin #stray kids imagine #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagine #hyunjin stray kids #hwang hyujin imagines #hwang hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x you #hyunjin x oc #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x female reader #enemies to lovers #endgame #skz fanfic #skz imagines

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levanterhaze · 18 days ago

Text

── spring into summer, bangchan

♡ 󠀬󠀬dad!bangchan x actress!reader: angst (a lot of it) and heartbreak (again, yes i know)

♡ synopsis ― You left him behind to chase your dreams, your best friend, your first love. Now you're back, and everything's changed. He's a father. You're a star. But some flames never die. Maybe it waits.

♡ [4,0k] & notes ― guys, honestly... thank you for the love & support. sorry for taking so long but here we are! one more thing, the next chapter will be the last one of SIS. I promise it will be worth the wait. ♡

chapters: CHAPTER O1 - CHAPTER O2 - CHAPTER O3 - CHAPTER O4

CHAPTER O5

You woke with your head pounding, the kind of dull, relentless ache that feels earned. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft strips, but even that felt too bright, too loud. The night replayed in flashes, disjointed and slow, like scenes caught under a flickering light.

Chan on the kitchen floor, his shoulders shaking. The way he kissed you so desperate, searching. The feel of him, the way your bodies clung to each other like lifelines. His whispered "I love you" against your skin. And then... Grace.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Of course it ended like that. Of course.

It had all moved too fast. The high had been dizzying, like running downhill too quickly, knowing the fall was coming but letting gravity pull you anyway. You should’ve known the crash would come. Still, nothing could’ve prepared you for the way it felt when he asked you to leave. Not after everything you’d just given each other.

Not after everything he’d said.

You threw an arm over your face, trying to block it all out. But the image of Grace lingered behind your eyelids, the way she looked at you like she could see right through you. Like she recognized every fear you thought you’d buried deep enough.

The scariest part wasn’t even what she said. It was that he let you walk away.

You exhaled, the sound shaky. Maybe if you hadn’t come back to town, none of this would’ve happened. Maybe you would’ve been spared this ache in your chest that hadn’t eased since the second the door closed behind you. But deep down, you didn’t believe that. Whether it was yesterday or years from now, some part of you knew, you would’ve found him again. Or he would’ve found you. It was always heading toward this. Toward him.

A soft knock at your bedroom door broke your spiral.

Your mom peeked in, smiling gently, her expression lined with the kind of quiet concern only mothers wear. She stepped inside without waiting for permission and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand over your blanket-covered leg.

“I heard you come in late last night,” she said. “I figured you needed the sleep, so I didn’t knock.”

“Hi, Mom.” Your voice came out thin. That was all it took, one glance, one word, and her smile fell into something softer, more serious.

She studied your face, careful and knowing. “Something’s wrong?”

You tried to deny it, but your lip trembled before you could even answer. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.” Her hand moved to your knee, grounding you. “Did something happen?”

“I think I had one of the best and worst nights of my life,” you whispered.

She didn’t push. Just waited, patient and present. So you told her. All of it.

You started from the beginning: the lie, the heartbreak, the silence you forced between you and Chan for years. How the night unraveled, how the past came clawing its way back with the sound of Grace’s voice and the slam of a door. Your tears came halfway through, and your mother didn’t say a word. She just kept her hand on your leg and let you spill everything like a dam breaking. You barely made it to the end of the story before she pulled you into her arms.

You clung to her like a child, sobbing into her shoulder while she stroked your back.

“I don’t know what to do, Mom,” you finally whispered, your voice shaking. “I love him. I do. But I don’t think any of this can ever really work.”

She leaned back just enough to see your face. “Then talk to him. You’re both adults. You’ve both been through things. But if the love is real, you owe it to yourselves to sit down and speak honestly.”

“I don’t even know how to face him after what happened.”

“Then give it time,” she said gently. “Just… not too much. Time’s a tricky thing. Wait too long and it convinces you to forget what matters most.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s the problem, Mom. I don’t think I have time.”

She didn’t ask what you meant. She just looked at you for a long, quiet moment and then kissed your forehead like she used to when you were little.

“I know it hurts now,” she said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “But love that deep? It doesn’t just disappear.”

And the ache in your chest only grew heavier. Because part of you knew she was right.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to believe he’d still be there when you were ready to come back.

After lunch, you noticed a bit of chaos unfolding in the garage. Your mother was knee-deep in a mess of boxes, tugging lids off, shifting containers around with a frown of concentration. Ara was beside her, equally flustered, muttering something you couldn’t quite make out over the clatter of rummaging cardboard.

