li-lilyvi

[li-lilyvi]

🥺🥺🥺

one more place for kissing and loving

[li-lilyvi]

for tonight and forever - choi seungcheol imagine

honestly i started writing this after watching a clip of cheol being sporty and my mind went yep i need it. i want this. so here we are😅 was listening to handlebars on repeat while writing this, I dont know but it kinda got that feels for it.

Also, if anyone's wondering like how i name/pick the other characters for my fics. Usually I just search who's the same age as them or a familiar name to me. Okayyy so thats all, enjoy!

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You don’t plan to pick a fight with Choi Seungcheol every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He just seems to bring out the absolute worst in you. Or the best. Depends on who’s watching.

“Did you write another hit piece about the soccer team?” Seungcheol demands, jogging up beside you as you make your way across campus, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he’s in some kinda Nike ad.

You don’t even look up from your iced americano. “I wouldn’t call it a hit piece. I’d call it... journalism. Ever heard of it?”

He scoffs. “Right, because calling us ‘a glorified pack of sweaty golden retrievers’ is definitely objective reporting.”

“That’s not what I wrote,” you correct him calmly. “I called you a sweaty golden retriever. Singular.”

He stops walking. “Oh my god. I was the retriever?”

You glance over your shoulder and grin. “Obviously.”

It’s always like this. Snarky comments, stolen pens during class, endless bickering about your article deadlines versus his training schedules. 

It’s become so routine that your friends don’t even bat an eye anymore when they see you two “arguing” in the cafeteria. Or library. Or literally anywhere with oxygen.

But last week, when some overconfident guy from the economics department tried to get handsy with you at the freshmen welcome party, it was Seungcheol who appeared out of nowhere, expression dark, stepping in with all the intensity of a final championship match.

“She said no,” he growled, standing in front of you like a damn shield.

You didn’t even have to say anything. just blinked at the guy slinking away while Seungcheol turned around and gently handed you your phone, which had dropped during the whole mess.

And then, as if nothing had happened: “You owe me chicken for that, by the way.”

Now, a week later, he’s still hovering. Annoyingly. Warmly. Protectively.

You pretend you don’t notice the way he always walks you home after late-night publication meetings. You pretend not to care that he saves the extra strawberry milk from team snacks for you. You pretend a lot.

You make your way across the quad, weaving through a sea of students and the occasional electric scooter, when someone bumps your shoulder and you look up to see Exy walking beside you, sipping on her banana milk like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.

"Okay," she says, dragging the word out suspiciously, "are you sure nothing's going on between you and Seungcheol?"

You nearly choke on your breath.

“What—no. Ew. Why would you—absolutely not.”

Exy raises an eyebrow. “Right. So him showing up to your department’s booth last week with snacks ‘for the team’ but only handing you your favorite is coincidence?”

“He was probably just—being annoying,” you mutter, tugging at the strap of your backpack as your ears warm. “He does that.”

“Uh huh. And I suppose he was just ‘annoying’ when he waited outside in the rain for you after your night class because he ‘happened to be nearby’?”

“He did happen to be nearby!” you protest, eyes wide. “The gym is like two buildings away—he probably just finished practice—why are you smiling like that?”

Exy leans in, smug. “Because I’ve never seen you this defensive unless someone messes up the Oxford comma.”

You stop walking to glare at her. “You’re delusional.”

“And you,” she says, poking your arm, “are clearly in denial.”

You start walking again, faster this time. “He’s a varsity jock with too much hair gel and a hero complex. We’re oil and vinegar. Cats and cucumbers.”

Exy laughs. “Says the girl who let him carry her publication banner to the main hall ‘because his arms are already huge anyway.’”

You spin around, horrified. “You were eavesdropping?!”

“Please,” she snorts, “you were practically shouting.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Whatever you say,” she sings, skipping ahead as your classroom building comes into view.

You glance up at the sky, as if the universe might send a sign to back you up. All it sends is a familiar voice yelling from behind you.

“Yah, you forgot your charger again!”

You turn around. Seungcheol jogs up, holding out the charger you left in the library. Again.

You blink. “How did you—?”

“Someone posted in the group chat asking if anyone lefit. Figured it was yours. You always have it wrapped around your planner like a weirdo.”

Exy coughs something suspiciously like domestic behind you. You shoot her a murderous look.

Seungcheol, oblivious or pretending to be, grins and tousles your hair like you’re a child. “Don’t fry your laptop this time.”

You swat his hand away. “Stop doing that!”

He smirks. “You love it.”

You glance sideways at Exy. She doesn’t say a word but her eyes say everything.

You hate everyone. Except maybe… not really.

=

The next morning Seungcheol slides into his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall, pulling his hoodie over his head as if it’ll make him invisible. He spots Exy a row down, already seated, legs crossed, notebook open, pen twirling between her fingers like a threat.

He stiffens.

If he’s being truly honest, Exy kind of scares the crap out of him. She’s all sharp eyes and sharper comebacks, like she was born knowing where to hit where it’ll bruise. No nonsense, no hesitation. Still, he respects the hell out of her.

You’re friends with her, after all. And if he can’t be there every second someone looks at you the wrong way, it’s good to know Exy would probably throw a chair at their head without blinking.

The professor hasn’t shown up yet, and the room is loud with casual chatter, laptops opening, chairs scraping. He’s halfway through unlocking his iPad when Exy turns around in her seat, pins him with a look.

“Okay. So what’s the deal with you and her?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Are you guys a thing, or are you just really committed to the whole ‘enemies but not really’ bit?”

Seungcheol scoffs. “We're not—there’s nothing going on.”

Exy raises one brow.

“I’m serious,” he adds quickly. “We just… bicker. It’s a thing.”

“A thing,” she echoes. “Like a romantic comedy trope kind of thing?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.” Then, quieter, “Maybe. No. Definitely not.”

She narrows her eyes. “You literally showed up to her department meeting with hotteok last week.”

“I was in the area.”

“Uh huh. And the three extra packets of brown sugar filling were also just… coincidentally for her?”

“She likes them,” he mutters.

Exy smiles, but it’s more amused than friendly. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘denial’ thing, you know that?”

He frowns, but it lacks real bite. “Look, even if—hypothetically—there was something, it’s not like she’d be into me.”

“She calls you a golden retriever.”

“Exactly.”

“She also let you walk her home three nights last week. You think she lets just anyone do that?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Exy leans back in her chair, satisfied. “I’m just saying. If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

The professor walks in before Seungcheol can reply, but her words sit heavy in his chest.

Because the truth is, yeah, maybe he is a little gone for you. Maybe a lot. But he’s not exactly sure what to do with all of it. So instead, he flips open his notebook and pretends he doesn’t keep glancing at the empty seat you usually take in the front row.

His day ends with another practice. He kicks off his cleats by the bench, the grass still clinging to his socks and sweat drying cold on his back. Practice ran longer than usual, Coach yelling something about footwork and finals being no excuse to slack off. 

But even with his body aching and the floodlights dimming one by one behind him, it’s not the drills or the scores that keep repeating in his head.

It’s Exy’s voice.

“If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

He scoffs under his breath, ruffling a towel through his hair like he can shake the thought loose. He’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

He’s just heading toward the front gate when he spots you.

You’re walking just a few steps ahead, cradling your laptop bag against your side like always. Head tilted, hair catching the orange glow of the street lamps, laughing.

His heart stutters for a second, because—God. He knows that laugh. Knows the way your shoulders shake when it’s something really funny. Knows that dimple you hate but can’t ever hide.

But it’s not the laugh that gets him. It’s who’s next to you.

Minhyun. Tall, clean-cut, business-major-Minhyun. The guy who spoke at orientation with the kind of voice professors wish they had. Charming, polite, good grades, good future.

Good with you.

Seungcheol stops walking without even realizing it. Just stands there half-hidden behind the practice fence.

You’re smiling at Minhyun. Like, really smiling. he hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t prepared for the twist in his chest seeing you like that with someone else.

Minhyun says something and you lightly nudge his arm, head thrown back, carefree.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn't move. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t let himself get closer. He just watches as you and Minhyun walk down the street, steps in sync, laughter echoing behind you.

And when he finally turns away, it’s with a bitter taste on his tongue and Exy’s voice louder than ever in his head.

The next day. The moment Seungcheol walks into the lecture hall, he doesn’t bother with his usual routine of slouching into his chair and pretending to scroll through notes.

Instead, he spots Exy, takes the seat next to her, and turns to her with the kind of urgency usually reserved for last-minute exam cramming.

“What’s going on with her and Minhyun?”

Exy doesn’t even look up from her notes. “Hello to you too, Seungcheol.”

“Yeah, hi, morning, what’s up with her and Minhyun?”

Exy finally looks up, pen still in hand, unimpressed. “Why?”

“No reason,” he says way too fast. “I’m just…curious.”

“Curious,” she repeats, in a tone that suggests she’s heard better lies from toddlers.

“Yeah. I mean—he walked her home last night, I saw it. They were laughing and all. It looked like they were, you know... close.”

“You were watching them?”

“I happened to be nearby,” he mutters. “They were loud.”

Exy hums like she’s already solved the entire situation and is now just watching him fumble. “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, almost offended. “I’m just making sure she’s not—like, getting her hopes up with the wrong guy. Minhyun’s… smooth.”

“You mean polite?”

Seungcheol frowns. “No, I mean, like, too polite. No one’s that nice without a reason.”

Exy snorts. “Well, lucky for you, there’s nothing going on.”

“What?”

“She’s not into him. She said he reminds her of a quiz app. Looks nice, says the right things, but kind of boring once you tap through the first few questions.”

Seungcheol stares at her. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Her words, not mine.”

Exy eyes him. “Still just curious?”

“Completely,” he lies.

She leans back in her chair, smirking. “Uh huh.”

And Seungcheol tells himself he’s not smiling. Not really. Exy watches him for a beat, then leans in with the casual menace of someone about to enjoy herself way too much.

“Although,” she says slowly, drawing the word out like it’s bait, “if there’s someone you should be worried about…”

Seungcheol stiffens. “What?”

She rests her chin on her hand, all innocent curiosity. “Seo Youngho.”

He stares. “Who?”

“Youngho. From the music department. Plays guitar, super chill, kind of a walking Tumblr post. Ringing any bells?”

Seungcheol blinks. “The guy with the weird beanie? That’s who I should be worried about?”

Exy grins. “She helped him with one of his interviews last week. Apparently, they’ve been messaging back and forth for edits.”

“Messaging?”

She shrugs. “You know how it starts. A casual thank you turns into a compliment. A compliment turns into, ‘Hey, wanna grab coffee and talk about your creative process?’ Next thing you know, he’s writing her a song with metaphors that don’t make sense but sound romantic.”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens, then closes.

“That’s not even—he wears socks with pineapples on them,” he mutters.

Exy raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles, arms crossed, “she doesn’t even like acoustic guys. She said so. Once.”

“Oh?” she asks sweetly. “So you remember what kind of guys she likes?”

“I remember everything she says,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

Exy’s face does not help.

“…Just as friends,” he tacks on, immediately regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

She pats his shoulder like he’s a very dumb, very loyal golden retriever. “Sure, Cheol. Totally just friendly concern.”

He slumps in his chair and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like pineapple socks my ass.

Exy is still grinning when the professor starts the lecture.

Seungcheol spots you near the fountain, earbuds in, head buried in your phone, your steps a little bouncy like you’re walking to the beat of something catchy. Totally oblivious. Totally… you.

He doesn’t think before calling out, “Hey!”

You look up, surprised, but smile when you see him.

“Hey,” you echo, tugging one earbud out. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym or something? Yelling at cones?”

“Rest day,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “Coach said we looked like overcooked ramen last practice.”

You laugh. “That’s gross.”

“He’s not wrong.”

There’s a small beat of silence, not awkward, just familiar. Then he casually drops it in. Smooth. Natural.

“So… you and Youngho?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“You’ve been texting? I heard you helped him with something?”

You squint like he just asked you to solve a math problem. “Youngho? I haven’t talked to him since like, the first week of classes? Why?”

Seungcheol falters for half a step. “Oh. I just—heard you were helping him with an interview or something?”

You tilt your head. “That was last semester. Wait, do you need his number or something?”

“What? No!” he says, way too fast, then clears his throat. “I just… Exy said you were talking. Thought it was a thing.”

You stare at him for a second before realization dawns. You smirk.

“Ohhh,” you say slowly, voice lilting. “She got you, didn’t she?”

He narrows his eyes. “What?”

“She totally messed with you.”

“I wasn’t—she didn’t—”

“You thought I was flirting with Youngho?”

“I didn’t,” he lies, every word defensive. “I was just… curious.”

You laugh, and it’s worse than any insult, because it’s light and teasing and just so smug.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you say, shaking your head.

He glares at the pavement like it personally betrayed him.

You nudge him with your elbow, still grinning. “For the record, I don’t go for guys who write songs with moon metaphors and own six different scarves.”

Seungcheol tries not to smile. Fails. “So what do you go for?”

You look at him sideways, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And you keep walking, earbuds back in, leaving him there on the path with his heart doing things it absolutely should not be doing.

=

Another day, another café.

You’re both hunched over your laptops, the small table between you a chaotic blend of charger cables, two half-finished drinks, your highlighters, his untouched notebook, and the occasional shared snack. 

He’s scrolling through something on his iPad that might be soccer strategies or might be memes you stopped asking. You’re typing furiously, earbuds in but not actually playing anything, more for mental defense than music.

the bell above the café door jingles. You glance up and spot Minhyun just stepping in, scarf around his neck, a familiar tote bag slung over his shoulder. He hasn’t seen you yet.

“Oh, that’s Minhyun,” you say casually, pulling your earbuds out.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up, just hums like it doesn’t mean anything. Which is a lie, because you see the way he pauses in the middle of scrolling, hand hovering just a second too long.

You wave, catching Minhyun’s attention.

“Minhyun! We’re over here!”

Seungcheol finally looks up, but he keeps his face impressively neutral, like he doesn’t care even a little. Which you don’t buy for a second.

Minhyun smiles as he approaches. “Hey, small world. I didn’t know you came here.”

“I practically live here,” you say. “You want to join us?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth—probably to protest, you can feel it coming off him in waves—but Minhyun’s already pulling out the third chair.

“Sure, if it’s okay.” He glances at Seungcheol politely. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol replies with a nod that sounds like it costs him everything.

Minhyun settles in beside you, pulling out a book and a sleek little tablet. “What are you working on?”

“Publication layouts,” you say, already pulling one tab over to show him. “We’re redesigning the culture section.”

He leans in to take a look, and Seungcheol can hear the way your tone softens when you talk to Minhyun. friendly, focused, but soft. Not that it means anything. Probably.

He takes a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee, eyes flicking from you to Minhyun and back again.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. He’s just suddenly very aware of how close Minhyun’s chair is to yours. How you’re leaning in. How you laugh once, quietly, and nudge his arm with your pen.

Totally normal. Totally fine.

He pretends to look back at his iPad but spends more time glaring at his reflection in the dark screen.

You glance at him then, like you just remembered he’s there.

“You okay?” you ask, brows slightly knit.

He smiles, a little too tightly. “Perfect.”

You stare for a beat longer something flickering behind your eyes like you’re catching o n but Minhyun says something else and your attention shifts again.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and taps his screen to life.

Perfect, his ass.

Minhyun stays for about an hour maybe less, but to Seungcheol, it feels like a whole semester’s worth of third-wheeling compressed into sixty suffocating minutes.

He doesn’t say much. Just watches. Watches how your voice dips into that soft, almost melodic tone when you explain things to Minhyun. Watches how you tilt your head, eyes crinkling just a little more when you laugh at one of his lame puns. 

Mostly, he watches how different you sound when you're talking to Minhyun.

It’s not that you’re fake. No, it’s worse. You’re genuine. Sweet. Thoughtful. Almost… gentle.

Nothing like the way you talk to him.

With him, it’s sarcasm, banter, eye-rolls and elbow jabs. It’s you calling him “musclehead” with your chin in your hand and the tiniest grin on your lips. It’s insults that somehow feel like compliments and arguments that stretch out longer than necessary just because neither of you wants to stop.

With Minhyun, it’s all warm tones and quiet understanding.

Seungcheol’s practically chewing through his own tongue by the time Minhyun checks his phone, apologizes with that polite smile, and stands to leave.

“I’ve got a meeting,” Minhyun says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, smiling.

Minhyun nods at Seungcheol, who manages a grunt and what might be a nod or might be a twitch.

Then it’s just you and him again.

You sip your drink like nothing’s changed, like the air isn’t thick with tension across the table. He’s silent. Half sulking. Half glaring at the innocent sugar packet in front of him like it personally offended him.

You glance up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” You go back to typing, but you can feel his mood hanging in the air like storm clouds. “You sure?”

He finally looks up, brow furrowed. “Just wondering.”

“About?”

He shrugs, but it’s tight. Forced. “It’s impressive.”

“What is?”

“The way your entire voice changes when Minhyun shows up,” he mutters, eyes pointedly on his iPad. “It’s like I’m watching a romcom where the lead suddenly discovers she has range.”

