mon-amorie

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ ) ‎ P.2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you keep insisting it’s not about him.

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

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

And it’s not just him.

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

The filler scenes, turning into plot points.

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

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

Because some things don’t leave. Not really.

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

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

lemme know once u get home safe

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

dw, i did :) hope you did too

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

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

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

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

And across the room, he was doing the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that, the weeks moved differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lighter? It’s cake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t buy it.”

“Moral support counts.”

“You argued against the cake the entire time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It almost slipped away the night of his birthday.

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Hyunjin… well, Hyunjin never wandered too far.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was absurd, wasn’t it?

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

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

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

𐪞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No promises.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Is that… safe?”

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

“You’re literally cooking instant noodles.”

“And they deserve to be treated with dignity.”

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

Of course, infuriatingly, it was good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like a long exhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, soft footsteps.

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

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

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

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

Then Chan spoke, still not looking at you.

“Tonight’s been nice.”

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

“That, or he hides the chaos well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair.”

He let a small pause bloom between you before speaking.

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

You looked at him, quiet.

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

You let that settle in.

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

“He’s right, you know.”

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

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

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

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

“You two suck at lighthearted kitchen chats.”

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

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

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

They both left without needing to say more.

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

‎

‎ ‎ [A year ago, campus housing]

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

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

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

“Are you even listening to me, Julie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie didn’t deny it. Not out loud.

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

“Was any of it real?”

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

She said nothing.

And silence is the cruelest kind of confirmation.

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

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

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

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

Just in case she said anything.

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

So he left.

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

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

And just like that, it was over.

𐪞

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was you, too, without even trying.

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

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

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

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

The message sat in his notes for three days.

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

Eventually, he just sent:

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

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

You replied eleven minutes later.

sure. when?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, your room wasn’t much better.

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

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

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

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

“Leave your hair alone,” she mumbled.

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are.”

You sighed and reached for your lip balm.

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

“I’m not—”

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

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

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

good luck tonight 💅😳🖤👀

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

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

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

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

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

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

And walked straight into someone.

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

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

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

Then—

“Hi,” he said.

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

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

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

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

He was definitely writing about this on Hotline later.

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

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

The steady rhythm of the train beneath your feet.

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

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

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

He caught it. Met your eyes.

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

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

And still, he meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The place doesn’t try too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a brow.

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

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

“It had protein.”

“So do actual meals.”

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

“I plead the fifth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hate mushrooms.”

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

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

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

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

“You just ate half my dinner.”

“For science.”

“You’re exhausting.”

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

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

Hyunjin has thoughts. Strong ones.

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

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

“I live there. I have rights.”

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

When you peek up, Hyunjin’s watching you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow, slow and theatrical.

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

“You finished it.”

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

“Temporarily.”

“I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re very generous.”

“I try.”

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

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

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

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

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

“But also… not weird. I don’t know.”

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

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

Neither of you finishes the last bite.

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “You’re tipsy.”

“Am not.”

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

And then, like it just slips out of him:

“I like you.”

You blink. “Right now?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

His mouth twitches. “Wow.”

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

“You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

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

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

“You haven’t even had that much.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

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

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

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

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

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

“Do you want me to?”

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

Okay. Settled.

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

“It’s fair.”

“I’d do it anyway.”

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

The candle gutters out.

You don’t move. Not yet.

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

Eventually—

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

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

You smirk. “I’m already winning.”

“You kissed me. That’s cheating.”

“I kissed you back. Big difference.”

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

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

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

𐪞

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

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

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

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

You nod, and he follows. No hesitation.

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

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

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

“Winning the bill standoff.”

“You let me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

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

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

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

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

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

But it isn’t.

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

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

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

He stands without question. Follows.

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

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

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

He tries not to laugh. Tries and fails.

And then he kisses you again.

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

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

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

“Weird how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t even finish it.”

“Tragic.”

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

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

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

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

The laughter fades, but the smile lingers.

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

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

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

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

You nod, sure. “Yeah. Still good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s enough.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to.

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

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

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

“I think I earned it.”

“You really did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squint at him. “Liar.”

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

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “They’ll get it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ )

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

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

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ thought this was a super cute idea. got really into it (had to spilt it up in parts), so i hope you enjoyyy reading. please let me know your thoughts! took a while to finalize, so it'd mean a lot to me. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎"...and if we look at the second stanza, we’ll see how she contrasts grief with—"

You caught bits of everything, but held onto none of it.

Your mind had been elsewhere since morning, drifting in and out like radio static. The lecture, the notes, the faint scratching of pens. It all passed through you without actually sticking. You kept thinking about the bakery near campus, the unread emails piling up, the to-do list growing longer by the hour. It was all beginning to feel like too much, bit by bit.

The door creaked open. You payed no mind to it. But if you had, you might've noticed him.

A tall guy slipping in late, hoodie soaked dark at the shoulders. Damp hair curling onto his cheek. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't offer excuses. Just eased into a seat a few rows back, his movements fluid, careful. His chest rose and fell, still evening out from the rush across campus.

You let your chin fall into your hand, your gaze sliding toward the window. The rain streaked sideways across the glass, soft but relentless. You let your eyes follow it, maybe hoping it would make things feel a little lighter.

"...so I'm going to give you the rest of the class as a study hall," your professor announced, barely fighting a yawn. "Catch up on readings, work on your papers. Just don't vanish."

A ripple of quiet relief passed through the room. Backpacks shifted. Chairs scraped. Someone whispered, "Bless," under their breath, followed by a soft chuckle. The projector clicked off, and in that dimmed silence, something inside you loosened.

You didn't wait.

As soon as the screen went away, your head dropped to your folded arms. Your shoulders slackened. Your grip on everything eased. The noise around you blurred into something soft and far away.

Barely a few seconds passed before—

"Yah, dead already?" came a voice, teasing but soft. A familiar one.

You didn't even lift your head. "Hey, Bin."

Changbin dropped into the seat to your left like gravity owed him something, juggling three bags and zero chill. His hair was damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to the curve of his neck. A paper coffee cup steamed between his hands, the scent curling faintly into the air around you.

On your other side, Chaeryeong landed with a theatrical sigh, like she'd rehearsed it. She slid her tote bag off her shoulder, reached across you, and gently shut your neglected laptop without a word.

"She's in mourning," she declared solemnly. "Fell in battle after that last psych quiz. May she rest."

"I salute you, fallen soldier," Changbin added, giving a mock salute.

You groaned softly, face still buried in your arms.

Chaeryeong grinned, already pulling a half-eaten box of pocky from her bag like it was part of her survival kit. "No, but seriously. You okay?"

"I'm tired," you mumbled. "And I've got like three papers due next week."

"Okay, but one of them's just a book response, right?" Chaeryeong offered.

You cracked one eye open, cheek still pressed to your sleeve. "The book is seven hundred pages."

Changbin let out a low whistle. "Yeah, no. Death sounds fair."

"Anyway," Chaeryeong said, grabbing her phone. "Can we talk about the girl who dropped a six-part rant on Hotline last night? All because her ex started dating someone from the chess team."

“I saw that!” Changbin perked up, popping the lid off his drink. “It’s so dramatic. Didn’t the girl cheat or something? And now she’s pissed he moved on?”

“She’s not mad he moved on,” Chaeryeong corrected, scrolling through her feed. “She’s mad he moved on fast and to someone who’s, and I quote, too niche. It’s so dumb.”

That earned a soft snort from you.

They both turned toward you, sensing the first sign of life.