“What’s going on out here?” you asked, slipping your hands into the pockets of your green skirt as you stepped closer.

Your mother barely looked up. “We’re trying to find the nail gun, honey. We need to the party.”

Ara pulled a box toward her with both hands. “It’s not here either. Just old receipts and a broken flashlight.”

You joined them, flipping open a dusty bin filled with tangled extension cords and mismatched batteries. “Did we even use a nail gun last year?”

Just then, Ara’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen, thumb hovering for a second before she glanced up at both of you, a slow smirk forming on her face.

“Dad texted back. He says he lent it out.”

Your mom paused. “Lent it? To who?”

Ara tilted her head toward you, that smirk deepening. “Chris.”

The name landed like a stone in the middle of the garage. Your mom stilled, visibly unsure of how to respond. Ara, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious.

“You could go grab it from him,” she offered casually, as if she hadn’t just ripped open a wound with a single sentence.

You laughed under your breath, dry and strained. “Or we could just buy a new one.”

She rolled her eyes and stood, brushing dust off her knees. “Don’t be dramatic. We don’t need another nail gun cluttering up the house. Just go ask him. Two minutes, tops.”

“Ara...” you warned, but there was no edge to your voice. You didn’t want to fight. Not today. Not over a nail gun.

With a huff, she nudged you toward the garage door. “Come on, you’re the one who knows where he lives.”

You stepped outside, the sunlight immediately wrapping around your bare arms, too warm, too sharp. The same quiet street stretched out in front of you, the same one you’d walked yesterday, filled with tension and something like shame. And still, here you were again, trying to act like everything was normal.

It was just a nail gun. For Ara. For the party. For the illusion that nothing had changed.

You reached his front door faster than expected. Took one breath. Then another. You caught your reflection faintly in the window, wind-swept, flushed, slightly unsure. But there wasn’t time to dwell. You pressed the doorbell before you could second-guess it.

The door creaked open a few seconds later. And there he was. He blinked, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like maybe he’d been imagining this exact moment and couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

“You’re here,” he said quietly. Not a greeting. More like a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You tried to smile, but it came out weak. Too much unsaid between you. Too many ghosts in the air. You swallowed the tightness rising in your throat, masking the unease with a smile that tried too hard to be neutral, your voice casual despite the ache behind it.

“Ara said my dad lent you a nail gun a while ago. We need it for the party. I thought I’d swing by and pick it up.”

Chan just stared at you.

Not in a polite, listening kind of way. But in that quiet, vacant way people do when their mind is screaming with things they can’t or won’t say out loud. His eyes searched yours, then fell, as if something in your face made it harder to breathe. He nodded slowly and stepped back, swinging the door wider.

“Come in.”

You hesitated. The threshold between you might as well have been a fault line.

“Are you sure?” The words slipped out without permission. You weren’t just asking about the door. And judging by the flicker in his expression, he knew that.

“I’ll have to find it,” he said instead, side-stepping the question like it hadn’t been loaded. “Pretty sure it’s out back.”

You stepped inside, and the quiet of the house met you like a wall. No sound. No warmth. The remnants of last night hung in the corners of the room—your breath caught in the walls, his touch still ghosting down the hallway. It was unbearable, how quickly everything could go back to pretending.

You followed him past the living room and through the back door, where late afternoon light spilled across the grass. Yuna’s toys lay scattered across the lawn in soft, innocent disarray. The sight of them made your chest tighten.

You missed her.

Chan led you toward a small covered area beside the house, shelves lined with boxes, neatly stacked and absurdly excessive. He crouched and started pulling some down.

“I can help,” you offered, your voice quieter now.

He nodded once, gesturing vaguely toward the shelves across from him. “Try those?”

You stepped toward them and blinked. At least twenty boxes, some labeled, most not. A part of you wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it was, all this for a stapler. But it wasn’t about the stapler. It never was. You worked in silence.

First box: junk drawer energy, old cords, keys, dead batteries. Second: insurance papers. Third: certificates, school newsletters. The fourth made you pause. It was full of plastic beads, half-made bracelets tangled in colored string. Yuna. You felt that lump rising again.

You moved to the lower shelf and tugged at a heavier box, covered in a thick film of dust. Forgotten. Neglected. It resisted for a moment, then scraped forward. When you lifted the lid, the air seemed to shift around you.

There you were.