You blink. “Are you seriously—?”

“Not that it’s any of my business,” he adds quickly, still not looking at you. “You can sound however you want. I just didn’t know you had that tone in your arsenal.”

You stare at him, amused and mildly annoyed. “You mean a normal tone? You want me to start cooing at you too?”

He glares. “No. Gross.”

“Then what, exactly, is your problem?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Crosses his arms. “…Nothing,” he mutters again.

You lean back, arms crossed to mirror him. “Wow. Someone’s sulky.”

“I’m not sulky,” he grumbles, sulkily.

You watch him for a moment, a smile creeping at the corners of your lips. “You’re totally jealous.”

He scoffs, eyes wide. “I am not—”

You raise an eyebrow.

“—jealous,” he finishes weakly, shoulders sinking.

You hum, satisfied. “Sure, Cheol.”

And you go back to typing, smirk hidden behind your cup, while he sits there, stewing in the mess he doesn't want to admit he's already in.

=

It’s game day. The campus field is packed. students gathered on the bleachers, the buzz of excitement in the air, banners fluttering in the breeze.

You're by the sidelines, bundled up in your oversized varsity jacket, press tag clipped to the hem, camera hanging from your neck. You've already snapped a few wide shots for the publication but you're really here for one thing. Or well… one person.

You spot Seungcheol jogging over, all athletic swagger and sweat-damp hair, pulling off his warm-up jacket with the kind of ease that makes the girls in the stands sigh a little too loudly. 

He’s scanning the sideline like he always does—and his eyes land on you immediately.

“Don’t get in the way,” he says, coming to a stop in front of you, chest rising and falling just a little faster than normal. “And don’t drop that camera again. Last time was—”

“Cheollie,” you coo, cutting him off in that voice, syrupy and infuriating. “You look so strong today. Are you gonna score a goal just for me?”

He freezes.

Right there on the turf, hands on his hips, mouth parting like the words got caught somewhere between his lungs and his brain.

“…Why,” he mutters, “why are you like this.”

You don’t answer. Just smile sweetly and lift your camera to get a shot of his stunned expression.

That’s when Yuta jogs by, slowing just long enough to glance between the two of you, brows furrowing.

“You good, bro?” he asks Seungcheol, wary.

Seungcheol doesn’t look at him. “No.”

Yuta looks at you. You give him a cheerful wave.

Yuta looks back at Seungcheol. “Okay, cool. Not my problem.” And he jogs off without waiting for a response. You stifle a laugh.

Seungcheol glares at you like he’s trying to burn a hole through your smile. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

You lift your camera. “Say cheese, baby boy.”

He groans, dragging his hand down his face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” you chirp, snapping the shutter.

And as he jogs back onto the field, you catch it. that tiny twitch of his lips that betrays the fact that maybe, just maybe, he really doesn’t.

They win, of course.

Final whistle blows, and the field erupts. The crowd’s on its feet, cheers echoing across the bleachers as Seungcheol gets swarmed by his teammates, arms thrown over shoulders, shouts of victory mixing with the sound of cleats thudding against the grass.

You’ve already got the shot—the moment he scored, that raw burst of power and focus in his eyes. Pure, stupid perfection. You’re checking the image in your viewfinder when you hear your name being called.

Loud. Familiar.

You look up just in time to see him jogging toward you, grin wide, sweat-slicked hair falling into his eyes, jersey clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t even start,” he says, breathless, still high on adrenaline.

You don’t miss a beat. “My strong baby boy scored a goal just for me, huh?”

He freezes again, hands on his hips, jaw clenching like he’s trying so hard not to rise to the bait but his eyes are already dancing with fire.

And then—he lifts a hand.

“One…”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Two—”

It takes you half a second too long.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—”

You barely turn when he lunges.

You shriek, half laughing, half panicking, and bolt, camera bouncing against your chest as you take off down the sideline like your life depends on it—which, in this case, it kind of does.

Behind you, you hear him shouting your name between bouts of laughter.

“I swear—when I catch you—!”

You don’t dare look back. “You’ll what? Hug me? Thank me for the moral support?”

“Moral support?! You called me baby boy in front of my entire team!”

“You loved it!”

“YOU’RE DEAD!”

And that’s how you end up sprinting across campus, laughing your lungs out, camera swaying, heart hammering—not just from the chase, but from the way his voice sounded when he said your name.

You barely close the door behind you when Exy’s voice rings out from the kitchen.

“So,” she says, in that sing-song tone that always means she knows something, “how does it feel to be publicly chased down the sideline by Choi Seungcheol in front of, oh I don’t know, half the campus?”

You groan, dropping your camera bag to the floor with a dramatic thud. “Exy. No.”

“Oh, yes.” She leans against the counter, mug in hand, eyebrows up. “Do you know how fast my phone blew up? My friend from engineering said it looked like a scene out of a teen drama. One minute he’s scoring the winning goal, next minute he’s full-on sprinting after you like he’s ready to propose or commit murder.”

“He wasn’t—” you start, but she’s already smirking.

“You called him baby boy.”

“That was his fault!” you point accusingly, peeling off your jacket. “He was being all sulky and—whatever—I was just messing with him.”

“Oh, and then he chased you. Full speed. Zero hesitation. Definitely just bro things, right?”

You make a strangled noise and cover your face with both hands. “Exy, please. I’m going to melt into the floor.”

She sips from her mug. “So when are you two making it official?”

You drop your hands and glare at her. “There’s nothing going on.”

She snorts. “Sure. And I only like himbos with abs and no brain cells—oh wait, that’s true.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“I am,” she agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

You dodge past her into your room, slamming the door shut with a dramatic groan, but even through the wood, you hear her yell:

“CALL HIM BABY BOY FOR ME NEXT TIME!”

=

You’re curled up in one of the worn-out lounge chairs, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced on your knees as you edit photos from yesterday’s game. The student lounge is half-empty, low buzz of conversation around you, the occasional clink of coffee cups from the vending machine nearby.

You hear footsteps and don’t bother looking up until a shadow falls over your screen.

Seungcheol’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You’re not gonna call me that again, are you?” he says, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s bracing for impact.

You don’t even blink.

“No more baby talk for you,” you reply flatly, scrolling through the thumbnails. “I’ve decided to retire that version of myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shoot him a quick glance. “Clearly you couldn’t handle it. Almost tackled me on school property.”

He slides into the chair beside you, sprawling with way too much comfort, his leg knocking gently against yours. “You ran. Like a criminal.”

“Because you counted down like a threat!”

“I was threatening you.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t very effective.”

He scoffs. “You screamed and ran. That’s literally textbook effectiveness.”

You glance at him, then back at your screen, lips twitching. “Still. No more soft talk. You’ve been cut off.”

He leans in, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You raise a brow, not looking at him. “It’s a warning.”

He hums, and you can feel the smirk without even seeing it.

“Good,” he mutters. “Didn’t like you calling me that anyway.”

You side-eye him, slowly. “Then why’d your ears turn red?”

His jaw tightens. “They didn’t.”

“Okay, baby boy.”

“Yah—!”

You’re already laughing again as he flails for your laptop in mock betrayal, and the girl across the lounge glances over at the two of you, then whispers something to her friend.

Yeah. The rumors are probably already flying and somehow, that doesn’t bother you one bit.

“You get sulky when I talk soft with other guys,” you say, biting your grin, “but then when I do it to you, you hate it.”

He stares at you, deadpan. “That’s ‘cause you do it with spite when it’s me.”

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “Spite? Cheol, I poured honey into my voice for you.”

“It was poisoned honey.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He scoffs, leaning back like the weight of your crimes is too much to bear. “You didn’t say it to be nice. You said it to get in my head.”

“…And it worked,” you mutter under your breath.

“I heard that.”

You shoot him an innocent smile, and he groans, dragging his hands down his face before tossing his head back against the chair. “I’m never living this down.”

You tilt your head. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t call you baby boy anymore.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Thank God.”

You grin wider. “I’ll think of something worse.”

He whips his head toward you, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare—”

But you're already back to editing, humming like the angel of mischief you are, while beside you, Choi Seungcheol quietly braces himself for whatever fresh torment you’re cooking up next.

=

The music’s too loud, the lights are too dim, and the smell of cheap beer mixed with overpriced cologne is already giving you a headache.

You glance around the packed rooftop bar, surrounded by a sea of familiar-enough faces classmates, clubmates, the occasional TA trying to look younger than they are. 

You sigh into your cup, swirling whatever vaguely citrusy drink you’ve been nursing for the past twenty minutes. All you know is that it’s 10PM, your feet already hurt from standing too long in boots that looked better than they feel, and you’re three whole messages deep into debating if it’s too early to fake an emergency and leave.

You’re tucked off to the side of the open terrace, leaning on the railing, the city lights flickering in the distance. Your phone’s out, thumb hovering over your texts when—

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. That voice, equal parts smug and teasing, is practically branded into your brain at this point.

“You sound surprised,” you say, glancing up with a dry look as Seungcheol steps into view. He’s ditched his usual hoodie for a black button-up, sleeves rolled, hair swept just slightly back like someone definitely dragged him into looking decent for this.

He shrugs. “I am. I figured you’d be hiding in your room with tea and a face mask.”

“How do you know I do face masks on Fridays?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Exy talks. I listen.”

“You spy.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your drink, but you don’t move away when he leans next to you against the railing. Neither of you says anything for a moment.

The party rages on behind you But here, in this sliver of quiet under the glow of the terrace lights, it almost feels like you’ve stepped out of it.

“Seriously though,” Seungcheol says, voice a bit softer now, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d try being normal for once.”

He chuckles. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You shoot him a look. “Horribly. I want to leave.”

He grins, bumping your shoulder gently. “Give it twenty more minutes. If it still sucks, I’ll make up a fake emergency for both of us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”

“What are friends for, baby girl?”

Your jaw drops.

“No. Absolutely not. You do not get to turn this around on me—”

But he’s already walking away, that stupid smug grin plastered across his face as you fume behind him, drink in hand, fully forgetting how much you wanted to leave just a minute ago.

Seungcheol’s gone for two minutes. Three, tops.

He’d left you leaning against the terrace wall, muttering something about grabbing real drinks this time—“not whatever watered-down lemonade that was”—and you’d waved him off, rolling your eyes but letting him go.

He doesn’t expect anything to happen in those few minutes. It’s a mixer, not a crime scene.

You’re still where he left you. Only now, there’s some guy standing way too close. One hand braced against the wall next to your head like a goddamn cliché, the other mid-gesture like he’s trying to impress you with whatever he’s slurring through his tequila breath.

But what sets Seungcheol off isn’t just the guy—it’s you.

Your arms are crossed tight, jaw clenched, your glare sharp enough to cut. It’s the look you give right before a verbal takedown. Or a physical one. And Seungcheol knows that look. He knows the way your shoulders tense when you're holding back.

He's by your side in an instant, slipping between you and the guy like it’s muscle memory.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm, low but there’s a warning threaded through it like steel. “You got a problem?”

The guy blinks, thrown off. “Huh?”

“She’s not interested.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away, doesn’t raise his voice but something about the way he stands, the way his eyes have gone cold and unreadable, makes it feel louder than a shout.

“Woah, man, chill,” the guy says, backing up a half-step. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

You don’t say anything, but your eyes flick sideways to Seungcheol, and for once, there’s no smart remark waiting on your tongue. The guy mutters something under his breath and stumbles off, finally disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol turns to you then, brows drawn in concern. “You okay?”

You nod, a little slower than usual. “I was about to knee him in the groin.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

“Thanks.”

He exhales, finally relaxing, and hands you your drink. “Next time just deck him. I’ll vouch for you.”

You snort. “Thought you said you didn’t want to get kicked out of school for assault.”

“I said me. You can get away with anything.”

“Even calling you baby boy in public?”

He groans. “Don’t push your luck.”

You spot her before she spots you which is exactly three seconds of peace before her eyes lock in and her grin goes full shark mode. Exy, armed with a drink in one hand and chaos in the other, pushes her way through the crowd like a woman on a mission. 

“Let’s dance,” she announces the second she’s close enough, already reaching for your wrist.

You jerk back instinctively, eyes wide. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” she counters, looping her fingers through yours. “You’ve been standing like a moody wallflower all night. Come on, I’ve got the perfect song.”

You shoot a panicked look at Seungcheol, who’s beside you sipping from his drink with all the calm in the world. Your eyes practically scream: Help me.

He doesn’t even blink. One second you’re getting tugged forward, and the next you’re yanked right back, a firm arm locking around your waist like a seatbelt.

You barely register the movement before your back hits Seungcheol’s chest, his drink still in one hand, his other arm cinched around you like he does this all the time.

“Sorry,” he says, voice casual, cheek resting near yours as he stares Exy down. “She’s busy.”

You blink, stunned, heat crawling up your neck as the crowd seems to muffle around you.

Exy raises both brows, lips twitching. “Busy?”

“She’s got a prior commitment,” Seungcheol says smoothly, sipping his drink. “With me.”

Exy smirks, shaking her head slowly. “Wow. Okay. Fine. I’ll find someone else to humiliate on the dance floor.”

“You do that,” Seungcheol says, not letting go.

She gives you one last teasing glance before disappearing into the crowd. And still he doesn’t let go.

“Nice save,” you say quietly.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, chin brushing the side of your head. “My reflexes are scary good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how loud your heart’s gotten. You stay there, tucked against him, the bass of the music rumbling through your bones but somehow, with Seungcheol’s arm still around you, the chaos of the party feels… muted.

Comfortable, even.

“Are you gonna let go?” you ask, only half teasing.

He shrugs behind you, arm unmoving. “You looked like you were in danger. Can’t be too careful.”

You tilt your head slightly, cheek brushing his collarbone. “Of Exy? She’s five-two and dances like she’s summoning demons.”

“That’s exactly why I stepped in.”

You laugh quietly, your fingers curling slightly around the hem of his sleeve. Neither of you moves to create space. Not even a little.

After a beat, he says, voice lower now, more honest, “You sure you’re okay here?”

You glance up at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” he pauses, eyes scanning your face. “You looked like you wanted to bolt earlier. Thought maybe the crowd was too much.”

You blink. It’s not the question itself. It’s the way he says it—like he noticed. Like he always does.

Your voice is soft when you answer. “Yeah. It was a lot. But... this helps.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods once, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“Okay. Then I won’t move,” he says simply.

And he doesn’t. You stay like that standing there in the middle of a rooftop party you never wanted to be at. with Seungcheol wrapped around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there’s nowhere else you’re supposed to be.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking the same thing.

=

It’s late afternoon,  you're in the library seated across from Minhyun, half your things spread out. Supposedly working. Mostly talking.

“Well, someone has high standards,” Minhyun says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, arms crossed like he’s cracked some great mystery.

You raise a brow. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, clearly enjoying this. “Just saying. You always complain about guys being boring, or messy, or not knowing what a double space after a period is.”

“Okay, that last one is basic formatting decency,” you argue, sitting up straighter. “I shouldn’t have to date someone who thinks microsoft word automatically fixes their laziness.”

He snorts. “See what I mean? High standards.”

You wave a hand. “It’s called not settling. I have taste.”

“Oh, you definitely have taste,” he agrees, mock-thoughtful. “Just not anyone specific in mind?”

“Nope,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You’re back to flipping through your notebook like it suddenly got interesting.

He narrows his eyes, amused. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You glance up, expression innocent. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” he says, pointing at you like he’s found a clue on a crime show. “The guilty one. You’re hiding someone.”

“There is no one,” you insist, biting back a laugh. “I would know. I live in my own head, unfortunately.”

Minhyun leans forward, elbows on the table now. “So you’re telling me not a single guy has caught your attention lately? Not even, I don’t know, a certain varsity soccer player with the world’s most punchable smirk?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you definitely do.”

You’re halfway through forming your next liesomething about how you barely talk to Seungcheol anyway when Minhyun just grins and goes back to his notes like he hasn’t just lobbed a truth bomb across the table.

And despite your best effort, your brain is now helpfully supplying you with a memory: Seungcheol’s arm around your waist, the solid press of his chest behind you.

You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat in your cheeks.Minhyun doesn’t say anything more but the look on his face says everything.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You freeze, mid-sip of your drink, caught red-handed by absolutely nothing.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” you say way too defensively, setting your cup down a little harder than necessary. “I’m thinking about this—this paragraph on media ethics. Because that’s what we’re here for. Academics.”

You kick him under the table. Lightly. Mostly.

He grins, rubbing at his shin. “Ow. Abuse. I’m telling Exy.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, burying your face in your notebook.

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

You groan. “Minhyun, I swear—”

“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, leaning forward again, his voice more teasing now, “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy pretending to reread the same line over and over. But inside, your brain is spinning. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not nothing.

But saying it out loud? That feels like something big. Something you’re not ready to hand over just yet.

So instead, you glance up and deadpan, “I hope you spill your coffee on your notes.”

Minhyun laughs again, loud enough to get a side-eye from the librarian but he doesn’t push.

What you didn’t know is that a few rows down in the same library, someone else caught the whole scene.