“You use it, right?” Changbin asked, tone casual as he took a sip.

You blinked. “Use what?”

“The app,” he said. “Hotline. You’ve posted before?”

You shrugged, slow and noncommittal. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah, but you probably post those dramatic 2 AM voice notes,” he teased. “Like, ‘the rain reminds me of everything I never said to him’.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "God forbid a girl expresses her feelings."

He laughed, nearly spilling his drink.

Chaeryeong’s eyes flitted between the two of you, narrowed in curiosity. “Wait. Now I’m curious. What do you post?”

“I’m not telling you,” you said flatly, stretching your arms over your head until your spine cracked. “That defeats the point of anonymous.”

“Which means she definitely posts dramatic 2AM voice notes,” Changbin said smugly.

You rolled your eyes but didn't deny it. The conversation moved on without you, their bickering fading into background noise again.

The room buzzed with low conversation now that the lecture was on pause. A kind of collective exhale. Some students cracked open their laptops, pretending to be productive. Others leaned together in loose circles, whispering and laughing like this was a café instead of a half-lit lecture hall with forty minutes still left on the clock.

Behind you, a chair creaked.

Hyunjin sat slouched in his seat, hoodie up, pencil twirling loosely between his fingers. He hadn’t bothered with his laptop. Just a small sketchbook open on the desk, angled away from view. His bag sat untouched at his feet, the canvas edges still damp from the rain.

He’d slipped in late, quietly, after snoozing his alarm one too many times. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t the only one. He recognized most people in this class. Faces, names, friend groups that orbited each other in lazy, habitual loops. He didn’t talk to them. Didn’t need to.

After all, people only ever asked questions when you gave them answers first. And Hyunjin never did.

His gaze drifted over the room, not looking for anything in particular, until it landed on you.

You sat between two friends, head tilted, listening without really reacting. Like you were there, but not entirely present. Your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the frayed cuff of your sleeve. The kind of movement that said more than words. Like your brain was running in twelve directions, none of them clear.

He knew your name, though you’d never spoken directly. You were in his poetry seminar. Mondays and Thursdays, always a few seats ahead. Head bowed when tired. Notebook open and full when it mattered. He’d caught glimpses of your margin notes once, slanted in quick, neat handwriting. Thought about them later, for no reason at all.

He glanced down, sketchbook still open, finally letting his pencil move across the page. He didn’t try to define it. He just drew. Trying not to think too hard about the way you stared out the window like you were asking it a question. Like maybe you were waiting for an answer.

“It tastes like wood glue,” Changbin insists.

“You’ve eaten wood glue?” Chaeryeong shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

“Didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Their voices curled around you like ambient noise. Familiar. Safe. Like the kind of background hum you’d grown up with in a house full of sound. You didn’t have to join in to feel like you belonged there.

Study group at four. Grocery run after. Need to text Mom back. I should drop that one class. Chae’s hair looks really good today. The bakery closes early. I should go.

Outside, a blur of students ran across the courtyard, three of them sharing one hoodie like it was shelter. In the back corner, a girl hummed quietly to herself, scrolling on her phone. Behind her, a guy slumped in his chair while his friend patted his back over a crush spiral. Small, silent scenes repeating everywhere.

And you sat there, wondering if anyone else in this room felt the way you did.

Chaeryeong tapped her fingers against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Okay, but wait. Do you think it’s possible to fall for someone just through words?”

You turned slightly, attention slipping back into the present.

“What, like texting?” Changbin asked, frowning. “Isn’t that just… long-distance?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “but I mean on the app. Anons. No names, no faces. Just someone’s voice. Or their thoughts. The way they write.” She said it like she’d already fallen.

Changbin looked skeptical. “That sounds like catfishing.”

"I think it sounds romantic," she countered.

"You think free samples at beauty stores are romantic."

"And? Have you ever been handed perfume by a stranger who calls you 'miss' with a French accent? That's cinema.”

You laughed, eyes drifting to your desk.

Her question sat with you. Not just because of the app. Not even because of the weird ache you carried around like a second skin. But because lately, the idea of being seen without being looked at had started to sound like safety.

To be chosen, not for your academics or how you looked when you walked into class on a Tuesday morning, but for your voice. Your words. The kind of things you say when you think no one’s listening.

Maybe it was all the poetry readings getting to you. Or maybe it was just everything.

You rubbed your temple, the pressure pooling behind your eyes. And then, before you could overthink it—

“I think I’m burnt out.”

It’s not dramatic. Just quiet. Honest in a way that felt like a sigh. They both go still.

“Wanna skip next class?” Chaeryeong asked, chin in hand, voice casual but eyes flicking toward you with quiet concern. “You look like you could use a break.”

You glance at the clock, considering. “Don’t you guys have an exam after this?”

“So?” they say in sync, almost offended.

You huff a small laugh. “I think I’m just gonna stop by the bakery,” you say, sitting up and brushing your hair back from your face. “You two stay. I’ll grab something and bring it back.”

Chaeryeong frowns, clearly not sold. “You sure?”

You nod. “I need the walk.”

Truthfully, you need the air and the silence. The space to pull yourself back together.

Changbin pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket and slaps it into your hand. “Bring me an iced americano.”

“In this weather? I’m not your delivery service.”

“You offered,” he says smugly, ignoring the logic.

Chaeryeong grins as you turn to her. “I’ll take something flaky and not too sweet. Please? Oh, and maybe a batch of cookies if they’ve got any.”

“Damn, you hungry or—” Changbin starts.

“It’s for all of us, dumbass,” she mutters, elbowing him. He laughs.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth rising at the edges of your expression.

You stood, scarf in hand, wrapping it once around your neck. Phone tucked into your pocket. Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Steadier now, heavier. But there’s a comfort in it. Like if you just kept walking, maybe something in you would finally rinse clean.

Before you turned to leave, your gaze lifted just once toward the upper rows. That’s when you saw him.

Hood half-off. Headphones in. One earbud dangling. His phone glows dimly in his hand, thumb scrolling in lazy, distracted loops. The sketchbook still lies open beside him, spine bowed, edges curling slightly from wear.

You’re certain you’ve seen him before. In passing. In class, maybe. Familiar in the way foggy mornings are.

But you don’t stare. Don’t give yourself the time to linger. You miss the way he looks up, just briefly, as you step out of the lecture hall, offering the professor a quiet nod on your way out. His eyes follow the back of your head, watching the door as it closes behind you.

Then he exhales, shifting his gaze back down to the screen in his palm—

Only to catch his own reflection staring back.

𐪞

*ding*

The door chimed softly as you stepped into the bakery. A mid-morning lull. Only a few students were tucked into booths. Heads bowed, mugs cradled, music whispering through shared earbuds. The windows were gently fogged from the warmth inside, streaked by rivulets of rain. Soft jazz played low from a speaker near the display case.

The air wrapped around you like a blanket, rich with the scent of sweet dough and fresh espresso. Something about it made your shoulders loosen..

You exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.

The cashier, a boy with sleepy eyes and a polite smile, rang you up. Minho, his name tag read.

One iced americano. Two chocolate croissants. A small paper bag of cookies. You paused before ordering, hesitating at the register until the cold on your fingers convinced you to add a hot chocolate to the list.

“Here you go,” he said, sliding the bag and warm drink toward you with practiced grace. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the bag like it held something more than food.

You found a booth in the corner, right by the window, and slid into the seat. The warmth from the pastries seeped through the paper bag, into your lap, grounding you.