Your face, four years younger, on the cover of Elle magazine, caught mid-laugh in a candid black-and-white. Beneath it: another, Vogue, your first cover. Then a battered poster from your debut film. Your name in bold letters, your smile stretched across city billboards once.

You froze.

Pages and pages. Photos, clippings, prints, some so worn they looked like they’d been handled a thousand times. You found a photo from high school, your arms around Chan, your head tilted into his shoulder on graduation day. His smile had been a real one then.

Your hands trembled as you sifted through it, like you were handling artifacts. Evidence.

And then, tucked to the side under a stack of folded programs, was a box. Small. Black. Coated in years of dust. Your fingers wrapped around it slowly, cautiously. It sat in your palm like it had always belonged there, and something deep in your chest went still.

You opened it. The ring inside was simple. Silver. A small, nearly invisible gemstone. Unassuming. Not flashy. Not made for attention. Just… delicate. Just… meant. You stared. Your throat burned. Your heart felt suspended.

This wasn't just nostalgia. This was a plan. A life. A question never asked. A future that had once been his, waiting quietly in the dark.

You looked up, and he was still crouched by the shelves, flipping through boxes like he wasn’t breaking your heart again by simply existing in this space with that box, this ring, buried in dust and silence.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because there were no words for this kind of love. Or this kind of grief. Not when they were the same thing.

“I think it should be around there somewhere,” Chan muttered, distracted, still rummaging through one of the boxes beside you. “There’s nothing in this one…”

His voice trailed off. And then came the silence. Heavy. Unforgiving. The kind that grips your spine and tells you something just shifted.

You turned toward him slowly, your hand still holding the dusty, open box like a fragile secret that didn’t belong to you. The blood had drained from his face. He wasn’t blinking. Just staring at what you were holding like it had punched the air out of him.

Then he moved abruptly.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the box.

You flinched, stepping back instinctively, startled by the suddenness of it. But he stopped short, his hand frozen mid-air. Something broke in his posture. His shoulders sagged. His eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to make the whole thing disappear.

Too late. You had found it. His secret.

“What is all this?” you asked, your voice thinner than you expected, like it had barely made it out of your mouth.

Chan didn’t answer. He just stood there, bent slightly, his hand resting on the box’s edge like it was anchoring him to the ground. His knuckles were white.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Christopher…” You said his name like a lifeline. “What is this?”

Still no answer. Your throat tightened, words catching in it. “Tell me.”

He took a breath, and it rattled on the way out. When he stood upright and turned toward you, there was no mask left. No armor. Just him, bare and exhausted, staring into the mess he hadn’t meant for you to find.

“It’s exactly what it looks like.”

You looked down again, at the photos, the magazines, the poster from your first film, the old school snapshots. And the ring. God, the ring. The weight of it all settled heavily in your chest.

“You kept this?” you whispered. “All of it?”

His eyes dropped to the magazines, the Elle cover. You could almost see the memory flicker across his face, the way he must have picked it up at some newsstand or maybe ordered it online just to keep it in a drawer he never opened.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “And this ring? Chan… what is this ring?”

He closed his eyes for a beat and exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

“Do you really want to know?” His voice wasn’t angry, just tired. Like he’d run out of ways to hold himself together.

Then he looked at you.

“I kept all of it because I’m a goddamn fool.” His words were raw, his tone quiet but razor-sharp. “A fool for still loving you after all this time. For cheering you on through every milestone, every red carpet, every success… even when you stopped being the girl I used to know.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just stood there, absorbing the weight of every syllable, watching his eyes glisten with tears he wasn’t bothering to hide.

“What do you want me to say?” he continued, breath catching. “That I would’ve married you without thinking twice? You already know that. That was always the plan. Us. You and me. It was never supposed to be anything else.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. The ring, the one still cradled in his hand, suddenly felt like a punch to the chest. You could almost see it on your finger, could almost taste the life that never happened. A version of the future that died in silence the day you left.

He stepped closer. Not rushing it, not demanding anything. Just moving toward you like it was the only thing he knew how to do. You felt the air tighten between your bodies, a familiar electricity threading the space between you. It ached.

“I kept it all,” he said, his voice lower now. “Because I love you. I always have. I probably always will. And if that makes me pathetic, or naive, or some lost idiot who can’t let go… then fine. I’ll wear it.”

It should have felt comforting, hearing those words again. But it didn’t. Not completely. It stung. Because you knew how much had been lost between then and now, how much time had piled up between the person you were and the person standing in front of him now.