Kim Mingyu, long-limbed and tragically loud even when he’s trying to be quiet, had been on a solo mission to actually study for once in his life. He’d just settled into a corner with his econ notes and a banana milk when his gaze drifted, purely by accident, toward one of the study tables across the floor.

And there you were. With Minhyun. Laughing. Smiling.

Leaning in just close enough that if someone didn’t know you, they’d absolutely mistake that for flirting. Honestly, even if they did know you, they might still mistake it. Because there’s something about the way you kicked him under the table, the way Minhyun grinned like he won something, the way you laughed afterward that.

Mingyu blinked. Watched for another beat. Then slowly pulled out his phone.

Mingyu: yo. ur girl’s flirting with someone at the library rn lol Seungcheol: who Mingyu: The girl? Seungcheol: The guy, you idiot Mingyu:Oh Mingyu: Minhyun. They look cute, close too. Seungcheol: k

Mingyu stared at the typing bubble for a moment. It blinked in. Blinked out and that was it.

Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, Seungcheol stared down at his phone, jaw ticking just slightly. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t his business. That you weren’t his.

But that didn’t stop the quiet, unwelcome twist in his chest. Didn’t stop him from wondering just how close “close” meant.

He gives it a few seconds maybe ten. Just enough time for the screen to go dark, for his reflection to stare back at him in the glossy black glass. His jaw’s tight, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Mingyu’s message sits there like it’s daring him to react.

He tries to ignore it but fails. before he knows it, he's swiping up, hitting your name in his contacts, thumb moving like muscle memory.

“What?” your voice comes through, casual and distracted, like you didn’t just launch yourself into the back of his mind and set up camp there. “I’m in the library.”

“I know,” he says, and it comes out sharper than he means. He clears his throat, tries again. “I just… what are you doing?”

There’s a beat. Then a quiet, “Homework?”

“With Minhyun?”

“...Do you have a problem with that?”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “No. I mean—no. Just asking.”

“You sound weird,” you say, more amused than anything. “Wait—did something happen?”

He wants to say no, because this is ridiculous. He has no right to be calling. No claim. No excuse.

But instead, what comes out is, “Were you flirting with him?”

Dead silence. Then a laugh “What?”

“I’m just asking,” he snaps, defensive now. “Mingyu saw you two. Said you looked... close.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, half-laughing. “Did you really just call me because of something Mingyu said?”

“I didn’t call because of him,” he says quickly. “I called because—”

He cuts himself off. Because what? Because he didn’t like the idea of someone else making you laugh like that? Because the thought of Minhyun sitting across from you, pulling that easy smile out of you, made something coil tight in his stomach?

You’re still waiting on the other end.

“Because I wanted to hear your voice,” he finishes, quieter now. Honest.

You go silent. He hears the distant rustle of papers, a soft sigh.

Then, you say, “You’re ridiculous.”

He almost smiles. “Yeah.”

“And needy.”

“Only a little.”

“I’m hanging up now,” you say, but you don’t.

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on nothing. “Okay.”

Your phone buzzes again barely five seconds later. You glance at Minhyun, who raises an eyebrow, clearly seeing the caller ID flash across your screen. You mouth one sec and pick up, standing up from your seat

“You better not be talking to him with that baby voice shit you do.”

You laugh a full, startled laugh that earns you a glare from a nearby student and a very entertained look from Minhyun.

“Oh my god,” you say, still grinning. “Are you actually spiraling right now?”

“I'm not spiraling,” Seungcheol grumbles, voice low and half-muttered. “I’m just saying. You do that thing—your tone gets all soft and sugarcoated and—ugh. I don’t want to hear that being used on anyone but me.”

“First of all, you hated it when I used that voice on you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because when you do it with me, it’s annoying. When you do it with other guys, it’s... threatening.”

You snort. “Threatening?”

“To my sanity, yeah.”

You shake your head, amused and maybe a little flattered in the most chaotic way. “So what, you want me to reserve the baby voice exclusively for you now?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then—

“...Maybe.”

You nearly drop your phone from how fast your hand flies up to your face.

“You are unreal, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I just know what’s mine,” he says, all confidence now, like he didn’t just blurt that out by accident. Your smile softens, just a touch.

“I’m still in the library,” you murmur.

“So?” he replies. “Not like I can kiss you through the phone.”

You pause. That was... not a joke. Not fully. And your heart? Oh, it flips.

You swallow. “Then maybe stop calling unless you're ready to make that kind of statement.”

There’s a long, loaded silence.

Then, low and smug, he says, “Good. So you were thinking about kissing me.”

You hang up and across campus, Seungcheol laughs to himself like he’s just won the lottery.

Practice is the last thing on his mind. The sky is bleeding orange over the field, the kind of late afternoon glow that usually helps him lock in, focus up. 

But Seungcheol’s head is somewhere else half on your voice in his ear earlier, half on the way you hung up on him like you were flustered out of your mind, and maybe a little on how good that felt.

He’s tying his cleats on the sidelines when Mingyu drops onto the bench beside him, kicking his legs out like a golden retriever who just learned how to stretch.

“You know what’s funny?” Mingyu says, not even pretending to ease into it.

“No,” Seungcheol replies flatly, not looking up. “But I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“I texted ‘your girl’s flirting at the library’ and you didn’t even ask who I was talking about,” Mingyu says, all grin. “Just went straight into panic mode.”

Seungcheol freezes for half a second before continuing to tighten the laces. “I wasn’t panicking.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Mingyu drawls. “You were calmly accusing her of using her baby voice on other men within seconds.”

“I was just—checking.”

“Sure,” Mingyu says. “Checking. Out of concern for her academic productivity.”

Seungcheol glares at him. “Do you need to be like this?”

Mingyu slaps a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m just being a supportive friend.”

“Supportive friends don’t act like tabloid reporters.”

“Supportive friends call it like they see it, and what I see is a man deep in denial about being down horrifically bad.”

Seungcheol grabs a water bottle and takes a long sip just so he doesn’t say something that proves Mingyu exactly right.

Mingyu leans in, eyes twinkling. “You like her.”

“She’s annoying.”

“You like her.”

“She talks to me like I’m a five-year-old.”

“You’d let her step on you if she asked.”

Seungcheol gives him a deadpan look. “You good?”

Mingyu shrugs. “You’re not denying it.”

Seungcheol exhales, tipping his head back, letting the fading sun hit his face. Mingyu, satisfied with the tension in the air but not quite done poking the fire, stretches his arms overhead, lets out a content sigh, and adds, far too casually:

“But, like... they do kinda look cute together, don’t they? Minhyun and her.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps up so fast Mingyu almost flinches.

“What did you just say?”

Mingyu fights back a grin, trying to keep his tone innocent. “I mean, he’s got that polite, nice guy thing going on. She’s sharp, a little mean—classic opposites attract. Balance, y’know?”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticks.

“They don’t balance,” he says, too quickly. “Minhyun’s too bland for her.”

Mingyu raises a brow, delight practically radiating off him. “Bland?”

“Yeah. She’d eat him alive. He’d fold at the first sign of an argument.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I fight back,” Seungcheol snaps, and then immediately realizes how that sounds.

Mingyu full-on cackles.

“There it is! There’s the alpha wolf! Jesus, dude, chill before you end up headbutting someone.”

Seungcheol scowls and tosses the ball at Mingyu’s gut lightly, but with just enough force to make it a statement.

Mingyu catches it with a grunt, still laughing. “So defensive. You sure she’s not your girl?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer this time. Just turns toward the field, jaw set, hands on his hips, trying and failing not to think about how close you and Minhyun had been sitting.

=

The following day you barely make it five seconds into sitting across from him at the student lounge before you're hit with the weight of his mood.

Seungcheol’s already there when you arrive hood up, arms crossed, textbook open but clearly untouched. His eyes flick up when you slide into the seat across from him, but he doesn’t say anything. 

You squint at him. “Okay. What’s this vibe?”

“What vibe.”

“The one where you’re one exhale away from challenging someone to a duel.”

“Dramatic.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin on your palm. “Did Mingyu say something again? Did he beat you at something? Or is it because of—” you pause, catching the flicker of something in his eyes, “—Minhyun?”

Nothing but that nothing is so loud, it may as well be a full confession.

You grin. “Oh my god. You’re sulking again.”

“I’m not sulking,” he mutters, refusing to meet your eyes

“You have sulking energy. Your entire aura is sulk.”

He slams the book shut “Why him?”

“What?”

Seungcheol looks at you then, eyebrows slightly furrowed, like he’s genuinely annoyed but underneath, there's something else. A little unspoken frustration. Maybe even jealousy, thinly veiled.

“Minhyun,” he says. “Why do you laugh like that when you’re with him?”

You stare at him, lips parting, unsure if you’re hearing him right.

“Are you seriously asking me why I laugh at jokes?”

“I’m asking why you laugh differently.”

You lean back in your seat, slowly crossing your arms, lips tugging into a smug smile. “Choi Seungcheol... are you jealous?”

He narrows his eyes. “No.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I’m just observant,” he grumbles.

You lean in, resting your elbows on the table. “You know, if you wanted me to laugh like that with you, maybe try not scowling at me the minute I sit down.”

He snorts, finally just barely  “Then stop using your baby voice on other guys.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, huh?”

He leans back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not until you start using it where it counts.”

And just like that, the mood shifts. The sulk might still be there but so is the smirk. 

Then he says it. Just like that, out of nowhere. No warning. No buildup.

“And don’t think I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

No break. No pause. Not even a breath.

“You thinking about kissing me.”

Your brain screeches to a halt. “What—”

“I heard you,” he says, leaning in, smug etched all over his stupidly handsome face. “You said it yourself. ‘Then maybe stop calling unless you’re ready to make that kind of statement.’ Which means you were thinking it. Which means—”

“That is not what I said,” you argue, pointing at him like that’ll physically push the words back into his mouth. “You twisted it. You butchered it.”

“Oh? So you weren’t thinking about it?”

“I was—hypothetically speaking. There’s a difference.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “So you admit you thought about it.”

You gape at him. “That’s not—no! I was talking about you! You were the one flirting over the phone—”

“I was flirting?”

“‘I wanted to hear your voice,’” you mimic, dropping your voice into a painfully off-key version of his deeper tone. “That’s you! That’s textbook flirt!”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “Did it work?”

You glare. “I hung up on you.”

He grins. “Exactly. You panicked.”

You stare at him for a full three seconds. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, like he’s delivering some grand conclusion, “you’re still here.”

You want to throw your pen at him. But more than that, you want to wipe that smug look off his face.

Unfortunately, kissing him would do exactly that. Which is why you don’t. Not yet.

You just mutter, “Don’t flatter yourself, Choi,” and flip open your notebook, pretending to focus.

But from the way you can feel his eyes on you, you know this isn’t over. Not even close. He doesn't let up. In fact, he leans in.

Elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours with that sly smile that should be illegal on campus grounds. Close enough that you can smell the faint traces of his cologne, like pine and trouble.

“And yet,” he murmurs, smug and slow, “you’re blushing, babygirl.”

You freeze. Eyes wide. Brain empty. Heart somewhere doing backflips against your ribs.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me—”

His smile deepens, utterly pleased with himself. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

“I am not blushing—”

“You are.” He points lazily, like he’s stating the weather. “Right there. Your cheeks. Like strawberries.”

You slap both palms against your face. “Stop looking at me—” He laughs, leaning back like he just won a championship match.

You glare at him through your fingers. “You think this is funny?”

“Hilarious.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You grab your pen like a weapon. He raises his hands in surrender, still grinning like the devil in a varsity hoodie. But Seungcheol? He’s already forgotten the rest of the world exists. Because all he sees is you. Flustered, indignant, glowing red and still sitting right there across from him.

And he’s never felt more victorious in his life.

=

It’s been a few days, but nothing’s changed.

If anything, he’s gotten worse.

Now Seungcheol’s teasing comes armed less banter, more ambush. One second, he’s making fun of how you chew your pen when you’re focused, the next he’s casually dropping something like, “Careful, keep doing that and I’m gonna think you’re trying to distract me, sweetheart.”

Which, of course, earns him a full-on attack with your highlighter. Or your notebook. Or, once, your water bottle though to be fair, that was more of a warning toss.

He just dodges, laughs, and runs off like the menace he is, usually calling a smug “You’re obsessed with me!” over his shoulder while you try not to chase him down and tackle him in the middle of campus.

It’s a game now, and he plays to win.

Which brings you to now. another game day, your camera bag slung over your shoulder as you take your usual spot on the sidelines. The stadium is buzzing, the sky starting to dip into dusk, and you’re setting up your lens when something drops over your head.

You flinch, camera instinctively cradled to your chest, and yank the thing off only to find yep. A varsity jacket.

Not just any jacket. His jacket.

You turn around instantly, already knowing who it is.

Seungcheol stands a few feet away, casually stretching like he didn’t just try to blindfold you. He’s grinning, loose and cocky, in that way that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Sun’s setting,” he says innocently. “Didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

You hold up the jacket like it’s evidence at a crime scene. “This almost took me out, Choi.”

He shrugs. “Worth it. You look cute in it.”

Then you narrow your eyes, lips twitching. “You just wanted me to wear your jacket”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Wouldn’t complain.”

“You are—so—insufferable.”

He starts backing away toward his team, still grinning. “Still wearing it though.”

You glance down at the jacket in your arms. And yeah, you do pull it on but only because it’s cold and definitely not because it smells like pine and trouble and home.

The game starts, the first half going like the usual but then it happens. It happens fast, too fast to process. One second, the ball’s moving upfield in a blur, and the next, a player slams into Seungcheol. Hard.

You hear the collective oof ripple through the crowd as his body hits the turf, legs folding awkwardly beneath him before he rolls over, clutching his side.

Your heart lurches to your throat.

The ref’s whistle blows sharp and loud, halting the game. A few players drop to a knee. Others stand, tense and quiet. You grip your camera like a lifeline, frozen on the sideline as medics rush the field.

You lift the lens with trembling fingers, trying to keep it steady as they kneel beside him, talking quickly, checking something near his ribs. 

They help him to his feet slowly, his arm slung around one of the staff, weight uneven. He’s limping, favoring his side, jaw clenched. But even from here, even under the stadium lights, you can see him trying to brush it off, like he’s fine.

He’s not fine.

They help him off the field, and the game resumes minutes later but without him. You keep scanning the benches. The sidelines. The crowd.

He’s gone.

And you can’t move. You want to, but your job—your literal responsibility—keeps you stuck at the sideline. Camera still in hand. Fingers still numb.

Every few minutes, you steal glances again, just to be sure you didn’t miss him coming back. But his spot on the bench stays empty and your chest feels a little like it’s folding in on itself.

Meanwhile Seungcheol is in the locker room, the small medic room too quiet. 

He’s pissed. Not the kind of pissed where he’s throwing things or yelling. no, this is the quiet kind. The boiling-under-the-surface, jaw-locked, muscles-tense kind. 

The kind where he has too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it.

The medic room is too white. Too still. And he hates how sterile everything feels, how he’s being told to rest when all he wants to do is get back out there and finish the damn game.

He leans back against the padded table, an ice pack strapped to his ribs, shirt halfway off. His phone’s on the bench across the room, untouched. He hasn’t looked at it once.

The door creaks open and Yuta steps in, still in his cleats, jersey grass-stained, hair damp from sweat.

Seungcheol sits up straighter. “What’s the score?”

“We won,” Yuta says, casually. “2-1.”

Cheol exhales, but there’s no relief in it. Just more frustration. “Should’ve been out there.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuta shrugs, peeling off his gloves. “Not much you could do with half your ribs probably cracked.”

“Not cracked.”

“Probably,” Yuta repeats.

Seungcheol glares at the floor.

There’s a pause before Yuta jerks a thumb toward the hallway. “By the way. Your girl’s outside.”

Cheol’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Yeah. Pacing like she’s about to wear out the floorboards,” Yuta smirks. “Muttering something about rules and how you’re stupid and reckless and honestly, she sounds more pissed than you.”

Seungcheol’s already sliding off the table.

“You’re not cleared to leave, bro,” Yuta calls after him.

“Then tell the medic I’m stretching my legs.”

Yuta raises both brows. “Stretching your legs or going to get yelled at?”

Cheol throws his shirt over his shoulder, heading for the door. “Probably both.”

The second he steps out, he sees you. Right there across the hallway, arms crossed, pacing a tight little loop like you’ve got fire under your feet. 

You don’t even notice him at first too busy muttering to yourself like you’re rehearsing a speech that ends in murder. Then you hear the door shut.

You whip around.

“Choi Seungcheol—”

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely about to get yelled at.

“You absolute idiot,” you start, marching up to him. “What part of take care of yourself did you not understand? You got wrecked, Cheol—rammed, like you were nothing but a traffic cone—”

“I’m fine,” he says, calm but slightly amused. “See? Walking. Breathing. All parts attached.”

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why the hell did you try to get up like you were fine? You were obviously in pain—”

“I was fine.”

“You couldn’t even walk straight.”

“Okay,” he admits, “mostly fine.”