Then your phone buzzed.

chae 🧡 — tell me u got the cookies ...

binnie — she want that cookie so effing badddd 

⤷  you — pls

you — got you both sweets, don’t be weird about it

chae 🧡 — french kissing you rn 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

(you) loved a message.

binnie — bro probably forgot my drink

you — i literally got it, wdym

binnie — oh

binnie — ok nvm ily

⤷  chae 🧡 — LMAO?

binnie — wait, what pastry tho?

you — choco croissant

(binnie) and (chae 🧡) loved a message.

chae 🧡 — chessss, u know me so well

binnie — BLESS

jisung —  ….

jisung — nah nah that's crazy 😭

jisung — did i die or something why am i not in this drop

you — you're sick

jisung — ok but i'm not DEAD

binnie — u sound like a frail victorian child. get off ur phone bro

jisung — i literally just wanted to feel something 😞

you — we'll bring you soup tmrw chill

jisung — finally. one decent person in this grp, yall suck

chae 🧡 — hope ur door stays jammed and that the tissues are just outta reach

jisung — :'(

you — anyway

you — see y'all in ten

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You tucked your phone away, fingers still warm from the cup in your hand.

The first sip of your hot chocolate tasted like a delicacy.

And for the first time today, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt kind. Like a small, unexpected pocket of calm had been carved out just for you.

𐪞

The low hum of your mini heater filled the quiet of your dorm. Soft, steady.

The mirror in the bathroom was still fogged from your shower, and a towel hung crooked on the hook, like it had given up halfway through the fall. The air smelled like your new body wash and the faint trace of laundry detergent from the pile you only half-folded before flopping into bed.

By the time you curled under the blanket, you were already halfway asleep. Hair still damp against the pillow. Your body didn’t feel tired so much as done. Like you’d been holding yourself upright all day and had finally set it all down.

It was past ten. Maybe closer to midnight.

The glow of your laptop still lit the far side of the room, casting shapes against the wall. But you weren’t at your desk. The assignments could wait a little longer.

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark. You unlocked it.

Hotline.

You hadn’t even thought about it. It was there, waiting. Your thumb hovered over the app like it knew the path before your mind caught up. Like muscle memory had guided you.

So, you opened it.

The interface bloomed onto the screen, slow and gentle. No ads. No noise. Just space. Dark blues fading into muted purples, then warm orange and soft red. An ombre that looked like dusk. The kind of palette that made you exhale without realizing.

The posts glowed in soft contrast. Little fragments of thoughts, floating like signals in the dark.

Your gaze drifted to the small mic icon in the corner of the homepage. You hovered.

And then, without really deciding, you pressed it.

‎ ‎ ‎user074320 • now (recording) — For a moment there’s nothing. Just the low hum of your heater filling the silence. "…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise’”

A beat of silence.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

You exhale a breath that’s half a laugh, half just tired.

“I don’t know. I had a decent day. Laughed at something dumb. Saw a cute cat. Ate a cookie that was probably 90% butter. Got rained on, but in a main character kind of way, so… cinematic points, I guess.”

Another pause, like you’re deciding whether to keep talking.

“Still came home and immediately face-planted into my bed like I’d been sprinting uphill for hours. Like my brain’s doing laps while my body’s trying to power down. I don’t even know what I’m carrying, but it feels heavy.”

*whirr*

“…Anyway. If you’re listening, I hope today felt a little less heavy for you. Or that you had a good hair day. Or at least, I hope the soup you had was hot. That helps sometimes.”

Tap.

You didn’t relisten. You just let it post.

Then set the phone down beside you, screen still faintly warm in your hand. Your eyes closed for a second.

The app refreshed on its own. Your note now quietly sitting on your profile, timestamped and anonymous. Below it, the familiar scroll of recommendations began to fill the screen, one by one. Posts you’d probably forget in a few hours. Little confessions floating around like fireflies in the dark.

You scrolled. Mindlessly, absently. Not really searching just… keeping yourself company. Then paused.

A profile caught your eye. Not because of the username or the nearly empty bio besides pronouns, but because of the profile picture.

A blurry painting of flowers in a vase. Not neat or delicate. Just color and chaos, all messy strokes like someone tried to paint a feeling instead of a thing. Curious, you tapped.

The first post loaded, dated today.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 15h — opened my notes app to study and ended up writing poetry about someone who doesn’t know i exist. so anyway. GPA stands for girl please acknowledge me.

A quiet laugh pressed into your pillow before you could stop it. And before you knew it, you were scrolling.

‎ ‎ is it weird that i want someone to know me so well they can tell what kinda of day i’ve had just by the way i say “hey”?

if you see this: drink water. stretch your back. your spine’s not supposed to feel like that.

‎ ‎ accidentally caught eye contact with someone while trying to sketch them and now i need to change campuses.

saw a couple slow dancing under the overhang outside the library during the rain. no music. just the sound of puddles. when will that be me????

‎ ‎ i think most people don’t actually want to be saved. they just want someone to sit next to them in the dark and not try to fix it. just… be there. and lately, i think that’s all i want too.

saw my ex get rejected by my friend who works at the bakery. what a good day to be alive. 7/10 pastry tho.

‎ ‎ sometimes i want to be held. other times i just want to be understood. today i wanted both but settled for neither. next question.

love when the universe throws me a bone. like yeah, i saw my ex. yeah, they tried to say hi. yeah, i pretended to be deep in a phone call with my grandma. (i was on the calculator app)

‎ ‎ i asked chris if i was annoying and he said “no more than usual.” it’s the little things keeping me alive.

got my coffee and accidentally said ‘you too’ to the barista when she told me to enjoy it. yah i’m never showing my face there again.

‎ ‎ you ever meet someone and immediately know you’d write poems about them that they’d never see?

group projects should come with therapy vouchers. and snacks.

‎ ‎ had a staring contest with a cat on the way to class. pretty sure it cursed me. failed a quiz an hour later.

i don’t want fireworks. just someone who holds my hand in grocery stores and knows how i take my coffee and doesn’t let me spiral alone at night.

‎ ‎ some days i feel like i’m here. like really here. i ask people how their weekend was. i nod at the right times. i drink my coffee before the ice melts. and it’s fine. it’s all fine. and then there are days like today. where everything feels like i’m two steps behind myself. like i’m watching my life happen through a window i can’t open. i think what gets to me the most is how no one notices. or maybe they do and just don’t ask. sometimes i just want someone to ask me something real. not like “how are you?” in the way people say it when they’re already moving on. like: “what do you think about before you fall asleep?” or “what memory do you wish felt less distant?“ but no one really asks things like that. so i write it here. not for attention or pity. just in case someone reads it and thinks, oh. me too.

Your thumb lingered on that one a little longer than you meant to. The date, just two days ago, stood out.

They weren’t sappy love notes or petty school gossip. Some were funny, in that quiet, offbeat way that made you smile before you even realized it. Others read like scattered thoughts—tiny moments most people would overlook. A few felt heavy. Not necessarily poetic, just emotionally fluent.

And somehow, the mix made it feel real. Like the person behind them wasn’t trying to be profound, just thinking out loud. And you’d wandered into the middle of it. A stream of consciousness, left open.

You hadn’t noticed how long you’d been reading until the screen dimmed and your eyes blinked back into focus. Your phone had grown warm in your hand, the heat pressed lightly into your palm.

‎ ‎ ‎1:03 AM.

The rain still tapped steadily on the glass.

Your chest felt different. Still heavy. Still stretched from the day. But in that quiet corner of the internet, nestled between strangers and static, you felt a little less alone.