His nose brushed against yours, barely there, but enough to make you forget how to breathe. You felt the pull in your gut again, the way your body responded to his without permission. Chan leaned his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours, like he was trying to read something in them, some hope, some yes.

“I wish it wasn’t this complicated,” you whispered, your voice caught between wanting and exhaustion.

He let out a soft laugh, bitter at the edges. “Why does it have to be?”

“Because it is.” Your throat was tight. You stepped back, just a little, but it was enough. You saw it in the way his face shifted, like the cold had found him all at once.

“You’re leaving again,” he said quietly, not asking.

“I’m not leaving. I just... I need space to think.”

“To think about what?” His voice rose, not loud, just sharp, like it hurt. “I meant what I said. I love you. It’s not more complicated than that.”

You looked away, then back at him, your mouth moving before you could filter the anger from your voice. “You say that like you didn’t ask me to leave last night. Like you didn’t look me in the eye and let her humiliate me and then shut the door behind me.”

He flinched. You knew it landed.

“I was trying to keep things from blowing up.”

“Well, they did,” you said, bitter. “And not because of her, Chan. Because of you. You stood there and let her talk to me like I was disposable. And then you chose her. You chose to have that conversation with her. Without me.”

His hands clenched into fists, then released. “I didn’t choose her.”

“No?” You let out a humorless laugh. “Then what was that? You couldn’t even look me in the eye when you asked me to go. You didn’t defend me. You didn’t say my name.”

He was quiet.

“I felt like a fucking ghost,” you whispered.

He exhaled hard, then looked at you like he was finally seeing just how badly he’d messed it all up.

“I was caught off guard.”

You shook your head. “So was I. Doesn’t mean I abandoned you.”

“I didn’t abandon—”

“You did.” You swallowed hard. “And I’m not saying I didn’t mess up in the past. God knows I did. But last night? That was you.”

The silence that followed was full of everything neither of you could say without making it worse. He stepped toward you, slower this time, as if the weight of the night was finally starting to press on him.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low.

“Not now.” You shook your head. “Tomorrow is Ara’s birthday and I need to show up for her, fully. I can’t drag this into her day.”

Chan didn’t stop you. Maybe he knew better by now. You turned to leave, and his presence behind you felt colder than it had just minutes ago. You didn’t slam the door. But the quiet click of it closing behind you somehow made more noise than any goodbye ever could.

And he didn’t move, he just stood in the middle of that room, staring down at the ring he never got the chance to give. A ring that had waited for years in the dark, just like him.

You spent most of the day at the rented hall, helping set up for Ara’s party. The disco ball finally went up, courtesy of a last-minute professional team who showed up with tools and calm efficiency you were too tired to question. You had to buy another nail gun in the end, and no one mentioned it. Not even you.

The theme came together nicely. Tinsel fringe, LED lights, vinyl records cut into decoration shapes, Ara’s vision was loud and bright, and that was exactly what she deserved.

By the time the sun dipped, you were sitting out back on the porch steps, legs curled beneath you, a cup of half-melted ice cream in your hand. Dinner was cooking inside, but dessert had come first. That’s just how the day had gone.

Ara plopped down beside you, her cheeks still flushed from running around all afternoon.

“Just so you know,” she said, licking her spoon, “my friends are going to want pictures with you tomorrow.”

You turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Is that okay with you?”

She shrugged, but her mouth curled in the faintest smile. “I guess. I mean, you’re kind of a big deal now, right? Movie star and all.”

You laughed softly, bumping your knee against hers. “I’m still your big sister.”

“And the coolest one,” she added quickly, as if it cost her nothing to say.

Your throat tightened a little, but you smiled anyway. “You excited?”

“For tomorrow?” She nodded, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Yeah. Sixteen feels... important. Like the last checkpoint before life starts getting really weird.”

You tilted your head. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t even had to pay rent yet.”

She grinned. “I said weird, not tragic.”

You both fell into a short silence, the kind that’s comfortable and doesn’t need to be filled. You watched the evening sky melt into pink behind the trees.

“I still remember my sixteenth,” you said eventually.

Ara turned to you, curious. “Was it good?”

You nodded, swallowing the rest of your ice cream. “Yeah. It was simple. But I had the right people with me.”

You’d been waiting for this night. Ara’s sweet sixteen. Everything had to be perfect, and it was, the kind of night she’d remember when she was older and swore that sixteen was the best year of her life. You’d made sure of it. Every detail was hers: the disco ball glittering above, the navy cake with its frosted edges, the string of balloons that caught the light.