You throw your hands in the air. “Unbelievable.”

He just watches you, eyes softening, lips quirking at the corners. “You were worried.”

“Of course I was worried. You're—” You stop. Catch yourself. Almost let the words slip.

He steps closer.

“Say it.”

You glance away. “No.”

“Say it.”

“No, because you’ll get that smug look like you’re about to win something—”

“I already feel like I did.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding too loud to ignore. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping just a little, “you’re still here. Still yelling. Still wearing my jacket.”

You look back up, intending to retort—but he’s already looking at you like that.

Like that. Warm. Steady. Quietly proud. And maybe a little in love.

You glare at him “You’re impossibl and you’re stubborn.”

He replies back, smiling as if he isn’t nursing a few bruised ribs“You look good when you’re mad.”

“I’m gonna throw your cleats at you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You lunge. He laughs then winces.

You freeze instantly. “Wait—are you okay?”

“Still sore,” he admits. “But worth it.”

Your voice is quieter when you say it this time, like the wind got knocked out of your chest but you still needed to say it anyway.

“You scared me.”

Seungcheol’s smile falters just a little.

“I know.”

You shake your head, staring at him, hard. “No. I mean it, Cheol. I—I couldn’t even see where you went after they helped you off the field. You weren’t on the bench. No update. No text. Nothing. I just had to stand there, holding a damn camera, wondering if you—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do,” you cut in. “But you keep getting in these stupid plays like you have to carry the whole team on your back or something. You don’t always have to be the one who takes the hit, Cheol. You're not invincible.”

He watches you for a long beat. Then takes one step closer. Then another.

“You done?”

You blink. “No.”

He’s close now. Arms open, head tilted down to look at you fully like he always does. “Good. Get it all out.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling—”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning openly now. “Because you’re here. And yelling. Which means you care.”

You glare “Of course I care. You big dumb idiot—”

“Babygirl ”

“Don’t babygirl me right now—”

“I’m gonna.” He grins wider. “Because I like the way it makes you flustered.”

“Seungcheol—”

“I promise,” he says suddenly, cutting through your spiral. His tone drops. Softens. Steadies. “No more of that. I’ll be more careful. I won’t disappear on you. I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

You narrow your eyes, watching him like you’re still deciding if you can believe him. “I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I will end you.”

He holds up a pinky. “Scout’s honor.”

“How many times do I have to remind you, you were never a scout.”

He smiles that boyish handsome smile, showing the dimples on his cheeks

“Still counts.”

You’re about to shoot bac another sarcastic comment, another dramatic eye roll but he doesn’t wait. He just opens his arms and tugs you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Your face presses against his chest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Slower now. Calmer. Warm.

“I need a hug,” he says softly, chin resting against your hair. “So shut up for like five seconds.”

You sigh, but you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jersey. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“I still hate you,” you mumble.

He chuckles. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

You swat at his ribs.

He flinches and tightens his arms around you. “Hey! Injury!”

“You’re lucky I don’t aim lower”

He hums, a low sound in his chest. “Still not letting go.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He doesn’t.

=

He’s halfway through zoning out when it happens.

Sitting near the back of the lecture hall, earbuds in, one arm slung over the back of the empty chair beside him, pretending to review his notes but really just rereading the same sentence for the fifth time. 

His brain’s still somewhere else. Specifically that night a few nights ago when he got pulled out of the game. If he’s being honest, it was worth it. He might not have been there for the winning goal but it felt like he was the MVP that night.

Then the chair next to him creaks. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

Exy’s presence is impossible to miss. She’s got that smirk today, too, the one that makes him instinctively brace for something. She doesn’t say hi.

Just, “So.”

Seungcheol glances at her warily. “So…?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “What are we calling it now? Friends who hug like their lives depend on it? Friends who give each other heart attacks on the field?”

He sighs, already exhausted. “You really don’t have anything better to do?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Just here to make sure you’re emotionally stable before you inevitably do something stupid.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.” Exy leans back, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. “But you will, because you’re both stubborn idiots who think prolonged eye contact and light bullying is a form of communication.”

“You’re very dramatic for someone who wasn’t even there.”

“Didn’t need to, I have eyes everywhere” she says

“What do you want, Exy?”

She shrugs “Just making sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

Exy leans in, not unkind, but unrelenting. “Look. You like her. Obviously. And she likes you back. Also obvious. But if you’re gonna keep doing this—whatever this is—just make sure you’re not playing tug-of-war with her heart. She’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. She sees it anyway, in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into fists on his thighs. The quiet kind of protective that never quite fades, even when he’s sitting still.

Exy softens, just a little. “She really does care, you know.”

He nods. “I know.”

Exy watches him a moment longer, like she’s trying to decide if she should keep going or let him sit with his own thoughts.

Spoiler: she keeps going.

“You know what she likes, right?” she says, drumming her fingers against the desk. “The reason she messes with you so much? It’s because you never say what you mean unless it’s wrapped in sarcasm or some post-goal adrenaline.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “And you’re suddenly her spokesperson?”

“Please,” Exy says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve known her longer than you. She’s my roommate, my soul sister, sometimes the voice of reason. You get what I mean”

He shoots her a glare. She ignores it.

“She likes straightforward guys,” she continues, voice a little more serious now. “Not the ones who get jealous in the corner and stew in silence, not the ones who pretend like they don’t care. She wants someone who shows it. Not in a weird ‘mine mine mine’ way, but like… make it clear.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “I don’t want to come off—”

“Possessive?” Exy finishes. “Yeah, you already are but neither of you acknowledges it. But you know what she likes more? Feeling chosen. Loudly. Publicly. Like, no room for guessing.”

He’s quiet again. Processing. Thinking.

She nudges his leg under the table. “You don’t have to post her on Instagram with a cheesy ass caption. But you do have to stop pretending like you’re just ‘hanging out’ when the whole campus already knows you’d deck someone for even looking at her sideways.”

He lets out a breath, more exhale than sigh. “…You think she really likes me back?”

Exy looks at him like he’s said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. Which, in fairness, he might’ve.

“Seungcheol. She ran to the locker room after you got benched. She paced like a worried girlfriend. She lets you hug her in front of people. She calls you baby boy.”

His ears go red instantly. “That was—she was teasing—”

“She blushed,” Exy says, shaking her head. “That’s like her version of a declaration.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then another. Then, “So what do I do?”

Exy shrugs, getting up as the professor finally walks in. “You stop being a coward. And you start making it obvious or atleast more obvious than you already are”

She pauses, smirking down at him. “Starting now would be ideal.”

Later after his last class, he waits for. Like he always does, you never asked why you’re just used to it now. 

You’re already mid-rant about your journalism group,voice going a mile a minute. Something about missed deadlines, broken printers, and the absolute disaster that is your publication’s group chat.

He’s barely said a word, just walking beside you with that small smile tugging at his lips, watching the way your face scrunches when you get fired up, the way you skip a step when you’re being dramatic on purpose. 

The sun catches your hair, and he wonders again how he got so gone. Maybe it slipped between the banters, the teasing, the walks after class. Just like this one. 

He can’t even recall what campus life was, or his life, was before you. You’ve become that one constant in his everyday routine. From countless morning coffee runs, to late lunch hall trips to late night convenient store runs. He doesn’t know just when he became your first call, but he doesn’t mind. You’re his first person he’d call too, if he’s having a great day or a bad day or he just needed a break from all the madness.

 You don’t even notice when he slows down, steps dragging just a bit more than usual.

Too busy talking, you reach back with one hand and grab his, tugging without even looking at him. Intertwining your fingers with his like you’ve done it before. 

“Anyway, I told him, if you turn in your draft the day after deadline again, I’m going to start publicly shaming you—”

But he doesn’t budge.

You stop mid-step, turning. “What—?”

He’s looking at your joined hands. Not in shock or hesitation. Just… lingering.

You follow his gaze and blink down, like just realizing you were holding his hand. Then back up at him, one brow raised. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, your hands and then at your face like he’s trying to memorize something.

“What,” you say again, a little more cautious this time.

“You always do that?” he asks, voice low, just a little amused. “Grab my hand like it’s nothing?”

“You were walking like a grandpa. I didn’t want to miss the bus.”

He laughs softly. “Right.”

You tilt your head. “What’s going on with you?”

He shrugs, but doesn’t let go of your hand. In fact he holds it firmer “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

But he’s not smiling now. Not fully. He takes a step closer, just enough to make your hand drop between you. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

Your heart skips. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes meet yours, all steady, no teasing this time. “You hold my hand like it’s nothing. You call me baby boy in front of my teammates. You yell at me when I get hurt”

You open your mouth to say something anything but he cuts in, voice soft but serious.

“I’m making it clear now. I like you. Not just for the banter. Not just when it’s easy.”

He squeezes your hand, not hard. Just enough.

“I want to make it obvious.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest now, and for the first time in a while, you’re the one struggling for words. But your hand tightens back around his, and your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile.

“You’ve always been obvious, you growl at other guys if they so much so look my way” you joke

He scowls at you, “Here I was being genuine and sweet”

You smile small at first, a little shy, but then it breaks wider, soft and warm and so you.

But since you’re you and he’s him, you reply back

“I guess I just never said anything because you didn’t either. But we both knew, we both know what this really is. Good to know you finally got your big boy pants on and say it loud and proud”

He lets outs chuckle, looking down at you. He tucks in the few strands of hair blown by the late afternoon wind, his other hand still holding yours.

And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you just pick up where you left off. “Anyway, as I was saying—this guy? He sends in drafts written like a text message. Like, full-on ‘LOL’ and emoji placeholders. I wish I was joking, Cheol.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, not because of the story but because of you. The way you bounce back so easily, how nothing ever feels awkward with you for long. One minute you’re standing still while he’s basically confessing on a quiet campus path, and the next you’re dragging him toward the bus stop with your fingers still looped with his.

He glances down at your hands. Intertwined. And you’re not letting go.

You’re still talking, still dramatically reciting the tragedies of group projects and typos that somehow made it to print, but your thumb brushes against his like it’s always been meant to be there. And he’s just… listening.

Not saying much. Not needing to.

Because this? This moment your voice in his ear, your hand in his, your familiar little eye-roll when you notice him smiling too long is everything.

And there's nowhere else he’d rather be. This right here has been the ultimate goal all along.

=

A FEW MONTHS LATER.

The first thing he hears when he opens his eyes?

Your voice. Of course.

Not soft, not dreamy, not the gentle cooing kind of morning wake-up call some people probably expect from their girlfriends. 

No. yours is sharp, brisk, and deeply exasperated.

“Choi Seungcheol, I swear, if you forget your cap, I’m not turning around this time. We’re not missing line-up just because you take three business days to get ready—”

He groans, arm flopping across his eyes as he cracks a smile. “Good morning to you too, jagi”

“You’re impossible in the mornings,” you mutter, rifling through a bag near the foot of the bed. “I don’t know why I agreed to be the responsible one in this relationship.”

He peeks at you through his lashes, hair still a mess from the night before, lips pressed in that familiar line that says you’re trying not to smile even as you’re scolding him. 

Still you. Unmistakably, unapologetically you.

And for some reason, he feels full just watching you.

Because today’s the day. Graduation. The end of all-nighters and library corners and half-serious bickering in cafes. The end of walking across campus as “friends” with a mile of tension between you and the start of something else.

“Are you even listening to me?” you ask, exasperated, already halfway to the mirror to fix your hair. “The trip, Seungcheol. We leave next week. And you have that early training thing right after we get back, so if we don’t get everything packed—”

He pushes himself up slowly, stretching, watching you spin through your checklist with military precision.

“—and your mom said she wanted photos after the ceremony, so don’t disappear with the team, okay? And please don’t forget to eat before we leave, I’m not dealing with you fainting in full gown and—”

You’re cut off with a kiss. Firm, quick, not giving you a chance to back away or dodge it like you do sometimes just to be difficult.

You blink at him. “What was that for?”

He grins, thumb brushing your chin. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

You swat at him, cheeks flushed. “Shut up.”

He tugs you back gently, arms looping around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. “You know, when we first met, I thought I’d lose my mind if I had to listen to you nag me every day.”

You snort. “Charming.”

“But now?” He kisses your temple, voice soft. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands come up to rest over his anyway.

“Better not,” you murmur, the edge in your tone barely there. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He smiles against your skin, eyes slipping shut for one more second.

You. Still you. Still loud. Still quick to argue. Still calling him out when he needs it but now he can shut you up with a kiss. Now, you’re his. Officially. Publicly.

Somehow he managed to distract you enough to pull you back in bed but you’re still talking.

Even now, knees planted on either side of his hips, straddling him in the middle of your shared chaos of a room. gown half-steamed and a to-do list longer than your patience. You’re going off about last-minute logistics.

“You didn’t charge your camera last night, did you? You said you would, and if it dies while my parents are taking photos, I swear to God, Seungcheol—”

He’s not even trying to keep up anymore. Not with your words, at least.

Just… watching you. The way your brows furrow when you’re pretending to be mad. The way you keep adjusting your hair like it’s not already perfect. The way you’re sitting on top of him like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And your voice filling every inch of his morning like it always does.

He thinks, Yeah. This is it. This is what he wants every morning to be like. Even if you’re nagging him. Especially if you’re nagging him.

You lean forward a little, pressing your hand to his chest like you’re trying to make a point. “Seriously, if we’re late, Exy is going to murder us both. Don’t give me that look—”

“Babe,” he says, laughing softly.

“No, you always do this—you smile and nod and then forget everything I said—”

“Babe,” he says again, pulling you down gently, your face just inches from his now. “I love you.”

You blink. Mouth still parted mid-rant. Eyes just a little wider. And that second of silence? It might be his favorite part of the whole morning.

He grins. “Like, really, really whipped for you.”

Your expression twists somewhere between smug and flustered. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Hopeless.”

“Absolutely.”

You huff and try to sit back, but he doesn’t let you, arms locking around your waist.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Call me whipped. Call me down bad. I don’t care.”

He presses a kiss just below your jaw, and your fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his shoulders.

“I’ll take all of it,” he adds. “If it means waking up to you. Every single day. Nagging and all.”

You try to look unimpressed, but your lips betray you with the softest curve of a smile.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

And you do. Maybe a little more than you’d ever admit out loud.

So you lean down, brushing your nose against his, and mutter against his lips, “Only if you remember the damn cap this time.”

You kiss him, once. Twice. “And I love you, too”

He laughs again head thrown back like you’ve just handed him the world.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The door swings open, the morning sun spilling across the hallway as you bolt out in full momentum. heels clicking against the tile, hair slightly tousled from your last-minute panic fix, your phone clenched in one hand and a rolled-up copy of the graduation itinerary in the other.

“—and I told you,Cheol, if we don’t get to the hall before they start locking seat assignments, I am not begging some underpaid volunteer to let us in. And no, don’t give me that look, you were the one who decided to iron your shirt twenty minutes before we had to leave—”

He follows behind you, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His cap is still crooked, tassel flipping wildly in the breeze, and he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. 

Not when you’re out here looking like that radiant and already halfway to combusting because of a scuffed shoe or a forgotten pin or God knows what else.

You keep going, barely glancing back. “—and I can’t believe you tried to bribe Exy with iced coffee so she wouldn’t tell me you forgot to RSVP to the post-grad dinner. You know she’s lactose intolerant—”

“Babe.”

“—and then there’s still the trip itinerary we haven’t finished, your mom’s gift still needs wrapping, and I told you at least four times to print out your boarding pass just in case—”

“Baby,” he says again, stepping closer now, his hand brushing your wrist.

You spin toward him, full of momentum and indignation, your mouth already open to launch into another paragraph of minor disasters and contingency plans.

But he just cups your face in both hands, warm and sure, and pulls you in.

Kisses you. Firm and fast. You freeze, lips caught mid-word. Your eyes flutter open in surprise, brows drawing together.

He pulls back a half second later, grinning. “Hi.”

You blink, processing.

And then, just like that, “Anyway, as I was saying—if we don’t get to the photo op on time, your sister will murder us both, and you still haven’t replied to the family group chat—”

He kisses you again.

You make a muffled noise into his mouth, both hands lifting in frustration that he can never let you finish a proper thought.

He pulls back again, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

You glare. “I swear—”

Another kiss. This one longer.

This time, when he pulls back, you're breathless. But still stubborn.

“I hate you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smiling because I’m two seconds from kicking your ass in front of your entire graduating class.”

He grins, nose brushing yours. “Still worth it.”

You push lightly at his chest, trying to turn away. “We’re going to be late—”

He kisses you again before you can take a step. And again. And again.

It becomes a pattern. every time you open your mouth to talk, he just silences you with a kiss. They’re quick at first, just small interruptions. But the more you fight him, the longer they stretch. The slower they get. Until you’re not even trying to speak anymore—just giggling helplessly against his mouth as he pecks you one more time, then another, and then another.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble into his shoulder, finally giving up, forehead resting there while he loops an arm around your waist.

“You love it.”

“Debatable.”

“You love me.”

You groan dramatically. “God, don’t remind me.”