Something about his voice, even in text, made you want to stay just a little longer.

‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎ [Three weeks later, Monday morning]

‎ ‎ ‎

The sky looked bruised, grey bleeding into dull blue. Wind tugged at the edges of your sweater, fingers stiff as you clutched your phone and bag tighter, breath visible in the air. The walk to class felt longer today, like the world was resisting your movement, nudging you to turn around and call it quits. But you kept going.

It was early. Too early.

Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, and puddles scattered like shards across the sidewalk caught the faintest blush of light. Some students trudged past on foot. Others biked through the cold with determined misery, scarves trailing like battle flags.

You don’t remember what song was playing through your headphones. Just that it had faded into background noise by the time you reached the stone steps of the humanities building.

Inside, the contrast hit almost instantly. The stairwell was warmer, just barely. Echoes of your footsteps followed you up the narrow steps, and by the time you reached the second floor, the change in temperature was more noticeable. You pushed open the door to your poetry seminar, and warmth met you like a second skin. Soft. Immediate. A quiet relief.

The room was already half full.

You weren’t late, class hadn’t even started, but clearly, you weren’t the only one who’d chosen refuge here before the day officially began.

You made your way to your usual seat and set your things down slowly, your hands still stiff from the cold. Everything felt a little off-center. Not wrong exactly, just out of rhythm.

Lately, that feeling had been harder to shake. The kind of tired that didn’t come with yawns or heavy eyes, just a dull pressure that settled in your heart and stayed there. You were keeping up with your work. More than keeping up, really, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

And it followed you even now, as you sat there thumbing through your notes and pretending not to notice the unopened grocery list still sitting in your phone. Another reminder you’d snoozed: Buy Minho a birthday gift.

You’d been meaning to. Really. You wanted to find something personal. Something that said thank you without saying ‘thank you for giving me a pastry when I cried in your bakery and not making it weird’.

Because somehow, that moment, nearly a month ago, had turned into a quiet friendship.

You hadn’t planned to cry. You barely even remembered what tipped you over. Just that you’d walked in soaked from the rain, holding too much all at once. And Minho had noticed. Said nothing about your face or your silence. Just slid a pastry across the counter, as if to say it’s okay to fall apart here, and turned away like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Since then, he’d been… steady. Generous, even. Letting you help around the bakery during slow hours, never mind the fact that you didn’t have any real experience. Never asked much from you, just gave you things to do, space to exist. And somehow, that space he gave had started to feel like something you could lean into.

You liked that about him. The way he didn’t make kindness feel like a spotlight.

It was so different from what you were used to.

Your dad’s voice still echoed faintly in your ears from the night before. Something about your grades. Something about getting a “real” job.

You’d tuned most of it out after the first few lines, just enough to keep from getting pulled under. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying. He just had a way of making even your best efforts sound like placeholder. Like you were always one decision away from disappointing him again.

Still, despite all that, your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To him.

He never said his name. Only posted every so often, like he didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t help sharing little pieces of himself anyway. You’d never liked a single post. Never interacted. But you read every one. Not because you had a crush, exactly. There wasn’t anything romantic about it. Just curiosity. Like watching someone through a fogged window and trying to make out the shape of them.

You were pulled back to the present when a gust of wind rattled the window behind you. Your pen paused mid-scribble. The clock ticked closer to the hour.

With a quiet sigh, you opened your laptop and notebook, settling in. Around you, the room had filled up fast. Low chatter. Laptop keys. The soft rustle of jackets being peeled off. You barely noticed when the door creaked open again.

He walked in, unhurried for once. Bag slung casually over one shoulder, cheeks still pink from the cold. Your gaze lifted just as he passed your row.

It wasn’t a moment, just a glance. Eyes met. But it caught him off guard.

Somewhere in his head, something slipped. You didn’t catch the subtle shift in his grip, or how he sat down with a stiffness he didn’t usually have. His face slightly redder than before.

The professor arrived a few minutes later, launching into the usual rhythm. Announcements, dates, some soft reminders about next week’s readings. The background noise of scribbling pens and laptop keys filled in the rest.

You let yourself tune in loosely, just enough to stay tethered, until—

“I want you to write something,” the professor said, her voice lifting over the murmur, “about someone in this class.”

Your head tilted slightly. That wasn’t the usual prompt.

“Doesn’t have to be literal,” she added quickly, grinning as a few groans rose up. “And it doesn’t need to be emotional or romantic, so don’t panic. Just something rooted in observation. The way someone carries themselves. A glance. A moment you noticed. Real or imagined, doesn’t matter. Just write.”

The room stirred with sudden interest. Chairs shifted. Voices rose.

You stayed where you were. It wasn’t that the assignment scared you. It was just that your brain couldn’t decide what emotion to land on lately, and the idea of having to funnel that through another person felt like a lot.

Then your professor clapped once, sharp and cheerful.

“Pair up. You don’t have to tell your partner who you’re writing about. But you do need to help them brainstorm.”

You blinked. That part hadn’t been in the fine print.

Chairs scraped. People turned to their neighbors, already half-laughing and claiming partners with ease. You glanced once to your right, then left, more out of reflex than expectation. Then—

“You,” your professor called, eyes meeting yours. “Still need someone?”

You gave a single nod, calm. She gestured past you.

“Hwang. You’re with her.”

Well, damn.

He didn’t move at first. Still a few rows behind, seated along the elevated stretch of desks. His fingers tapped a slow, barely-there rhythm on the edge of his notebook, like he was waiting to see if you’d look up first.

When you didn’t, he stood. Walked down the aisle with a kind of casual hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. And then just hovered.

You glanced up when you felt his presence at your side.

“Mind if I—?” He gestured toward the empty chair next to you, already halfway pulling it out.

You shook your head. “Go ahead.”

He sat a little too fast, the legs of the chair dragging with an unfortunate screech across the floor. Someone in front of you turned briefly at the sound. You didn’t laugh, but your smile almost gave you away.

Neither of you spoke right away. He glanced down at his notebook like he expected it to do the talking. It didn’t.

“…So,” he said after a second. “Poem. About a classmate.”

You nodded. He paused like he had more to say, then shook his head lightly. “You wanna go first? Or—wait. That makes it sound like I’m trying to dodge it.” He winced. “I just meant—”

You let out a soft laugh. “It’s fine.”

The professor had moved to the far end of the room, checking in with another group. Someone nearby kept clicking a pen like it was a nervous tic.

He gave a short nod, still unsure if he should be relieved or embarrassed.

The silence between you wasn’t tense, just unformed. Like the space before a new sketch, when the lines haven’t taken shape yet. You glanced at his notebook. He hadn’t written anything down either.

“Have someone in mind already?” you asked.

His eyes flicked up, then back to yours. “Not really. You?”

You tilted your head. “Still deciding if I wanna make someone up or not.”

That earned you a quiet smile. A real one this time. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

“I was thinking,” you added, “it might be easier to just write something loosely based. Not like ‘you wore a gray hoodie and sat four seats back on Thursdays,’ but more… the feeling someone gives you. You know?”

Your eyes flicked to him.

He looked at you a second longer than you expected, like he was still turning it over in his head. Then he nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

It was hard to tell if he meant it or was just trying to sound agreeable, but the way he said it felt genuine. Careful, in a good way. Like he’d actually considered it.

You both drifted into writing, or at least the appearance of it. His pen hovered over the page more than it moved, tracing invisible lines that never quite landed. You caught him sneaking a glance at your notebook once, but you let it slide.