From where you stood, you could see her in the middle of it all. Her friends circled her like planets, their laughter rising with the music. She was glowing, cheeks flushed from dancing, her smile the widest you’d seen in months. And for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

Then a sound pulled you out of it, small footsteps, quick and certain. You turned too fast.

A little girl in a pink dress barreled toward you, curls bouncing, eyes bright like lit matches. You crouched down instinctively, your smile softening in a way it never did for anyone else.

“I missed you, princess!” she said, arms tightening around your neck.

“I missed you too, sweetheart!” you whispered into her hair, holding on longer than you should.

When she pulled back, she glanced over her shoulder and pointed. “Daddy brought me.”

You didn’t need to look. You already knew. Still, you did.

Chan was by the table, leaning in as your parents spoke, dressed in a black button-down that caught at his shoulders. His hair was pushed back, and you hated that the sight of him could still make your chest tighten the way it did.

You set Yuna down gently, letting her dart off to the cluster of balloons bobbing against the floor, and when you straightened, you couldn’t help it, your eyes found him again.

He hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other gesturing as he spoke to your father. So at ease. So at home. You didn’t dare let yourself stare too long, but then your mother turned, said something you couldn’t hear, and suddenly she was pointing toward you.

And his eyes followed.

You looked away too quickly, heat crawling up the back of your neck, as if pretending you hadn’t been caught could erase the truth of it.

So you fixed your attention back on the party, Ara twirling to a song that would be forgotten by next summer, waiters weaving between tables with glasses of soda and juice, the shimmer of confetti littering the floor. Ara sneaking a macaron when she thought no one was looking.

But it was all background noise. Every nerve in your body was on fire, skin prickling like it could sense him before your eyes did.

And then, when you finally risked another glance, you saw him. This time he wasn’t across the room. He was walking toward you.

Chan slipped into the space beside you without a word, his presence loud enough to drown everything else. His gaze lingered too long, your face first, then a slow drag downward that made your skin prickle in defense, though you knew it was useless. Your body always gave you away when it came to him. It was ridiculous, the way he pulled you in without trying, as if gravity itself tilted toward him.

“You look beautiful.” His voice barely carried over the music, but you heard it as if he’d said it against your skin.

You turned to him, heartbeat spiking, only to find he wasn’t even looking at you anymore.

“Thanks,” you answered, careful, aiming for the flat. “I know.”

He let out a quiet laugh, not cruel, but close enough to sting. Amused, knowing. You took a sharp breath, willing your pulse to slow, but it was no use. The scent of his cologne clung between you, thick and familiar, and suddenly the rest of the room blurred out, leaving only him.

His fingers brushed your wrist, thumb dragging lightly across your skin. You froze, breath caught, every part of you betraying the calm you tried to wear.

“Can we talk?” His eyes caught the shimmer of the disco ball, flickering with something that felt almost desperate.

“Not today...” You tried to step back, but his hand slid down to your elbow, catching you. The touch was featherlight, yet it anchored you completely.

“Please.” His voice cracked around the word. “I know I messed up. We both did. But if I don’t say this out loud, I’ll lose my mind. Just give me a chance to say it.”

You searched his eyes, pupils blown wide, begging without shame. The weight of it sank into your chest until you couldn’t hold your breath anymore.

“…Fine.”

“Later. At my place.”

“What about Yuna?”

“She’ll be with my mom.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, forcing your gaze down before you drowned in his. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll come by.”

The second his hand fell away, a shiver broke through you, cold where his touch had been, but necessary. Sanity, distance, control. You needed it.

You found Yuna instead, pulling her toward the dance floor. She giggled, spinning away from your hands, chasing the balloons that had fallen to the ground. It took seconds for Ara’s friends to swoop her up, letting her twirl and stumble between them as if she belonged there. Her laugh carried through the music, high and fearless.

Across the room, Chan watched. The way Yuna clung to you in between her bursts of freedom, how her wide eyes kept turning back to make sure you were there, safe, it lit him up. His smile was small but unguarded, and for a moment, he looked like a man who’d come home after years away.

You felt him watching before you saw it. You turned, and there he was, still smiling, not bothering to hide it. Your chest tightened, the air sharp as glass in your lungs. You could lie to yourself about control, about distance. But not about this.

You still loved him.

That man, brilliant, flawed, reckless in how he cared, had never stopped being yours, even when he wasn’t. And you knew with a clarity that terrified you: it had always been him. It would always be him.

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