He laughs, light and easy, kissing the top of your head as you both start walking again, fingers intertwined, the rush of the morning finally slowing down.

And somewhere between the bickering and the kisses, the nagging and the laughter, it settles in:

You’re still you. He’s still him.

But now… it’s official.

Caps and gowns, travel plans and futures ahead. Whatever comes next—training camps or late deadlines or burnt breakfasts—he’ll have you. And you’ll have him.

Even if he’s five minutes late. Even if you never stop nagging.

Even if the only way to shut you up is kissing you breathless at the door every single morning.

[li-lilyvi]

I recently saw the video where s.coups showed his surgery scars on his knee (😔) can you write some fluff about reader taking care of him after surgery/after seeing the video ? Thank you so much and also , people will always accuse you of such things because they are jealous . just don't care about their opinions and keep on doing what you like ❤️❤️❤️

IT HURTS TO BREATHE

(Choi Seungcheol x FemReader)

*Slice-of-life, Emotional healing, Fluff, Idolverse, Comfort, Light angst, Vunerability, Romance, Domestic romance, Adventure, Contemporary romance, Light comedy, Emotional support, and Quiet resilience*

Warnings: mentions of injury/surgery recovery, emotional vulnerability, mental health (idol burnout, anxiety), crying, heavy emotional scenes, romantic fluff

I don’t know why that video hit me the way it did.

I’ve seen him perform, smile, carry his members like a leader made of steel but watching that clip of Seungcheol pulling up his pant leg and showing the scars on his knee…

It broke something in me.

It wasn’t the scar itself. It was the silence in the room when he showed it. The way the members looked away. The way he kind of chuckled, like he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t ache every time he danced. Like it wasn’t a reminder of pain stitched into him.

And I guess the world saw it and moved on, like it was nothing. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how much he must’ve endured. Quietly.

The first night he came home from the hospital, he tried to smile. He really did.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, voice soft, brushing a hand through my hair. “I’m okay, really.”

But I could see the pain hiding behind his eyes the way he winced when he moved, the way he avoided sitting down fully, how he flinched when the blanket brushed against his knee.

“You don’t have to pretend,” I whispered.

That’s when he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just… slowly.

His shoulders slumped. His voice wavered.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbled. “I’m supposed to be strong. But all I feel is… small.”

My heart cracked open.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I said, kneeling beside the bed. “You just have to be real.”

He looked at me like no one had said that to him before. Not in that way.

The next few days, I took care of him.

I cooked simple meals. Helped him shower when the pain was too much. Cleaned around him. Reached for things he couldn’t. Changed his bandages when his hands trembled.

I remember the first time I saw the scar up close. My breath caught.

It wasn’t just a scar it was a story. Of every dance he forced himself through, every moment on stage where he smiled for the fans while he was screaming inside.

“You hate it?” he asked quietly, watching my face.

I shook my head. “I hate that you went through it alone.”

And that night, for the first time, he let me cry in front of him.

I didn’t sob loudly. I just sat on the floor with my head in his lap, arms around his waist, tears soaking into his shirt while he stroked my hair with his uninjured hand.

He didn’t tell me to stop crying.

He didn’t tell me to be strong either.

He just whispered, “I know. I know. I’m here.”

One night, around 3am, I woke up to him staring out the window.

The moonlight poured in like soft silver, casting shadows on his skin. His knee was slightly bent, elevated by a pillow. I saw his hand resting gently on the scar, as if he was still trying to accept it.

“Can’t sleep?” I asked.

He turned to me. There was something in his eyes like a boy who once thought the world would always see him as invincible. And now, all he could see were his cracks.

“I’m scared,” he said.

I climbed out of bed and sat beside him.

“Of what?”

“Being forgotten. Falling behind. Not being enough anymore.” He paused. “What if they stop loving me because I can’t dance the same? What if I’m not the leader they need?”

It hit me then, how heavy that weight on his chest was.

“I didn’t fall in love with your dance moves, Cheol,” I whispered. “I fell in love with how you give pieces of yourself to everyone, even when you’re empty. I fell in love with the way you love your members like family. The way you smile at fans like you see each of them. The way you hide your pain to protect others. I see you. Not your steps. You.”

He didn’t say anything.

He just leaned his head on my shoulder, and we stayed like that until dawn.

Some days are better than others. He laughs more now. He lets me trace his scar with my fingers like it’s a map, not a flaw.

“I think,” he said once, “I was scared of looking weak in front of you.”

I smiled, brushing his hair back. “And I think you’re more beautiful now than ever.”

He didn’t believe me at first. But over time, he started to see it. In the way I looked at him. In the way I loved him not despite his scars, but with them.

I don’t know why that video hit me the way it did.

I’ve seen him perform, smile, carry his members like a leader made of steel but watching that clip of Seungcheol pulling up his pant leg and showing the scars on his knee…

It broke something in me.

We made it a ritual: every night, before sleeping, I would kiss his knee gently. No words. Just a promise. That he is loved. That he is safe. That he doesn’t need to be strong every day.

And some nights, when he’s in too much pain to hide it, he falls asleep with his head in my lap, tears on his cheeks. And I hold him like he’s my whole world.

Because he is.

He’s not just the leader of thirteen boys. He’s not just a stage presence or a fan favorite.

He’s a man. A beautiful, soft-hearted man with scars, fears, dreams, and a soul that aches just like any of ours.

And I will love every inch of him.

Even the broken parts.

Especially the broken parts.

Because that’s where the light gets in.

The seasons changed quietly, and so did he.

Not all at once.

Some days, he woke up lighter. He’d joke about how “grandpa Cheol” needed his heating pad before breakfast. He let me put cute stickers on his crutches once hearts, tiny carrots, and a teddy bear holding a “you did well” sign. He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t take them off.

He started to trust softness.

And yet… even healing has its shadows.

It was the day of the company shoot.

His first time returning to a set since the surgery.

I was helping him put on his outfit. My hands grazed his thigh while adjusting the fabric, and I felt him stiffen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently.

He stared into the mirror. Then at his knee. Then at me.

“I don’t want people to look at me and only see damage,” he whispered.

I touched his cheek. “They won’t.”

He gave a dry smile. “You will. Eventually.”

I hated that voice in his head. The one the world gave him. The one that told him he was only worthy when perfect. Only loved when shining.

So I kissed his scar. Then again. And again.

“Every inch of you is worth loving,” I whispered. “Even this. Especially this. This is where you fought. This is proof you stayed.”

He turned his head away, and I saw it—his eyes glassy.

But he nodded.

And he let me hold his hand on the way out the door.

After the shoot, he came home quiet.

He barely touched his food. Barely looked up.

I sat beside him on the couch, waiting. Not pushing.

Eventually, he spoke.

“Someone asked if I regretted getting the surgery,” he said. “If I thought it changed me.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And I didn’t know what to say. Because… maybe it did. Maybe I’m not who I was.”

Silence.

Then, he looked at me.

“Would you still love me if I couldn’t dance at all?”

I could’ve cried.

“Cheol,” I said, “I’d love you even if you couldn’t walk. Even if you lost your voice. Even if the whole world turned its back on you.”

I cupped his face, and his tears started to fall before he could stop them.

“I’d love you through every version of you. Broken. Brave. Angry. Quiet. Soft. Still.”

That night, we didn’t sleep.

We stayed up listening to the rain tapping the windows, wrapped in each other like the world didn’t exist beyond our skin.

He let me trace every scar physical or not. He told me about the nights in the hospital where he cried alone. About the fear of waking up to a future he couldn’t recognize. About the guilt of feeling like a burden to his team.

And I told him this: “You were never a burden. You were always the heart.”

He buried his face in my neck, and I held him until his breathing slowed.

We built a new rhythm after that.

Morning coffees with jokes about who’s the better barista. Physical therapy sessions where I cheered him on like he was running a marathon. Lazy Sundays on the floor, lying in the sun, legs tangled, soft music playing.

We weren’t perfect. But we were present.

He danced again eventually. Softer. But he danced.

And when he stumbled, I didn’t catch him to save him I caught him to remind him that falling didn’t mean failure.

One evening, while folding laundry, he suddenly asked me:

“Do you still think I’m beautiful?”

I turned to him.

He was standing by the balcony, light pouring through the sheer curtains. His scar caught the light not hidden, not ashamed. Just there. Part of him.

I walked over, rested my head against his chest.

“You’ve never looked more like the man I love.”

He exhaled shakily. “Thank you… for staying. For seeing me.”

I smiled into his shirt.

“I didn’t stay despite your scars. I stayed because of them.”

He kissed the top of my head and whispered, “Then I guess I’m not so afraid anymore.”

He still gets quiet sometimes.

Still flinches when the pain creeps in.

Still stares at the scar like it speaks louder than his voice ever could.

But now, he doesn’t face it alone.

Now, when the silence comes, I take his hand and kiss the space where it hurts.

And he lets me.

Because love isn’t about fixing.

It’s about holding.

It’s about saying: “Even if the world only sees your scars… I’ll always see your soul.”

He hadn’t smiled in days. Not really.

That kind of smile that starts in the chest. That doesn’t feel forced. That doesn’t feel like he owes it to his fans, his team, his world.

He had been working again, pushing too hard again. That permanent ache in his knee had returned, like a whisper saying, “Don’t forget, you’re not whole.”

But he was whole.

He was mine.

And I wanted to remind him of that.

So one evening, I sat next to him on the couch, took his hand in both of mine, and said:

“Cheol… come away with me.”

His eyebrows lifted, tired. “Come away where?”

“Somewhere warm. Somewhere with blue water. Somewhere that doesn’t ask anything of you. Just… the sun, the waves, and me.”

He hesitated. “I can’t. There’s so much to-”

“You can.” I squeezed his hand. “And you should. You’ve taken care of everyone else. Let me take care of you now.”

He looked at me like I’d just told him the sky could fall and we’d be safe anyway.

And the next morning, we were on a plane to Punta Cana, República Dominicana.

The first day, he barely spoke.

He just laid in the hammock on the little terrace of our beach villa, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach.

I brought him chilled coconut water. Pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Sat beside him with a book I never actually opened.

He didn’t have to talk.

I just wanted him to feel peace. To let the ocean undo the knots in his chest.

That night, we watched the sunset in silence.

As the sky turned orange and soft purples, I glanced at him. His lips were parted, eyes slightly wet.

“It doesn’t hurt right now,” he whispered.

I didn’t ask what “it” meant.

Pain. Pressure. The weight he carried every day.

I simply leaned into him and said, “That’s all I wanted for you.”

We spent our mornings in the ocean. I would swim ahead and turn back just to see him laugh that soft, open kind of laugh, the one I’d fallen in love with.

He’d splash me. Call me a little menace. Let the waves carry him like a child again.

In the afternoons, we’d find shade and drink fresh juice while I massaged his knee with the softest touch I could manage.

“I’m scared it’ll always be like this,” he said one day, his voice barely a whisper. “That I’ll never be… free in my own body again.”

“You’re not alone in it,” I replied, still rubbing gentle circles. “And freedom doesn’t mean going back. It means choosing how to move forward.”

He nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut.

One evening, we danced barefoot on the beach.

There was no music just the sound of waves, the breeze rustling through palm leaves, and his low hum against my ear.

He moved cautiously. He held me tighter than usual.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he chuckled.

“You’re doing more than that,” I smiled up at him. “You’re living.”

He kissed me. Not like the urgent kisses from before. This one was slow, warm, like the sea wrapping the shore. Like gratitude.

On our last night, we lay on a blanket under the stars.

He had his arm around me, and the scar on his knee caught the moonlight. This time, he didn’t hide it.

“Promise me something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“If I forget what this felt like… remind me.”

I kissed his collarbone. “Every time.”

When we got home, things didn’t magically fix themselves.

His schedule was still demanding. His body still had limits.

But now, there was something new in him.

A memory.

A secret smile that said: I’ve touched joy. I’ve tasted quiet. I’ve been loved in the places I was most broken.

Sometimes he’ll pull me into the kitchen while I’m cooking, turn on a soft song, and sway with me.

Sometimes he’ll whisper, “Let’s run away again soon.”

And I’ll answer, “Just say when.”

Because the world can wait.

But healing healing can’t.

And love… love doesn’t ask for perfection. It just asks you to stay.

I hadn’t slept the night before.

The show was in a few hours, but my body wouldn’t let me rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him not dancing, not smiling but in pain, lying on the hospital bed, clutching his knee, saying “I’m scared I’ll never come back.”

And yet here we were. Hours away. He was coming back.

I sat quietly backstage, hidden behind the tech monitors and wires, while the rest of the staff bustled around. A pass hung loosely from my neck, but it wasn’t what gave me access it was him. He was my access. My home.

I could hear the crowd swelling beyond the curtains. Their voices full of love, hope, desperation. They’d missed him. They’d waited.

And so had I.

When the lights dimmed and the VCR started playing, I pressed a hand to my chest.

Every beat of the intro, I imagined him standing just beyond the wings. Breathing in. Out. In. Out.

“Cheol,” I whispered under my breath. “You’ve got this.”

And then he walked out.

He wasn’t sprinting. He wasn’t jumping. But he was there.

Walking confidently. Smiling with that same dimpled grin. His eyes searching the crowd, his hand on his heart.

The crowd screamed like they’d seen a miracle.

Because maybe they had.

He started rapping his verse smooth, controlled, powerful. There was a pause right before his footwork came in. A small bit of choreo, something light not too heavy on the knee.

He did it.

Not perfect. A little slower than the rest. But his version. His choice. His power.

And that’s when my eyes filled.

I didn’t cry because he was on stage.

I cried because I knew everything it took to get there.

I knew the nights he sat on the bathroom floor, icing his leg, refusing to let me see how badly it hurt. I knew the physical therapy sessions where he pushed himself too hard, then apologized for worrying me. I knew the breakdown he had in the car one night, whispering, “What if they’ve all moved on without me?”

And yet, here they were screaming louder than ever. Calling his name like it was a prayer.

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!”

I bit my lip and smiled through the tears.

You did it, baby.

When the lights went down for the encore, he disappeared from the main stage. I expected him to return with the others. He didn’t.

Instead, someone tapped my shoulder.

It was a staff member. “He’s asking for you.”

I blinked fast. “Now?”

She smiled. “Now.”

I found him alone in the greenroom, slumped on the couch, his chest still heaving from adrenaline and emotion.

His hair was damp with sweat. His knee was wrapped tight. His eyes were red.

He looked up at me.

And he broke.

He stood and pulled me into him like he’d been holding the whole world on his shoulders and finally let it fall.

“I was so scared,” he whispered into my neck. “I thought I wouldn’t make it. I thought I’d disappoint them. I thought-”

“You didn’t,” I choked out, gripping him tighter. “You didn’t disappoint anyone.”

He nodded, trembling. “But I kept thinking of you. Of that beach. Of your voice saying you’re not alone in it. That’s what got me through.”

I kissed his temple, tears spilling freely now. “You were never alone, Cheol. Never.”

Later that night, the group went out to celebrate. He didn’t stay long.

We ended up on the rooftop of our apartment building just the two of us, wrapped in one blanket, the city lights flickering like fireflies.

“I want to keep going,” he said softly.

“You will.”

“I want to do it for me. Not for pressure. Not for expectation. Just because I love it.”

I nodded, wiping his cheek. “That’s how I love you too.”

And as he laid his head in my lap and looked up at the stars, I realized:

The bravest thing isn’t getting back on stage. It’s letting someone see you fall apart, and still choosing to rise again.

And he did.

And I will always be watching Loving him, quietly. Loudly. Always.

I thought he was tired.

The tour had just wrapped, and I was ready to spend the next few days in sweats, ordering takeout, and massaging his knee every few hours while we watched movies.

But Seungcheol had other plans.

“Just trust me,” he said, grinning behind the wheel, his hand resting on my thigh. “Close your eyes.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’d never kidnap you. I’d ask you nicely and bribe you with iced coffee and forehead kisses.”

I sighed, already smiling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

When we stopped, I opened my eyes and gasped.

He had set up a full picnic under a tall tree in a quiet park near the Han River. Blankets, cushions, lanterns, fairy lights strung through the branches above us.

But that wasn’t what got me.

What got me was the scrapbook that sat on top of the basket. And the small wooden box beside it carved with our initials. And a little folded card that read: “For every quiet day you stayed. For every time you held me when I couldn't stand. Let me give a piece of me back to you.”

I looked at him.

He smiled, a little nervously this time. “You always say I’m strong… but you’re the strongest person I know.”

He opened the scrapbook first.

Each page was hand-decorated with tiny drawings and messy glue stains. Photos of us silly ones, blurry ones, ones I didn’t even know existed. Captions like:

“She made me eat ramen three nights in a row but I still love her.”

“Taken 2 minutes before she cried watching a dog ad.”

“I don’t deserve her, but I’m never letting her go.”

Every now and then, a dried flower was taped in. Or a movie ticket. A Polaroid. A receipt.

“This is your love language, isn’t it?” I whispered, running my fingers over a photo of us at the beach.

He nodded. “It’s not loud. But it’s real.”

Then he opened the wooden box.