A moment passed before he added, like it had been sitting in his mouth too long, “I haven’t done a partner thing in a while. Sorry if I’m kinda…”

His voice trailed off, a hand waving vaguely like he hoped you’d fill in the blank for him.

“Awkward?” you offered, not unkindly.

His head snapped up, his mouth falling open in mock betrayal, but the spark in his eyes gave him away.

“I was gonna say a little out of practice, but yeah, that too.”

You smiled, just barely. “I don’t talk much in this class either.”

That seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders uncoiled, settling just a little.

“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he added after a beat, almost like the thought just caught up to him. Then, quick—“I mean, I know you know that. It’s on the roll call, obviously.”

You blinked, a soft laugh pulling out of you. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

There was a beat where he probably could’ve moved on, but instead, he glanced at you, a little unsure. “Uh, what’s your name? I mean, I know it. But I—like… it feels different asking.”

You tilted your head, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “You already know it.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”

That threw you a little. You told him anyway, your name landing soft but certain between you. And when you did, he nodded, like he wanted to remember exactly how you said it.

“Okay. Cool.”

Class was still going on, but the two of you had slipped into this quiet side stream, slightly outside the flow of the room. Everyone else was still taking notes, listening to the professor, but it felt like you’d ducked into some parallel pocket of time.

You weren’t sure what you were going to write about yet. But maybe now, you had more to work with than you thought.

You glanced over at him. “What’re you majoring in?”

“Visual arts,” he said, scribbling absently in the margins of his paper.

That fit. His clothes weren’t loud or branded, but they looked chosen. Like someone who knew how colors worked or at least cared. You could picture him sketching on café napkins, or showing up to class with graphite smudged on his sleeve without noticing.

“You?”

“English,” you offered. “Not super surprising, since we’re here.”

He smiled, soft and easy. “It fits.”

It felt like the conversation might naturally end there, but then he surprised you by asking, “Do you write outside of class?”

You hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nodded, a little too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands after asking. “Cool.”

“Do you?” you asked back, not teasing, just returning the energy.

“Yeah—uh, I do. Just for fun, though.” He shifted in his seat like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. “Nothing serious.”

The quick glance he sent your way told you he wanted it to sound casual, but cared a little too much about how it landed.

You raised an eyebrow, like you were still deciding whether or not to believe him.

He reached for his water bottle like it was a prop he suddenly needed, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip, then pausing, realizing it was empty. He set it back down with overly careful precision, like that would somehow make the moment less awkward.

You gave him a look. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That. The whole…” you gestured vaguely toward the bottle, fighting a smile. “Was that supposed to be dramatic—?”

“No,” he said, sitting up straighter, ears just a little pink. “Forgot I finished it earlier.”

You nodded, feigning seriousness. “Right.”

That pulled a soft huff out of him, something close to a real laugh, but before he could say anything else, the professor called time. Pens dropped. Notebooks closed. Chairs scraped quietly against the floor as everyone started packing up, but for a second longer, Hyunjin lingered like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the conversation.

As he stood, he tapped the edge of your desk. Twice, quick and light. Just enough to pull your attention.

“I’ll… keep working on it,” he said, voice softer now. Somewhere between unsure and hopeful.

And then he headed back to his seat. Moving through the aisles, slipping back into his place like nothing had happened.

You watched him go.

Then turned to a new page in your notebook, and wrote the word: presence.

𐪞

“—I swear, he looked like he was gonna short-circuit.” You balanced a tray of clean mugs in your hands as you walked toward the dish rack. “He sat down so fast the chair made that god-awful scraping sound.”

Minho, halfway through dusting powdered sugar over a fresh batch of croissants, barked a laugh. “Please tell me someone clapped.”

“Almost. One guy turned around like he thought something fell. It was kind of tragic.”

He grinned as he moved the tray to the display case, sliding it in with practiced ease. The warmth of the bakery was a welcome contrast to the wind still sneaking through the door every time it opened. Outside, people passed with their shoulders hunched, while inside, the windows fogged gently around the edges. Jazz played low over the speakers, all saxophone and soft piano.

“What’s the guy’s name again?” Minho asked.

“Hyunjin.” you said.

Minho paused, hand still on the pastry tongs. “Wait—Hyunjin? Like, my Hyunjin?”

You blinked. “Your Hyunjin?”

He set the tongs down and leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing like he was putting pieces together. “Tall, handsome, kinda dramatic but pretends he’s not, draws a lot, goes quiet when he’s flustered?”

You stared. “...That’s weirdly accurate.”

“Oh my god,” Minho said, straightening with a wide grin. “You got paired with him?”

“I didn’t volunteer,” you said, laughing. “Our professor literally pointed at us like she was picking teams for gym class.”

Minho let out another laugh and shook his head. “That explains so much. He’s been off lately.”

You tilted your head. “Off how?”

He just gave a vague shrug and returned to wiping the counter. “Nothing. He just gets in his head. Keeps stuff to himself until he explodes in the most unhinged way possible.”

You raised a brow, amused. “So... normal?”

“Painfully.” He smiled as he passed behind you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as he went.

That pulled a laugh from you, head ducking slightly as you dried your hands. “He’s... interesting.”

“That's a very polite way of saying what the hell is wrong with him.”

You snorted. “He wasn’t bad. Just... kind of awkward. But like, in a sincere way. Like he couldn’t help it.”

Minho made a face halfway between fond and pained. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

You shook your head, amused, wiping down the espresso machine as Minho poured steamed milk into a mug with far more focus than was probably necessary. The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped in, and the two of you slid seamlessly into work mode. Greeting them, taking the order, moving like you’d done this together a hundred times.

You liked this part of the day. The quiet before the evening rush. The part where Minho didn’t hover, didn’t push you to talk, just let the conversation rise and fall as naturally as the light shifting across the tiles.

“I actually didn’t even say much,” you said after a pause. “Like, I wasn’t trying to be weird. But I think just existing near him stressed him out.”

Minho handed the latte to a waiting customer without missing a beat. “Sounds like he likes you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, all fake innocence. “What? Who said that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t start,” he said, already grinning. “I’m just making an observation.”

“Well stop observing. We’re not in class.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

The moment settled for a second. Minho’s voice cut through, quieter as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Did your dad end up calling?”

You didn’t answer immediately, hesitating. “…Yeah. Over the weekend.”

He glanced up. “And?”

You focused on the swirl of steam rising from the espresso machine. “Same thing as always. Asked about school. Then about jobs. Asked why I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Ah,” Minho said, voice flat like a deflated balloon. “Classic hit single.”

That earned a faint smile.

As he moved past you to grab something from the lower shelf, he paused just long enough to reach up and pat the top of your head. Lightly, without ceremony.

“You’re doing fine,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. But your chest felt a little less tight than before. Suddenly—

The bell above the door slammed open with a jingle too violent to be casual.

“YAH— tell her she’s wrong!”

Changbin came barreling into the bakery like it was his second home, puffer jacket already half-off, finger pointed like he was delivering courtroom evidence.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Chaeryeong shouted as she followed behind him, nearly tripping over the doorframe with a bag of snacks clutched in one hand.

“No hello?” you asked, brows raised.

“Okay,” Changbin said, panting slightly. “You’re on the train. You offer your seat to someone. They decline. Do you sit back down or stand anyway out of guilt?”

“Sit down,” you said instantly.

“SEE?!” Changbin said, turning to Chaeryeong like he’d just won an Olympic medal.

She gasped. “No! You can’t sit after that. Now it’s awkward. Now they think you think they’re weak.”

You raised both brows. “You came here... to ask me that?”

“Obviously,” they both said in sync, like you were the slow one.

You blinked, then turned to Minho who just looked amused behind the espresso machine.

“Let me guess,” you said. “They’re ordering something now.”

“Croffle and a latte,” Chaeryeong said immediately. “Oh—and if you have the cinnamon twist—”

“We do,” Minho said, already writing it down. “And you owe her five dollars for emotional labor.”

The drama faded as fast as it came, the two of them now deep in an argument over which season of their favorite show was the best, half-bickering, half-laughing as they waited at their table.

Minho handed you a cup to pass over the counter. You called out the name.

A guy stepped forward to grab it. Young, most likely a student. Soft smile, the kind that aimed to be casual. He grabbed the drink, then slid a napkin across the counter. A number was scribbled on it.

Minho didn’t even blink.

His hand smacked down on the napkin so fast the customer jumped.

“She’s not collecting these right now,” Minho said, cool and unbothered, slowly dragging it back toward the espresso machine like it was a misplaced receipt, unnerving eye contact.

The guy blinked. Laughed awkwardly. “Uh... got it. Thanks.”

Once he was out of earshot, you turned, arms crossed.

“What?” he said, dragging the napkin off the counter and into the trash without breaking eye contact. “I’m protecting the peace.”

“You know that was insane behavior, right?”

“Just vetting the vibe,” Minho said.

“You crushed his confidence in one motion.”

“He’ll recover. Probably write a poem about it.”

You couldn’t even argue with that.

The jazz picked back up, the windows fogging further with the heat inside. Laughter spilled from the table where Changbin and Chaeryeong were now splitting the croffle and debating over who had the better music taste.

You turned back toward the counter just as Minho slid a drink in your direction.

“Didn’t ask for anything,” you said.

“Figured you needed one.”

You took a sip. Hot chocolate. Rich and sweet, still steaming.

“…You were right,” you murmured.

Minho didn’t look up. “Always am.”

𐪞

You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes without thinking. The air in your dorm was a bit cold, not enough to complain about, but enough to make you keep your socks on.

The lights stayed dim. Just the one beside your bed, casting a warm glow across the floorboards. You tossed your coat over the back of the chair, sleeves flopping to the floor, and wandered toward the kitchen corner to put away your groceries. One item at a time, methodical, like your brain needed something simple to latch onto.

What should’ve taken five minutes took thirty.

By the time you were done, your body felt heavier in that strangely comforting way. The kind of exhaustion that meant you were finally still. Showered. Fed. Sweats on. Nowhere else to be.

Your phone buzzed across the room, screen lighting up on your desk.

jisung: i think i left my soul in lecture today

you: it’s okay he didn’t grade that part

chae 🧡: was it the 75-minute slideshow with 300 transitions

binnie: WITH SOUND EFFECTS

jisung: bro the trumpet noise when he changed slides???

you: i thought i hallucinated that

chae 🧡: no that was real. i flinched

jisung: if he puts a slide whistle in next week i’m dropping out

binnie: no because the airplane sound? when the graph "took off"???

you: oh my god i forgot about that

jisung: i was THIS close to just standing up and leaving

chae 🧡: i think i actually blacked out during the bullet point explosion effect

you: no bc why did it sound like an m80 going off

jisung: he’s not making lectures anymore he’s making action films

binnie: i’m buying noise-canceling headphones just for this class

you: just raw dog the visuals?

jisung: survival of the fittest, every man for himself

chae 🧡: anyway whos bringing snacks tomorrow im not sitting through econ empty handed again

binnie: not me. last time my granola bar betrayed me

you: betrayed you how

binnie: the wrapper was SO LOUD i literally stopped mid-open because people turned around

jisung: rookie mistake u gotta open it during peak laughter, sound camouflage

chae 🧡: so true. snack acoustics.

you: they don’t teach you this in orientation

You laughed, a low breath of sound that barely rose above the hum of your heater. Flopped down onto your bed, pulling the covers over your legs, thumb still lazily hovering above the screen. The group chat was half comfort, half chaos. You didn’t need to contribute much. Just dropping in was enough.

You were about to close the app when another banner slid across the top of your screen.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: New posts added to your recommendations.

Your thumb hovered.

You hadn’t checked the app all day. You hadn’t meant to forget it, but it had slipped beneath lectures, errands, and Jisung’s running commentary about how capitalism was killing his will to live. Still, something about the notification made your breath catch.

You opened it.

The interface bloomed into dusky colors. That soft blend of indigo and burnt orange. It always looked like a late evening sky. Quiet, fading.

You didn’t even need to scroll far. His profile sat right at the top of your feed, neatly slipped into your recommendations like the app knew.

Two new posts.

Your thumb hovered over the first one. It was time-stamped earlier that afternoon.

‎ ‎ ‎‎user024025 • 10h — i said something weird in class today. like i meant it to sound normal, and then it left my mouth and immediately committed social suicide. anyway. this is why i don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small, automatic. It was the kind of thing you might write down in your notes app just to get it out of your head. Something too stupid to share, but too real to delete.

Your thumb drifted down to the second post. It was newer. Less than an hour old.

‎ ‎ ‎user024025 • 32m — some days feel like static. everything buzzing, but nothing landing. couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still. felt like i was glitching mid-sentence. but she didn’t flinch. just looked at me like i made sense anyway. smiled, even. like being a little off wasn’t the worst thing.

You read it once. Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t dressed up like some people’s posts on the app. His words always landed that way. Like they’d been written in a rush, like he’d almost left them behind. They didn’t try to be anything. They just were.

Still, they stuck to you. They always did. And this one more than usual.

You wondered who he meant. The thought brushed against you so quickly you almost missed it. Something faint pulled at your chest. Maybe curiosity.

Your gaze flicked to the Echo button just below the post.

You knew how it worked. When you echoed something, it didn’t just show up on your feed. It stayed. The post would ripple, soft waves pulsing out from the original like a quiet thread tying you to someone you didn’t know. A notification would ping on his side, nothing detailed. Just a simple signal: someone had resonated. Someone felt it too.

Sometimes posts picked up echoes in layers, gentle soundwaves folding into each other. You’d seen it happen. The soft chime that followed, a sound that shifted with the mood, was never loud enough to interrupt but always just enough to feel. For heavier posts, it was a low, echoing bell. For lighter ones, a soft, upward chime that almost sounded like wind moving through glass.

It wasn’t something you usually did. Echoing meant it stayed. It would sit pinned to your own feed like a quiet mark you couldn’t take back. Lurking felt safer. Passing through felt easier.

But tonight, your thumb didn’t move away.

You tapped the ripple once. The animation bloomed gently, a soft wave that stretched outward and settled again. You tapped it a second time, just to feel the weight of it.

And before you could think about it too long, you followed him.

There was a space for a note, something small you could leave behind. People used it for quick thoughts, one-sentence replies that layered over time, quiet annotations shared between strangers. Most people said something. A word. A question. Sometimes whole sentences if they were feeling brave.

But you didn’t write anything. Just… something.

note to @ ‎user024025 • now — 🩶

Simple. Wordless. Nothing that could be misread. Nothing that could be traced.

You stared at it for a second longer than you should have, then locked your phone and set it face-down on the blanket next to you. The soft weight of it sat against your palm.

You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. The quiet of your room pressed in around you.

You didn’t know what this was. You weren’t sure you wanted to. But still—you closed your eyes with a soft, aching pull in your chest and let yourself drift until the edges of it slipped away.