Inside: a pair of handmade pearl bracelets.

Simple. Elegant. One for him. One for me. Each with a tiny silver heart charm in the middle.

“I watched a dozen videos trying to learn how to tie them,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I messed up like seven times.”

I couldn’t stop smiling. “They’re perfect.”

“So are you,” he whispered.

Then came the final surprise.

He pulled out a small portable projector and turned it on against a white sheet strung between two tree trunks.

“A film?” I blinked.

He bit his lip. “something like that, yeah”

The screen lit up and I saw me.

Laughing. Dancing. Sleeping with my mouth slightly open. Painting. Walking away from the camera barefoot in the sand.

Clips from his phone. His camera. From months ago. From days ago. From nights I didn’t even know he was watching.

His voice, soft over the video: "I never say enough. So I made this. To say thank you. For not giving up on me when I couldn’t run. For seeing me when I tried to hide. For holding my heart gently, always."

He paused, his voice breaking.

"I love you. Not for what you do for me. But for who you are, when the world isn’t looking."

By the time it ended, I was crying. Like really crying. The kind that shakes in your chest and leaves your throat raw.

He turned to me, suddenly worried. “Too much?”

I launched into his arms, wrapping myself around him like the world might disappear if I didn’t.

“It’s everything, Cheol. It’s everything.”

That night, as we lay under the stars, his head on my stomach and my fingers in his hair, he whispered something so soft I almost missed it.

“I used to think performing was the best feeling in the world… But loving you like this? It beats every stage.”

And I whispered back, tears still quietly staining my cheeks:

“I’d sit in the crowd forever just to watch you smile.”

after 3 weeks, we were finally back in Korea. The tour was over. The surprise picnic had ruined me emotionally. And now… now Seungcheol was emotionally ruining himself trying to cook “breakfast for his baby.”

Keyword: trying.

“Why is the kitchen full of smoke?!”

I sprinted out of the bathroom, towel still on my head.

“I don’t know!! The pancakes attacked first!” he yelled from behind a spatula, flapping it like a fan.

There were exactly four smoke alarms going off. He had flour on his cheek, egg in his hair, and somehow… somehow… he had managed to set the banana milk carton on fire.

“How does banana milk catch fire?!”

“I DON’T KNOW, BABE, I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE IT CUTE!”

We ended up eating instant noodles and crying laughing while watching our old videos.

“I forgot I used to do that jump split move,” he groaned, rubbing his knee.

“You also used to wear those little suspenders. Iconic.”

He gave me the deadest stare. “Don’t bring that era up again. Please. I had trauma.”

“I’ll bring it up at our wedding.”

“What-”

“Nothing!” I sipped my soup innocently.

Later that day, we went for a walk, and he INSISTED on wearing flip flops. “Easy and breezy,” he said. “I’m a summer boyfriend.”

But karma came fast.

One of the straps snapped mid-step, and he dramatically collapsed like he had been shot in a K-drama.

“My life is over. Just go on without me.”

“You’re sitting on a squirrel path.”

“Let the forest creatures claim me.”

I had to drag him back home with one flip flop and one sock, while people stared and he waved like royalty.

“I am Choi Seungcheol, former K-pop legend, current nature spirit. I have ascended.”

That night, I caught him watching the video he made of me again.

“You’re obsessed with me,” I teased, flopping beside him.

“I really am,” he said, totally serious.

Then he showed me a picture of me sneezing and said: “Even like this, you’re the most beautiful human alive.”

I tried to get revenge.

The next morning, I woke up first, tied my hair back, put on the apron, and declared: “I’M making breakfast for my baby today!”

He looked nervous. “Have you ever cooked an egg in your life?”

“Emotionally, yes.”

“…No.”

Long story short:

I burned the toast. Forgot the stove was on. Set off two smoke alarms.

He walked into the kitchen wearing a cape made out of a towel and said:

“Fear not, my love, for your sick boyfriend-” “Boyfriend.” “for your BOYFRIEND will save this nation.”

And then he made pancakes from a box mix and acted like it was a Michelin-level meal.

Later, while cuddling on the couch with my head on his lap, he poked my cheek and whispered:

“You know what’s the best part of being with you?”

“Hm?”

“I get to be silly and serious. Strong and soft. I get to burn toast and still be your man.”

I looked up at him and grinned.

“You’ll always be my man. Even with one flip flop.”

[li-lilyvi]

The crowd screamed louder with every beat.

Spotlights danced across the stage, matching the members’ energy as they flowed seamlessly from one move to the next. Your hair was damp with sweat, breath sharp but steady as you hit each formation perfectly in time.

Your stage outfit for today was stunning - a soft corset-style top laced at the back, matched with sleek leather pants and accessories that hung around your body. It cinched your waist beautifully... until you felt it.

A sudden shift, a tug.

Then a slow, terrifying looseness.

Your eyes widened when realisation dawned - the back of your corset had untied itself, hanging loose.

Mid-choreo.

You instantly pressed your hand to your chest, subtly trying to hold the top in place without disrupting the performance, while a free hand continued the choreography. Panic flared behind your eyes, but you kept dancing, adapting your movements, trying to appear natural.

Only the trained eyes of your members could tell something was wrong.

As Hoshi's verse in 'HOT' approached, everyone shifted into a single-file line formation, bodies tight and aligned.

You were fifth. Behind you - Jeonghan.

He caught it immediately. The way your movements were tighter, one arm glued unnaturally to your torso. The near-panic in your usually confident expression.

As the formation moved, he leaned forward slightly, whispering just enough for you to hear over the in-ears and crowd:

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

On the next beat, when the members slid, separated, Jeonghan’s hands went to work.

Behind you, under the cover of sync and lights, he grasped the ties of your top - carefully, skillfully. He tugged just enough to bring the fabric back in place, retying the strings with swift fingers, even as he moved in rhythm with the music.

You kept dancing, your heart racing for more than one reason now.

But your trust in Jeonghan never wavered.

By the time the formation broke, your corset was once again secure. You didn’t even need to look back to know it was him - the reassuring presence was enough.

As the song ended and everyone froze in final position, the lights dimmed momentarily. You exhaled shakily, hand still by your side. Jeonghan brushed your elbow gently as the both of you exited the stage.

Backstage, the staff rushed over, but Jeonghan waved them off with a small smile.

“Crisis averted,” he said simply, patting your back as you sat down to have the stylists fix the laces properly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice still breathless.

“You owe me one,” he smirked.

The rest of the members piled in seconds later - some clapping you on the shoulder, some teasing gently, others just offering water bottles with proud grins.

--

[li-lilyvi]

can someone give me producer woozi x producer reader FICS LIKE IM HUNGGRY

[li-lilyvi]

🌼 boyfriend!jihoon x reader.

jihoon loves you and you love him. it sounds plain and simple, but the saying rings true: what is done with love is done well. ୨ৎ happy woozi day! ♡

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ lily of the valley by daniel. bad by wave to earth. for lovers who hesitate by jannabi. pretty boy by the neighbourhood. tell me, will we survive? by pryvt, hanuel, hnta. green by 12bh. l-o-v-e by rocco. when it snows by 1415. when you love someone by day6.

240526 #woozi 🌟 if i were to have a small greed, it’s that i will be able to see everyone for a long time. thank you for being with me. thank you for walking with us. you did well today.

[li-lilyvi]

hii!! could I request woozi and prompt 9 for the 10th anniversary? thank you so much!

woozi + “i told myself i wouldn’t cry and now look at me. i’m all soggy.”

warnings: fluff, a little humor, u and uji are a lil drunk, this is a pt.2 to this prompt! u must read it beforehand an: tysm for requesting! pls feel free to look at my full length songfics for svt’s anniversary, too much and journey mercies !!! it’d mean a lot for you to see them too :)

“well.. the secret is that i love you.” he eyes his half empty glass, hesitating before chugging it all and turning back to you. “and i have a package with a ring in it, embedded with pretty little rubies, on its way for you.”

“a ring?” you tilt your head, completely oblivious to the meaning behind his words and how he refilled his glass for ‘liquid courage’, “why?”

all of a sudden the flush on his skin isn’t from the alcohol… and his glass is full again? and he takes another large sip? “so we could like, get married? maybe, i don’t know, only if you want to…”

you smile, so softly, cooing and reaching out to hold his hand. “that’s so sweet, hoonie… you really wanna marry me?”

he hiccups, clearing his throat. he scratches his neck, keeping his gaze down. “yeah? you’re really special to me.. and, like, i don’t think i could handle being without you.”

you pout, already being brought to tears, scooting your chair to be next to him before wrapping your arms tight around him. “i really appreciate that, baby. you’re special to me too.” he looks at you, a little unsure, water pooling at his waterline, and with a little panic you press kisses to his forehead and every inch of skin on his face. “i’d marry you right now if i could.” you say, looking at him with as much love as you could express.

he sniffles, head falling against your shoulder, trying to regulate himself, “thank god.. oh, thank you-“ he stops, feeling your hand rubbing his back, and he just gives up on keeping his composure. his tears fall freely, albeit quietly because that’s just how he is, but he cries nonetheless. because he’s comfortable.

“i told myself i wouldn’t cry and now look at me. i’m all soggy.” he says, laughing at himself, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

you laugh too, smiling at his bashful, yet vulnerable state. “it’s okay. if anything, cry now so your friends don’t catch you crying at the proposal!”

1 to 13 🏷️ @markkiatocafe @ateez-atiny380

[li-lilyvi]

Can u write about y/n (reader hehe), where she passed out after their performance because fatigue or stress. About how the 13 guys reacts and took care of her until she wakes up! I'm so sorry if it feels too long haha, I just really want to feed my delusions haha🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 (if you ever reply to this, THANK YOU!!🫶🫶)

hell yes!! i love this prompt ㅠㅠ all my hurt/comfort people RISE . this one's a little lengthy because of a few details i wanted to add in, enjoy ;)

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The mirrors were fogged, the floor slick with sweat. It was the third time you'd run the choreo from the top, and your shirt clung to your back like a second skin. Your limbs trembled more than they should’ve - but you kept pushing.

You had to. It was comeback season. Mistakes were magnified. Camera angles unforgiving.

But when you missed a beat during the transition into the bridge, the music halted sharply.

“Again?” Hoshi, exhaled in frustration. “It’s literally the same step you’ve done all week.”

“I know,” you panted, wiping her forehead. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“We’re all tired, okay?” he snapped. “But no one else is messing it up this much.”

That did it.

Your fists clenched at her sides. Her voice, raw from exhaustion, rose before she could stop it.

“Do you think I want to mess up? I’ve barely slept because I’m reviewing the choreo every night-”

“And yet you’re still the one making us do it over,” he shot back, voice colder now. “We’re not asking for perfect. Just for you to try like the rest of us.”

That was the part that broke you.

Because you’ve been trying. Trying so hard your muscles ached before even warming up. Trying so hard you hadn’t eaten a full meal in days. Trying so hard you’d forgotten what it felt like not to have a headache.

You opened your mouth to respond - but your vision swam.

Colors flickered at the edges of your sight. The mirror blurred. Your throat tightened.

And instead of arguing back… you fell silent.

Turned.

Started walking.

“Wow,” Hoshi scoffed. “Just gonna walk out now?”

“Hyung, stop-” Minghao’s voice cut in, low and warning.

But you didnt’t hear the rest. Couldn't.

You made it halfway down the hall, palm flat on the wall as the last thing that was supporting your figure. The air was cold, sharp - but not enough.

Not enough to clear the fog. Not enough to stop the sudden spinning in your head, the crushing in your chest, the pins and needles in your fingers.

And then: a thud that echoed louder than the music ever had.

Loud. Sickening. Final.

The door swung open behind you, slammed by the wind of sudden footsteps.

“Guys!” Jeonghan’s voice cracked the air, the first to sprint down the hall where you collapsed, your body crumpled against the cool floor. Your limbs twitched slightly - not from movement, but from exhaustion that had long past healthy.

Seungkwan dropped down beside you, shaking your shoulder gently. “Hey - it’s us. Wake up, yeah? Come on, open your eyes.”

“She’s burning up,” Joshua murmured, crouched behind them, checking your forehead with the back of his hand.

“What do we do-” Dino asked, voice panicked, barely holding it together.

“Call the nurse. Now,” Seungcheol snapped, already sliding his hands under your legs and back to lift you back into the practice room.

Mingyu rushed back with a towel, dabbing the sweat on your forehead away. “She was fine a minute ago. She said she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Jeonghan muttered bitterly. “We didn’t see it.”

“Or we ignored it,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing a cold compress gently on her forehead.

Hoshi stood in the doorway, frozen, guilt thick in his throat when they lied you down on the couch. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“No one did,” Dokyeom said, softly. “But you were hard on her.”

“She looked tired all week,” Minghao said, adjusting the towel on your neck. “I should’ve asked earlier.”

The nurse arrived minutes later, checking your vitals and confirming it was a mix of heat exhaustion, dehydration, and overexertion.

“She’s stable now,” the nurse assured them, “but she needs rest. Real rest.”

They carried you back to the dorm together - heads low, hearts heavy. Hoshi insisted on carrying you himself on his back, despite being drenched in sweat and shaking with nerves. Jeonghan held the elevator doors. Woozi opened your bedroom.

You didn’t stir.

.

For the next two hours, they stayed close. No one moved far from your side.

Joshua carefully wiped down your arms with a damp cloth, whispering under his breath, “You did well. You always do.”

Seungkwan paced at the edge of your bed, phone in hand, searching articles about how to quickly replenish electrolytes.

Jun sat in the corner with a blanket over his knees, watching your chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath. “I can’t believe we let it get this far.”

Mingyu, curled up by the door like a guard dog, looked up only to ask, “Will she hate us when she wakes up?”

“She won’t,” Seungcheol said quietly. “But maybe she should.”

They dimmed the lights. Kept the room quiet. Brought water, set aside fresh clothes, even placed one of your favorite snacks on the nightstand - just in case you felt well enough to eat later.

When your fingers twitched under the covers hours later, it was Vernon who noticed first. He had been sitting cross-legged by your bed, silently guarding, music low in his earbuds.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open. Groggy. Disoriented.

“Hey, hey - don’t move too fast.” Jeonghan was beside her in an instant, gently smoothing her hair back.

You blinked, throat dry. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” Wonwoo said softly, from the foot of the bed. “You pushed too hard.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“We know,” Hoshi said, eyes red. Hands clenched. A quiet apology waiting on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I should’ve - I didn’t mean to say those things.”

You looked around, eyes wide - all thirteen of them in your room, packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You all stayed?” you croaked.

“Of course,” Dokyeom said. “We’re not leaving you alone again.”

Your eyes landed right on Hoshi, voice quiet but steady.

“It’s okay. I didn’t listen to myself either.”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then Seungcheol sat down on the edge of her bed, speaking for them all.

“You’re our teammate. We practice together, win together, and if one of us breaks…we all should’ve noticed.”

You felt her eyes sting again - but this time, not from pain.

“You’re not alone,” Seungkwan said, slipping his hand into your. “So don’t act like you are anymore, okay?”

You nodded, finally letting yourself give into the exhuastion.

Not because you were weak.

But because you were loved.

--

[li-lilyvi]

Is it just my algorithm or is everyone crushing hard on s.coups lately?

[li-lilyvi]

him:

me:

[li-lilyvi]

Give Me One Break I Need Faith, Faith to Believe you

(Kim Mingyu x FemReader)

*miscommunication, heartbreak, and unresolved tension, angst*

The silence between you had grown loud.

Once upon a time, you used to fill the space between with laughter, with quiet giggles and inside jokes shared over ramen cups and candlelight. Now, the space was filled with tension and half-spoken words, looks that lingered too long, and sighs that sounded like surrender.

Mingyu sat across from you at the dining table, still in his black hoodie, eyes cast down to his untouched plate. You had spent an hour cooking, hoping maybe, just maybe, it could fix something. But the food had gone cold, just like the way his gaze no longer lit up when it met yours.

“You’re not even going to try it?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Y/N.”

You looked away, staring at the flickering candlelight. You used to light candles for ambiance. Now, it felt like the only warm thing between you.

“I don’t know how to talk to you anymore,” you said. Your fingers trembled as you picked at your food, not really eating either. “It’s like you’re not even here.”

“I’m tired, okay?” His voice finally cracked, rough and frustrated. “I’m trying. I’m working. I’m coming home when I can. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s not. It’s never just about you showing up, Mingyu. It’s about being here. With me.”

He scoffed, rubbing his hand down his face, exhausted. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“You always say that,” you said bitterly. “But your best never includes me anymore.”

You met Mingyu five years ago, before the world knew you as his partner. Back then, he was the boy with kind eyes, flour on his cheek from baking at 2 a.m., who remembered your coffee order down to the number of sugar cubes. He was a friend first, a lover second your person.

And then the tours began, and the red carpets, and the magazine spreads. You were proud of him, of course you were how could you not be? But you began to fade from his world, like a photo left too long in the sun. You were part of the foundation, not the spotlight. The girl behind the camera. The one left waiting.