𐪞

If there was one thing that always brought Hyunjin back down to earth whenever his mind got the best of him, it was art.

Not in the lofty, vague way people often meant when they wrote about it in bios or pretended to feel in museums. He meant it literally. The drag of graphite across textured paper. The slight resistance of canvas under a brush. The weight of a pencil in his hand, familiar and grounding. The shift in the air when he locked into focus and the world got quiet. It was his reset button. Always had been.

In those moments, his thoughts didn’t vanish, but they softened. Became something he could sit with.

Tonight, he needed that quiet.

A half-finished still life sat before him, shadows and shapes slowly sharpening under the glow of his desk lamp. The warmth pooled across the page like a spotlight, soft and deliberate.

The dorm was calm, save for the low hum of a lofi playlist playing from Chan’s speaker. Some mix they’d agreed on ages ago. Chan sat across from him, hunched over his laptop like always, editing something with one earbud in and the other dangling by his shoulder. Comfortable silence.

Hyunjin had just showered. Damp hair clung to his forehead, shirt collar brushing against still-cooling skin. His knee bounced under the desk, restless and wired. He was trying to draw, really, but his mind refused to cooperate.

Exams loomed. Supplies were still unbought. Three still lifes were due before the week ended. And then there was poetry class. His pencil paused mid-stroke. He was genuinely considering skipping next time, just to avoid the fallout from earlier. From you.

God. You.

You hadn’t even done anything dramatic. You’d just talked to him. Looked at him with this kind of soft, steady ease like you weren’t afraid of what you’d find there. Like you saw something worth addressing.

And that alone had left his brain in the blender.

He slouched deeper into his chair with a quiet groan, hand scrubbing through his hair. “I need to get a grip,” he muttered to no one.

Chan glanced up but didn’t say anything. Just gave a barely-there nod like: same here, man. Then went back to editing.

Hyunjin leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. Tried to shake it off. It was stupid. He didn’t even know you. Not really.

You’d always been in the periphery. First in lit, then in poetry. He barely noticed you at first. But once he did, it was like your presence had carved out space in his brain without asking. The way you laughed with your friends. The way you only spoke when it mattered. The way you looked quieter when the sky was gray.

It made no sense. And yet, somehow, it made all the sense in the world.

That was just how his mind worked. Half artist, half hopeless romantic. He could fall in love with a passing glance, obsess over a fleeting moment, turn a single expression into a whole scene he couldn’t stop replaying. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that quiet, gnawing way where small things felt sharp.

He shook himself from the thought and returned to his sketchpad, shading aimlessly. Chan was still editing, head tilted in concentration. Their “working shift,” as they called it. Muted playlists, shared snacks, the comfortable rhythm of existing next to someone without needing to talk.

The quiet didn’t last.

His phone buzzed beside him, a soft chime that cut clean through. He blinked, set his pencil down, and reached for it, already feeling the shift in the air before he even looked.

‎ ‎ ‎ Hotline: You have 1+ new followers, Someone echoed your post, @ user074320 left a note.

Something about it made his chest tighten. Too specific to be nothing, too random to mean something. Still, curiosity tugged at him. So, he tapped the alert.

The post loaded up. His own words, floating under that familiar color gradient. There, near the top of the thread, was the new note: a single gray heart.

No text. No flourish. Just a symbol, still and quiet and maybe even a little sad. His finger moved without much thought, tapping the note, which led him to the profile that had left it. That’s when he saw it.

The profile picture.

A cat. One he felt like he’d seen before. Familiar in the strangest way, but just out of reach.

The bio was short.

‎ ‎ ‎ “brain and heart full” | she/her

Something about it felt… unfiltered. Not cryptic, not curated. Just quietly present.

He scrolled slowly, like touching anything too quickly might ruin the feeling. Posts littered the page, text entries and voice notes scattered like thoughts left behind. It wasn’t curated. It was lived-in. Like someone used the app the way it was meant to be used. Not to impress, but to exist.

His thumb paused over the most recent voice post. He pressed play without realizing. Silence first. Then a breath. A heater humming in the background.

Then—

"…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.”

Hyunjin’s heart stuttered. His eyes widened, breath stalling. The voice was low, thoughtful. A little amused.

“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”

He jolted, sitting back like the words had physically knocked him. His hand scrambled to pause the post, thumb shaky on the screen.

“Holy shit—” he breathed, heartbeat lurching in his chest.

He practically launched backward from his desk, pencil clattering to the floor. His whole body buzzed, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. It wasn’t just hearing your voice, it was the way it filled the room. Close and clear, like you were standing right there beside him.

Chan looked up instantly, yanking out his earbud. “Yo? You good?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. He was already pacing, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might ground him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Chan straightened, the humor draining from his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Hyunjin spun toward him, wild-eyed, holding up his phone like it was a detonator. “It’s her. Chan, it’s her. She followed me. She echoed my post. She left the—” he shook the phone, as if words alone weren’t enough, “—the little gray heart thing.”

Chan blinked, trying to follow. “Who?”

“The girl. From my seminar. The one I told you about. The one I got paired with for the writing thing.”

Chan’s face stayed blank. “…Okay?”

“I don’t even know how to explain this,” Hyunjin groaned, pacing faster now. “I’ve been like… maybe-sort-of-definitely spiraling about her all semester and now, she’s read my posts. She followed me.”

The last part came out in full caps, despite the fact he meant to whisper it.

Chan just stared. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me see the profile.”

Hyunjin all but threw his phone across the room.

Chan caught it, his eyes darting over the screen. Two seconds in, his eyes widened. “Bro.”

“What?” Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Isn’t that—” Chan pointed at the profile picture. “Isn’t that Soonie?”

Hyunjin stared, confused, his brain buffering.

And then—

“OH MY GOD.”

He snatched the phone back, squinting at the image. Soft orange and white fur. The smug little face. The faintest tilt of a cat’s head that screamed superiority.

It was Soonie. Minho’s cat.

Minho, who did not casually share cat photos with just anyone. Minho, who only sent Soonie pics to people he liked.

“She knows Minho?!” Hyunjin yelped, his voice pitching high in disbelief.

Chan looked like someone had just told him the world was a simulation. “No way. This is literally a crossover episode.”

Hyunjin dropped onto his bed like gravity had doubled. “I’m gonna cry.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Chan snorted, grinning now. He leaned over to glance at the profile again. “Soooo? What’re you gonna do?”

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling like it held answers. “I have no idea. But whatever I was gonna do tonight… that’s canceled.”

He sat up suddenly. “Wait. What if she knows it’s me?”

“Why would she?” Chan asked, barely phased.

“I mean, not all of them were about her, but like, some of the stuff I said…” Hyunjin started flipping through his own profile, eyes wide with horror. “What if it was obvious?”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s not like you wrote her name.”

Hyunjin groaned into his hands. “Okay, but I was so specific. Like weirdly specific.”

Chan snorted. “You mean poetic.”

“It wasn’t even that poetic.”

He shrugged. “It was a little poetic. It just wasn’t subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle!” Hyunjin dragged his hands through his hair, still spiraling. “I didn’t think she’d ever see it.”

“But she did,” Chan reminded him, tapping the phone. “She followed you. Echoed your post. Saw it, and didn’t run for the hills.”

Hyunjin peeked at him through his fingers. “Do you think she liked it?”

Chan shrugged. “She didn’t block you. That’s something.”

Hyunjin dropped his hands into his lap, head falling back in defeat. “This is worse than freshman studio critiques.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Okay, but hypothetically if she does know it’s you, is that bad?”