The fight spiraled. That night, the words you exchanged weren’t loud, but they were sharp. Like shards of glass that cut with every sentence.

“Do you even love me anymore?” you asked, your voice cracking for the first time.

Mingyu’s expression faltered. For a second just one second he looked like the boy you used to know. But he didn’t answer.

That was the answer.

You didn’t cry that night. Not while he stormed out, not when the door slammed behind him. But when you curled up on the couch, in the hoodie he left on the armrest, the tears came quietly.

And he didn’t come back.

A week passed.

No texts. No calls. Just his name in headlines, smiling on red carpets, while you lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if you had imagined the last five years of your life.

You went to work, smiled for your colleagues, even told your mom things were fine. But at night, when the world dimmed, the loneliness screamed.

Until one afternoon, a knock at the door pulled you out of the haze.

You opened it to find Mingyu standing there, soaked from the rain, eyes bloodshot, lips parted like he had been about to say something but forgot how.

“I…” he began, voice low. “I miss you.”

You stared at him, heart clenching painfully. “You don’t get to miss me after disappearing.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix this.”

“You fix things by trying,” you said. “By staying. You walked away.”

“I was scared,” he confessed, his voice finally trembling. “I thought maybe you’d be better without me. I felt like I was ruining everything.”

“You are ruining everything, Kim Mingyu,” you said, tears finally falling. “But not because you’re here. Because you’re never fully with me. You let your world get so big… and you made me feel so small inside it.”

Mingyu reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek as if touching you would somehow undo the ache.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how to hold on either.”

And that was the truth of it. Not anger. Not betrayal. Just two people who loved each other deeply… and didn’t know how to speak the same language anymore.

Weeks turned into months. You didn’t get back together.

You saw him at a distance through mutual friends, social media glimpses, late-night music releases that sounded like apologies. He looked good. Healthier. But the brightness in his eyes was dimmer.

One day, Seungkwan found you outside a studio and sat beside you with a sigh.

“He talks about you all the time,” he said softly.

“I talk about him too,” you admitted.

“Then why aren’t you together?”

“Because love isn’t enough sometimes.”

Seungkwan nodded. “Yeah. But it’s something. Sometimes it’s the only thing.”

A year later, you found a letter in your mailbox. No return name. Just your name written in careful handwriting you knew like your own.

Inside, a note:

If this is the only way I can talk to you now, then I’ll write every day for the rest of my life. I hope you’re eating better. I saw someone who looked like you at a ramen shop last week. She smiled like you used to. I cried in my car after.

You always said I loved words more than action. Maybe that’s true. But if you told me to fly to you right now, I would. In slippers. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry.

— Gyu.

You pressed the letter to your chest and cried. But this time, it felt like release. Like rain after a drought.

You didn’t reply. Not yet. But the next week, there was another letter.

And another.

And another.

Each one, a piece of him. And maybe, pieces of you too, scattered in between ink and regret.

One day, almost two years after the breakup, you walked past a bookstore. In the window sat a collection of love letters hand-bound, minimalist cover. The author?

Kim Mingyu.

You stepped inside, heart pounding, and bought a copy. The clerk smiled and said, “He signed them all. Said the person who needed to read it most might walk in one day.”

You opened to the first page.

To the one I lost when I forgot how to hold on.

The dedication hit like a train.

Later that night, you stood outside his apartment, the book in your hands. You hadn’t texted. Hadn’t warned him.

You knocked.

When the door opened, he froze.

His hair was longer now. He had a scar on his wrist you didn’t recognize. But his eyes… those were the same.

You held up the book. “You still like metaphors, huh?”

He blinked once. Twice. “You read it?”

You nodded. “Every page.”

A pause.

“Do you hate me?” he whispered.

“No,” you said softly. “But I did. For a while. Because you left. Because you made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

“I hated myself too,” he replied, stepping aside.

You walked in.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said. “Even when I didn’t know how to show it.”

“I know,” you said. “But I needed to love myself too. I needed to become someone I could rely on, because you weren’t that person anymore.”

“And now?” he asked, almost afraid.

“Now?” You looked up at him. “Now I want to see who we’ve become. Apart. Together. I want to know if we can try again.”

His breath caught.

And then, without a word, he stepped forward and held you like you were everything he’d lost and everything he’d been writing toward.

Maybe this time, words and actions could finally speak the same language.

Maybe this time, love would be enough.

[li-lilyvi]

Can you do mingyu not being able to see you for months because of tour , what he does before leaving for the flight ( hugging you for minutes and almost missing his flight ) ,how he calls you at midnight crying because he misses you and " can't do this without you " and lastly you going to the airport to greet him when he comes back and hugging you like a lost puppy you both almost fall to the ground ? Thank you sooo much , keep up the hard work !!

I Miss You More Than Words Can Say

(Kim Mingyu x FemReader)

*Mild angst, emotional crying, separation anxiety, fluff overload*

Before the Airport

“You sure you packed your charger?” “Yes, baby.” “Your shampoo?” “Yeah.” “Your—” “My hoodie? The black one you always steal? Yeah, I packed it. So don’t even think about stealing it again.”

You swat Mingyu’s arm, which only makes him laugh, deep and boyish and home.

The suitcase is zipped, the clock is ticking, and your heart is already aching like he’s halfway across the world.

Because he will be in less than four hours.

Tour season is hard. It always has been. But this one? This one feels different.

Longer. Further. Busier. His schedule doesn’t have room for more than four hours of sleep, let alone late-night calls or random surprises.

You stand in the hallway of your apartment as Mingyu double-checks his passport and silently prays traffic won’t mess him up.

Then he looks at you.

He’s holding his phone, charger in one hand, passport in the other… but his eyes are only on you.

“Come here,” he whispers.

You step into his arms without hesitation, and he hugs you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your body, the scent of your hair, the exact sound of your heartbeat.

You bury your face into his chest, clinging like he’s already halfway gone.

Minutes pass.

No one moves.

“I don’t want to go,” he murmurs, voice cracking just a little.

“I know.”

“I’m scared I’ll forget how this feels.”

“You won’t.”

He pulls back, holding your face in his big, warm hands.

His voice is a whisper: “Will you wait for me?”

You frown. “Of course I will.”

“I mean it,” he says. “Not just… replying to my messages. I mean wait for me. Don’t let this world get too heavy. Don’t let yourself forget how loved you are. Don’t let go of me.”

You reach up, kissing his cheek softly.

“I could never let go.”

You hug again.

Longer. Tighter. Silent tears.

And that’s when his manager bursts in through the door.

“Mingyu! The van’s been waiting twenty minutes!”

“I...just give me one more minute.”

“I already gave you fifteen, idiot.”

He groans, whispering to you, “I’ll call you at the gate.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Be safe.”

And when he finally lets go when he walks out of your apartment, dragging his suitcase and wiping his eyes you realize something.

You already miss him more than you can say.

3 Weeks Later – Midnight Call

You’re half asleep.

It’s 12:38 AM. The room is dark. Your blanket is soft and cold without him.

Then your phone rings.

You jolt up.

Minibear is calling.

Your heart races.

“Mingyu?”

You hear soft sniffles, then his deep voice ragged and shaky:

“Baby… I can’t do this.”

Your heart shatters.

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

He laughs weakly through tears. “I’m okay. I’m just… not okay. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t sleep. It’s 2 AM here and I was trying to write lyrics but I ended up crying because because I miss you.”

Silence.

“I miss you, Y/N.”

Tears fill your eyes too.

“You’re doing so well,” you whisper, trying to hold yourself together. “It’s almost over, you’re so close to coming home.”

“But you’re not here,” he murmurs. “You’re not beside me. You always help me fall asleep and laugh and keep me sane and I don’t know how to be me when you’re not here.”

You wipe your eyes. “You’re still you, Mingyu. You’re strong and amazing and loved.”

“I feel like a shell,” he whispers.

“Then I’ll fill it up again when you get back.”

His breathing slows. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

He sniffles. “I just want to hold you.”

“I know.”

“I want to hold your hand until mine stops shaking.”

You whisper softly, “We’re counting down now. Just a few more days, and you’ll be home.”

“…Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I just… sleep with you on the phone? Just until I knock out.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Of course. I’ll be right here.”

And so you stay up all night, whispering soft things until his breath evens out. Until you know your love made it across time zones, across oceans, into the ears of the boy who misses you like a second heartbeat.

Arrival Day – The Airport

You don’t tell him you’re coming.

You just dress in his favorite hoodie the one he gave you before he left and show up at the terminal two hours early.

You know his flight is delayed.

You know there are Carats waiting outside the international arrivals door.

But none of that matters.

Because when you finally see him big hoodie, black cap, mask half covering his face, but his eyes — you know he sees you too.

He stops walking.

You do too.

The crowd parts like fate is giving you space to breathe.

And then he runs.

He runs. Through security. Through staff. Through everything.

You don’t even open your arms he’s already in them.

His bag drops. His mask flies off. His entire body crashes into yours with the force of every missed phone call, every lonely night, every midnight tear you couldn’t wipe away.

And he sobs.

Into your shoulder. Into your hair. Into your existence.

“I missed you missed you so much I didn’t think I’d make it I wanted to come home I love you so much”

He kisses your cheek, your forehead, your hair, your lips breathless and desperate and trembling.

You feel your knees buckle. He holds you tighter.

Both of you sink a little, almost collapsing to the floor as emotion swallows you whole.

“I love you,” you whisper back, hands tangled in his shirt, in his hair, in the space between everything that hurt.

“I’m never leaving you this long again,” he says, half-laughing, half-crying.

You smile through your own tears.

“Next time,” you whisper, “I’m hiding in your suitcase.”

He grins.

“That… sounds perfect.”

Later That Night

He falls asleep with his head on your chest.

One arm around your waist. One hand curled into yours.

You play with his hair, kissing the top of his head.

And as his breathing evens out, you whisper the same words he told you:

“You’re home now. I promise.”

And he smiles in his sleep.

[li-lilyvi]

me as a writer

[li-lilyvi]

Defending the quiet

Pairing : bestfriend!seungcheol / student! seungcheol x student!reader /bestfriend!reader

Summary : he couldn't stand up for himself , so you did it instead .

Genre : fluff

Warnings : bullying , seungcheol being insecure about his belly ( people need to seek help fr )

A/n : since btches can't shut up about coups' cute little belly , here's what I would do if they bullied him in front of me . Also this is kinda inspired by the Bollywood movie " dunki " I've been crying since I watched it :( . The song is from the movie when she was the first person to defend him and he instantly fell in love🫠 . Ok I'll shut up now , enjoy !

At such a young age , seungcheol was miles away from anyone at his age . When they worried about exams and midterms , seungcheol was flying interviews and photoshoots with famous brands . Of course he was popular at school , all eyes were on him every time he enters a classroom . He never liked this spotlight , and wished people would treat him like a normal person . And he found that wish in you , his best friend of almost 10 years now . You never cared about his fame or his growing audience . to you , he was just cheol . The person you would share your snacks with in 3rd grade , the person who would laugh at your jokes no matter how cringe or awful they are .

But in his last comeback , things took an awful turn . Sure , the song was fantastic , multiple days at number one , international awards , millions of streams and still counting . The album wasn't the problem . The problem is that some insecure imbeciles had a lot of things to say about seungcheol's belly . According to them , he was fat or whatever . But in reality , his belly looked completely normal . His picture spread really fast , and even people from the school saw it , and now , everyone is talking about it . That made you really frustrated , and you noticed a lot of changes in seungcheol's mood . You tried to hype him up like you usually do , crack a few jokes , buy him ice cream which he refused to eat saying he's on a diet . But nothing worked , so you gave up , but always stayed by his side just in case he needed someone to talk to .

The next day , you were sitting next to seungcheol during break . You and some other students decided to stay in the classroom . Seungcheol didn't talk much , but you yapped anyway , because you know he's listening . Suddenly , a group of classmates approached you two . And with an ugly , mocking voice he said :

" hey seungcheol , didn't take you a six pack to be rich and famous , huh ? "

He laughed even louder while another one added

" I guess money can buy success , just not a gym membership "

They continued mocking him like he doesn't have feelings . You thought he would stand up for himself . How could he not , right ? He always defended you when people mocked you . But to your surprise , he stayed silent , head looking at the floor , barely blinking . Then , something inside you snapped .

“ And who do you think you are to talk to him like that ?” your voice cut through the room silencing every person who was whispering and gossiping about him . “ Just shut up. You think you’re better than him when you obviously look like that ? He’s out there changing lives with his music and talent while you sit in the same chair every day , rotting in your own arrogance . You would quit after one bad day if you were in his shoes . "

You answered without hesitation , your eyes blazing with a fire no one can take down . Every word came out sharp, fueled by pure loyalty and frustration you had held inside for too long. Your voice cut through the classroom , turning the mockery back on them with the weight of truth . Seungcheol looked surprised at your action . He never saw you this mad , he couldn't even say a word to calm you down , he just looked at you with pure shock in his eyes , with a tight feeling in his chest he couldn't quite understand . And what caught him completely off guard was the moment you gently grabbed his wrist, your voice soft as a whisper, urging him to get up , before leading him quietly out of the classroom , leaving everyone stunned by your action . In that instant , A sudden warmth grew in seungcheol's chest , steady and impossible to ignore . It wasn’t just your touch or voice , it was how nobody has stood up for him before . Usually , people leave him when things get hard , but you didn't. You were the first person to be there and stand up for him when no one else did . In that moment, his heart sped up, and he realized he had fallen head first , in love with you .

Getting into longer fics these days , I might write a part two~

[li-lilyvi]

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ s. coups x green for happy burstday ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

[li-lilyvi]

masterlist

Where It Always Led

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

posting early cuz it’s my birthday 😔🤓

Two weeks later

The early morning light cast long shadows across the road as Seungcheol slowed the car to a stop in front of the entrance. The airport was just beginning to wake up, travelers trickling in with their suitcases and sleepy expressions. He shifted the car into park but kept the engine running.

"So," he said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet car. "This is it."

She nodded, her fingers toying with the strap of her seatbelt. "This is it."

The oversized duffel bag in the backseat looked too small to hold six months of her life, but she'd always been practical that way. Minimal. Careful. Unlike him, who'd nearly lost sleep for a week preparing for this moment and still didn't feel ready.

They'd been walking on eggshells around each other since that night two weeks ago. Since the text message that had hung in the air between them, acknowledged but never discussed. Every morning since, he'd wake up thinking today would be the day they'd talk about it. Every night, he'd go to bed knowing another opportunity had slipped away.

If you asked me to stay, I would.

You know why.

Those words had replayed in his mind constantly. But instead of giving him courage, they'd paralyzed him. Because what if he'd misunderstood? What if she meant something else entirely?

And so day after day, they'd circled each other in their apartment, polite and careful and desperately normal. She worked on her project. He practiced for the comeback. They ate dinner together. Walked Kkuma. Watched movies with careful space between them on the couch.

And all the while, Barcelona loomed closer.

"I have something for you" he said suddenly, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Just... something small."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Cheol, you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to" he said quickly.

She took the box, her fingers brushing his in the process, and he felt that familiar spark even now, even here. When she lifted the lid and saw the compass pendant inside, her breath caught.

"It's beautiful" she whispered.

"I thought, you know, since you're going somewhere new..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's cheesy."

"No," she said, looking up at him with those eyes that always saw right through him. "It's perfect."

Without warning, she unclasped her seatbelt and leaned across the center console, wrapping her arms around his neck. Seungcheol froze for a heartbeat before his arms came up to hold her close. He allowed himself to breathe her in, knowing this might be the last time for months.

"I'm going to miss you" she murmured against his neck.

His arms tightened around her. "I'll be right here when you get back."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his. "Promise?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Then, before he could overthink it, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, brief kiss to her forehead; the kind of gesture that could be friendly, could be more, could be anything they wanted it to be.

"Text me when you land" he said as she pulled away.

She nodded, clutching the compass pendant in her hand. "Take care of Kkuma for me."

"Always."

A security guard tapped on the window, pointing to the "no waiting" sign above them. They were out of time.

"I should go" she said, reaching for the door handle.

"Yeah" he agreed, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "You should."

She opened the door and stepped out, retrieving her bag from the backseat. Seungcheol watched in the rearview mirror as she slung it over her shoulder, the weight of it momentarily throwing her off balance.

Ask her to stay. Just ask her.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Not here, not like this. Not as a last-desperate attempt to keep her from an opportunity she deserved.

She appeared at his window, motioning for him to roll it down. When he did, she leaned in one last time.

"Goodbye, Cheol."

"It's not goodbye," he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly. "It's just see you later."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "See you later, then."

And then she was walking away, each step taking her further from him, disappearing into the sliding doors of the terminal. Seungcheol watched until he couldn't see her anymore, feeling like a part of him had gone with her.

Ask me to stay, her last glance had seemed to say. Just ask.

But he hadn't. And now she was gone.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Three months later

Seungcheol's alarm blared at 5 AM, pulling him roughly from sleep. He reached out blindly, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand to silence it. As he sat up, rubbing his eyes, Kkuma stirred at the foot of his bed, giving him a look that clearly communicated her displeasure at the early hour.

"I know, I know," he mumbled. "Too early."

Kkuma responded with a dramatic stretch and yawn that somehow managed to take up three times her actual size on the bed.

"Drama queen," he muttered fondly.

But he had his reasons for the early wake-up. Stumbling out of bed, he made his way to the kitchen, putting on coffee before opening his laptop. 5 AM in Seoul meant 10 PM in Barcelona. Her time. Their time.

Three months of this routine, and it still didn't feel normal. Nothing about the apartment felt normal without her. It was too quiet, too orderly, missing all the little traces of her that had made it feel like home; her half-empty coffee mugs, her textbooks spread across the table, her slippers by the couch.

Kkuma padded into the kitchen after him, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor. She sat by her empty food bowl and stared at him expectantly.

"That's not why we're up early and you know it," Seungcheol told her, but he filled her bowl anyway. "You're getting spoiled."

Kkuma gave what could only be described as a smug little wag of her tail before diving into her breakfast.

The video call connected with a soft chime, and her face filled his screen. She was in her small Barcelona apartment, the city lights twinkling through the window behind her.

"Hey," she said, her smile warm even through the pixelated connection. "You look tired."

"Good morning to you too," he replied with a soft laugh. "How was your day?"

She launched into stories about her classes, about the famous architect she was studying under, about the old buildings and new techniques and the way everything was different but fascinating. Seungcheol listened, coffee forgotten in his hands, watching how her eyes lit up when she talked about her work.

Midway through her story about a field trip to Sagrada Familia, a blur of white fur suddenly jumped onto Seungcheol's lap and thrust her face directly at the camera.

"Oh my god, Kkuma!" she squealed from the other side of the world. "Hi baby! Are you being good for Cheol?"

Kkuma's tail wagged frantically at the sound of her voice, and she pawed at the screen as if trying to reach through it.

"She misses you," Seungcheol said, trying to angle the laptop so Kkuma wouldn't disconnect the call with her enthusiastic sniffing. "Though right now she's mostly trying to figure out where your voice is coming from."

"Kkuma-yah, I miss you too!" she cooed. "Are you taking good care of our Cheollie? Is he feeding you enough treats?"

"She gets plenty of treats," Seungcheol defended himself, even as Kkuma gave a pitiful whine that suggested otherwise. "Don't listen to her, she's manipulating you."

"My baby would never," she gasped in mock offense. "Look at that face. That's the face of honesty."

On cue, Kkuma tilted her head and gave her most innocent look directly into the camera.

"See? Angelic."

"This angel stole an entire chicken breast off the counter yesterday," Seungcheol said dryly. "Then had the audacity to hide under your bed where I couldn't reach her."

She laughed, the sound warming him even from thousands of miles away. "She knows exactly where her safe zones are. Smart girl."

Kkuma, apparently satisfied with her video appearance, jumped down and trotted away, mission accomplished.

"She sits by your door sometimes," Seungcheol said after a moment. "Waiting for you to come out."

"Just Kkuma?" she asked, her voice lighter than the weight of the question.

Seungcheol hesitated. Three months of these calls, and they'd never once mentioned that text exchange. Never once addressed what had hung between them the day she left. It was easier this way, safer. But lately, he'd been wondering if safer was worth it.

"No," he admitted quietly. "Not just Kkuma."

She bit her lip, glancing away briefly before meeting his eyes again. "I miss you too. More than I thought I would."

His heart stuttered in his chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, that nervous habit again. "It's strange. I'm having the time of my life here, but sometimes I'll see something, or eat something, or just... experience something, and my first thought is always that I wish you were here to see it too."

Seungcheol swallowed hard, recognizing the opening for what it was. A chance. Maybe not perfect timing, but when had they ever had that?

"About what you texted," he began, his voice low. "The night before you left for Barcelona. When you said..."

"If you asked me to stay, I would," she finished for him.

"Yeah." He took a breath. "Did you mean it?"

She didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Why?"

The same question he'd asked three months ago. He watched as she closed her eyes briefly, gathering courage or thoughts or both.

"Because you're home to me" she said finally, simply. "Not the apartment. You."

The words hung between them, clear and honest even across thousands of miles and a slightly laggy internet connection. Seungcheol felt something loosen in his chest, a tension he'd been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what it was like to breathe without it.

"I should have asked," he said softly. "Not because I wanted to hold you back, but because I wanted you to know that's where I wanted you. With me."

"Why didn't you?"

He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "I was scared. That maybe I was reading too much into everything. That maybe what we had was just... comfortable. That maybe you deserved better than someone who could never have a normal life."

She smiled, a little sad around the edges. "You've always done that. Made decisions for both of us because you thought it was what was best for me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "Just... stop doing it. I know what I want, Cheol. I've known for a long time."

His heart was hammering now, the sound of it almost drowning out the early morning quiet of the apartment. "And what is it that you want?"

"You" she said simply. "Us. Whatever that looks like."

The admission hung between them, an ocean and six time zones and three months apart, but somehow closer than they'd ever been in the years of living under the same roof.

"I love you" he said, the words finally breaking free after years of being trapped behind his ribs. "I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it was like before."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile was bright enough to rival the Barcelona lights behind her. "I love you too. I always have."

A sudden crash from somewhere off-camera made Seungcheol jump. "What was that?"

"Hold on," she said, disappearing from view for a moment. When she returned, she was laughing. "My roommate's cat knocked over a plant. For a second there, I thought it was Kkuma. I'm so used to her chaos."

"Speaking of chaos" Seungcheol said, angling the camera to show behind him where Kkuma had returned and was now delicately placing one of his shoes in her bed. "Your dog has a new habit."

"Is she... stealing your shoes?"

"Only the left ones," he said with exasperated fondness. "She takes them to her bed, sleeps with them for exactly one night, then puts them back by the door. Almost like she's borrowing them."

Her laugh echoed through his speakers. "That's the cutest thing I've ever heard."

"Less cute when I can't find my shoes in the morning," he grumbled, but couldn't keep the smile off his face. "I think she smells you on them or something."

"Aww, Kkuma-yah," she cooed at the screen. "Are you missing me that much?"

Kkuma's ears perked up at her name, and she trotted back over to the laptop, shoe forgotten.

"Three more months," Seungcheol said, reaching down to scratch behind Kkuma's ears. "Then you'll be home."

"Three more months," she agreed. "And then we start for real."

Kkuma gave a little bark, as if adding her approval to the plan.

"I have to go to bed," she said reluctantly. "Early class tomorrow."

"I know," he nodded. "Sleep well."

She hesitated, then touched her fingers to her lips before pressing them to the camera. A virtual kiss.

"Goodnight" he whispered, even as the call disconnected.

The apartment was quiet again, but it didn't feel as empty as before. Seungcheol reached for his phone, opening his messages to send her one more thing before she slept.

[5:43 AM] You: I should have asked you to stay. But now I'm asking you to come home to me when you're ready. I'll be waiting.

He set his phone down, looked at Kkuma who was now curled contentedly with his shoe, and headed to the shower to start his day, feeling lighter than he had in years. The timing had never been theirs. But maybe, just maybe, the future could be.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Three months later

Seungcheol hummed to himself as he arranged the welcome home banner across their living room. Tomorrow was the day! After six long months, she'd finally be coming home. He'd taken the day off from practice, cleaned the apartment (twice), and bought enough flowers to make their home look like a botanical garden.

"What do you think, Kkuma?" he asked, stepping back to examine his handiwork. "Too much?"

Kkuma, who was busy arranging her toys in a perfect circle in the middle of the living room floor, her own version of welcome home preparations, didn't look up.

"Yeah, you're right," he nodded as if she'd spoken. "Could use more lights."

His phone rang, and he smiled when he saw Jeonghan's name on the screen.

"Hey, what's up?" he answered, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he continued stringing fairy lights around the room.

"Just checking if you're home," Jeonghan replied, voice slightly raised over what sounded like airport announcements in the background.

"Yeah, why? Need something? I'm kind of busy getting ready for tomorrow."

There was a strange pause, then Jeonghan's voice lowered conspiratorially. "So you're definitely at the apartment right now? Wearing actual clothes and not just your boxers?"

Seungcheol frowned. "Yes, I'm wearing clothes. What's going on?"

"Good. Stay there. I'm bringing you something."

"Can it wait? I still have to pick up the cake and—"

"Trust me," Jeonghan cut him off. "You're going to want this delivery."

Before Seungcheol could press further, Jeonghan had hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment, then shrugged and went back to his preparations. Jeonghan was always cryptic; it was part of his charm. Whatever he was bringing could wait.

Forty minutes later, just as Seungcheol was putting the finishing touches on the dining table setting, a key turned in the lock. He looked up, surprised. Jeonghan had a spare key for emergencies, but he usually knocked first.

The door swung open, but it wasn't Jeonghan who stepped through.

It was her.

She stood in the doorway, a tired smile on her face, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings like she'd been traveling for hours, which, Seungcheol realized with a shock, she had. Behind her, Jeonghan gave him a wink over her shoulder before disappearing back down the hall.

For a moment, Seungcheol couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not until tomorrow. His brain struggled to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

"Surprise?" she said softly, dropping her bag to the floor.

Kkuma, who had been sleeping under the coffee table, suddenly perked up. She lifted her head, sniffed the air, and then exploded into motion, racing toward the door with a series of yips and cries that sounded almost like sobs.

"KKUMA!" she cried, dropping to her knees just in time for the tiny dog to launch herself into her arms, wiggling and whining with such enthusiasm it looked like she might vibrate out of her own fur. "Oh my god, I missed you so much!"

Kkuma's entire body was wagging, not just her tail, as she frantically licked every inch of face she could reach, crying in what could only be described as pure joy.

Seungcheol watched, still frozen in place, as the woman he loved laughed and cried at the same time, burying her face in Kkuma's fur. The shock was wearing off slowly, replaced by a rising tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

"You're early" he managed to say, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears.

She looked up at him, still cuddling a hysterical Kkuma. "I finished my final project two days ahead of schedule. Called Jeonghan to see if he could pick me up and surprise you." Her smile turned uncertain. "Are you... happy to see me?"

That broke the spell. Seungcheol crossed the distance between them in three long strides and dropped to his knees beside her, not caring that he was crushing some of the rose petals he'd scattered by the entrance.

"Happy doesn't begin to cover it" he said, voice rough with emotion.

And then, finally, after years of waiting for the right moment, after months of loving her from a distance, after a lifetime of almost and not yet and maybe someday, Seungcheol leaned forward and kissed her.

It was soft at first, a gentle press of lips that asked a question. But then her hands, still holding Kkuma—came up to cradle his face, and the kiss deepened into an answer.

yes, this, finally, us.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless. Kkuma, squished happily between them, gave Seungcheol's chin a congratulatory lick.

"I'm home" she whispered against his lips.

"You're home" he agreed, pressing his forehead against hers. "A day early."

"I couldn't wait another day" she admitted. Then, noticing the decorations for the first time, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, did you do all this for me?"

Seungcheol felt his ears turn red. "I wanted it to be perfect for you tomorrow. I had a whole plan."

She looked around at the banner, the flowers, the fairy lights, and the perfectly set table, then back at him with shining eyes. "It is perfect. You're perfect."

Kkuma barked in agreement, then suddenly wriggled free of her arms and dashed to the bedroom. They exchanged puzzled looks, but a moment later, she returned, proudly carrying something in her mouth.

"Is that..." She squinted. "Is that my slipper?"

Seungcheol burst out laughing as Kkuma trotted up to her and gently placed the slipper at her feet, then looked up expectantly, tail wagging.

"She's been hiding your slippers under the bed for weeks," he explained. "I think she's been collecting them for your return."

"You saved my slippers for me?" she cooed to Kkuma, who responded by darting away again, presumably to retrieve the other one. "That's the sweetest thing ever."

"That dog loves you more than anything," Seungcheol said softly.

She looked up at him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Just the dog?"

He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her nervous habit that he'd somehow adopted as his own. "Not just the dog."

After a welcome home dinner with the takeout Seungcheol had originally planned for the next day, they found themselves on the couch in their apartment. Her head rested on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist, their fingers intertwined in a tangle of belonging. Kkuma had settled half on her lap and half on Seungcheol's.

A bridge between them, just as she'd always been.

"I've been thinking," she said, tracing patterns on his palm.

"Hmm?" Seungcheol turned his head to press a kiss to her hair, still not quite believing he was allowed to do that now.

"Remember what you said once? About timing never being our thing?"

He nodded, the memory clear despite the months that had passed. "The night before you decided on Barcelona."

"Yeah." She shifted to look up at him. "I think maybe we were wrong about that."

"How so?"

"Maybe our timing has always been exactly what it needed to be" she said thoughtfully. "Maybe we needed all those years to grow into the people who could do this right. Maybe we needed the distance to find the words."

Seungcheol considered this, thinking back over all the moments that had led them here; from childhood friends to roommates to this new, precious thing they were building together.

"Maybe," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "Or maybe we were just too scared to see what was right in front of us."

She laughed softly. "That too."

Kkuma gave a little grumble as if adding her two cents to the conversation, then repositioned herself to sprawl dramatically across both their laps, belly up, paws in the air.

"I think someone's demanding attention" she giggled, obligingly rubbing Kkuma's exposed belly.

"She's been insufferable since you left," Seungcheol said fondly. "Did I tell you about the time she hid my car keys because I was leaving for practice?"

"No!"

"Buried them in her toy basket. Like she thought if I couldn't leave, you couldn't either."

She leaned down to kiss Kkuma's nose. "My smart, devious little protector."

The three of them sat there in the quiet apartment, bathed in the soft glow of the fairy lights Seungcheol had hung earlier, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt completely at peace.

No countdown to goodbye. No words left unsaid. No fear of what might break if they crossed the line they'd been toeing for years.

Just this. Just them. Finally.

"I love you" he said, because he could now, because the words no longer felt too big for his chest. "I think I've loved you from the beginning."

She smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "Some things are invisible until you're ready to see them. But they're always there, waiting."

Kkuma gave a contented sigh between them, as if to say it was about time they figured it all out.

Outside, the city hummed its familiar night song. Inside, in the space they'd built together, time finally seemed to be on their side.

[li-lilyvi]

Idol vernon x idol reader PLEASEEE 😭😭

hello love! thank you so much for your ask~ i'm not sure what direction you wanted it, so this one's a comfort fic!! let me know if you wanted a different scene - enjoy <3 (ps I LOVE BONON STANS RAHHH KEEP IT COMING)

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The carpet outside his door was worn at the edges.

You stood there, barefoot in hotel slippers, hoodie tugged down over your hands, the sleeve’s hem pinched between your fingers like an anchor. The hallway was silent - save for the low hum of air vents and the occasional pop of a pipe in the wall.

You weren’t physically tired.

Not really.

But the kind of tired running through your bones didn’t have a name, and you weren’t sure if you came here for a reason or if your feet just moved on their own.

It wasn’t the first time tour had wrung you out like this - the back-to-back flights, the late-night rehearsals, the pressure to smile even when your throat ached from holding it in. You could’ve knocked on anyone’s door. But somehow, you always ended up here.

Vernon’s room.

You stared at the wood grain, heart ticking like a second hand against your ribs.

But your hand hovered near the door, frozen.

What if he was asleep?

What if this was too much?

What if you were being too much?

And then-

The door opened.

You blinked.

Vernon stood there, hair damp from a recent shower, towel hanging off one shoulder, a sleepiness in his eyes that vanished the moment he saw you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice still raspy with leftover dreams.

You opened her mouth, but nothing came out. You hadn’t even knocked. Had he heard your breathing? Or maybe...maybe he just knew.

He stepped aside without waiting for an answer. “Come in.”

You did.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The bed was unmade, the TV screen paused on some random movie he'd half-watched earlier. It smelled like laundry detergent and shampoo and something quietly familiar.

“You wanna talk?” Vernon asked, already handing you a bottled water from the mini-fridge.

You shook your head.

He nodded once, like he understood exactly what that meant.

Nothing happened after that. Not for a while.

He settled on the floor next to the bed, back against the bed. You joined him, knees tucked to your chest, shoulder barely brushing his. A comfortable closeness - no questions, no extra noise aside from the show playing on the TV, just two people breathing in the quiet after chaos.

Eventually, you spoke, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Vernon pulled the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and tossed it over your lap. You curled into it without thinking.

Vernon glanced at you. “You always have here.”

Something in your chest cracked, slow and soft.

“I didn’t even knock,” you added with a weak laugh.

“I was already getting up,” he said, like that made it logical. Like he hadn’t just opened the door without reason.

A silence settled again - not empty, but warm. Like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

And in that little bubble of calm, under tired hotel lights and aching hearts, you let your head fall lightly onto his shoulder.

Vernon didn’t flinch.

Neither of you said much after that.

But you stayed, and he let you.

Because love - in whatever shape it took - was sometimes just a shoulder in the quiet, a door opened without knocking, and someone who didn’t need the words to understand them.

--

listened to seungkwan's raindrops while writing this, my heart :')