Hyunjin hesitated.

Then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? Yes? What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“So? You are weird,” Chan deadpanned.

Hyunjin glared at him. “Thank you.”

“But like… endearing weird.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He sat up slowly, phone clenched in both hands like it might disappear. “I didn’t think she even noticed me. Like outside of class. I always thought she just—” He paused, his throat tightening unexpectedly. “I don’t know. I thought I was background noise.”

Chan watched him for a second, then asked, more gently this time, “How long have you been into her?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped. “Since the start of the semester. She sits a few rows ahead of me in lit. Always looks like she’s about to say something but never does. I don’t know, she just—”

His voice trailed off as he glanced over. “Are you even listening?”

Chan hummed, pretending to jot notes. “Keep going. These are solid lyrics. You’ll thank me when you’re famous.”

“Shut up.”

But Hyunjin’s mouth twitched, the smallest smile breaking through the panic.

He was too busy staring at the screen again. Your profile open, your posts still lingering. The little bio, the voice note that he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, like his brain was trying to burn it into memory before it could disappear.

“And if she knows Minho…” He flung the phone onto his bed like it had personally offended him.

Chan didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, no chance. Have you seen that guy’s side profile—”

“Don’t say that,” Hyunjin groaned, dragging a pillow to his chest like he could physically shield himself from reality. “What if she read everything?”

“She one hundred percent did.”

Hyunjin buried his face in the pillow. “She knows I sketch people in class. She knows about my ex.”

Chan nodded solemnly. “You’re emotionally naked. Congrats.”

Hyunjin flopped onto his back, letting out a strangled sound. “I can never show my face in class again.”

“You have to show your face.”

“I physically can’t.”

“You’re literally writing a poem about her.”

“DON’T remind me.”

Chan lost it at that, laughing so hard he had to pull his hoodie over his face to muffle it.

Hyunjin just groaned louder, sinking deeper into the pillow, fully committed to his spiral. The room settled again. The kind of quiet that hangs when something real is about to surface.

“…Do you think she’d like me?” The words came out small, barely above a whisper, like Hyunjin wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Chan slowly lowered his hoodie, the grin softening. “Why wouldn’t she? You’re a good guy.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced slow circles along the seam of the pillow, thinking, picking at the edge like it could offer a distraction.

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. What if it’s not enough?” His voice was steady, but there was a rawness tucked just beneath it. “What if I’m just this… collection of almosts?”

Chan tilted his head, his gaze steady but soft. “She sat with you. Talked with you. Shared something. Gave you her name. She even followed you.”

Each thing landed quietly, but with weight.

“She didn’t have to do any of that,” Chan added. “But she did. That’s something.”

Hyunjin looked at the screen again. That little gray heart sat there, faint and quiet, like a secret only he knew how to read.

Something cracked open in Hyunjin’s chest.

He exhaled, long and heavy, like he didn’t know how else to carry the feeling. “…What am I supposed to do with that?”

Chan stretched, grabbing the hoodie from his chair and tossing it to him. “You sit with it. You don’t freak out. And maybe…” He smiled a little. “Maybe you think about what you’d say if you weren’t trying to hide.”

Hyunjin caught the hoodie, turning it over in his hands like it could offer an answer. His eyes flicked back to your profile one last time, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t press anything else. Not yet.

But his mind was already rewriting what he might say.

𐪞

“I’m just saying, there’s definitely a hot guy behind that profile,” Chaeryeong insisted, grabbing a small basket as you both stepped into Lunevelle.

The plaza hummed with that easy, midweek kind of life. Lazy string lights swaying above patio chairs, low music drifting from a nearby café, the scent of roasted peanuts and expensive cologne tangled in the air. You tugged your sleeves over your hands, letting Chaeryeong lead the way as you filled her in on the Hotline situation.

Inside, Lunevelle gleamed in that curated, chaotic way: rows of glosses like tiny potions, shelves lined with serums stacked like artifacts, soft bursts of laughter as people swatched eyeshadows and debated undertones. It felt like stepping into another universe. One where real problems didn’t exist. Just hydrating primers and glitter.

“Someone who posts like that?” Chaeryeong said, slipping past a wall of toners with scary precision. "Definitely at least a 7.5. Minimum."

You raised an eyebrow, flipping a hand cream tester between your fingers. “You’re just inventing stats now.”

“Not at all,” she replied, scanning cleansers like she was decoding a map. “Guys who can write? Rare. Like, golden retriever who files taxes rare.”

You trailed after her, amused, as she turned a corner. Everything sparkled here. The floor, the lipstick rows, the mirror-lined shelves whispering buy it, you’ll be a better person. You picked up a random lip balm just to feel less like a bystander.

Chaeryeong stopped in front of a display of perfumes, eyes lighting up. “Wait. You need a signature scent.”

You blinked. "Do I?"

“Yes.” She spritzed a card and handed it to you like she was passing judgment. “You’re entering your mysterious era. Hotline boy requires olfactory intrigue.”

You took a cautious sniff and immediately recoiled. “Chae. This smells like expensive heartbreak.”

“Exactly,” she said, completely unfazed. “Emotional damage, but make it luxury.”

You choked on a laugh and reached for the rollerball version of your usual scent, dropping it into her basket.

Chaeryeong looped her arm through yours, steering you toward makeup like a woman on a mission. “Okay, but be serious. He followed you back. That’s basically a soft launch. You have to get married now.”

“That is not how any of this works,” you said, half-laughing.

She ignored you, already swatching lipsticks across the back of her hand with the intensity of a pro. “What’s his vibe? If you had to guess.”

You thought about it. “Quiet. Smart. Probably has good hands.”

Chaeryeong froze, halfway through swatching. “Pause. What do hands have to do with this?”

You shrugged. “Writers. Artists. Same difference. Nice hands.”

She blinked at you. Then burst into laughter so loud a worker down the aisle glanced over. “You are so gone,” she wheezed.

“I’m not,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“Denial,” she said, adding a sheer gloss to the basket. “First stage of love.”

Then she found a heart-shaped blush compact and gasped like she’d discovered treasure. “Tell me this isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen,” she said, cradling it like a newborn.

You peered at it. “It’s you. In makeup form. Small, dramatic, overpriced.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching it to her chest. “How dare you. I’m at least reasonably priced.”

Your laughter spilled over both of you as you wandered toward the mini skincare section. She picked up a travel-sized moisturizer and squinted at the label.

“Ten dollars?” she hissed. “It’s the size of a single Tic Tac.”

“Capitalism thrives on our despair,” you said dryly, tossing a mini sunscreen into the basket. “If I’m going broke, I’m dragging you with me.”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

At some point, Chaeryeong slowed in front of a mirror, pretending to adjust her hair with exaggerated focus. You caught the flicker in her eyes. Strategic.

She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She was scanning.

You followed her gaze, subtle as you could. Near the cologne section, a guy was testing out a line of scents. Tall. Sharp jawline. Long black coat that moved when he did. A baseball cap pushed back over dark hair, revealing enough to catch your attention but not enough to give much away.

Chaeryeong elbowed you so hard you nearly knocked over a display of mini mascara wands.

“Target acquired,” she whispered, dead serious.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to wingwoman you or…?”

She waved you off, eyes still fixed on him through the mirror. “Please. I just want to observe from a safe, non-humiliating distance.”

“Oh, good,” you deadpanned. “Stalking. The foundation of every stable relationship.”

“Exactly,” she said, beaming. “Academia could never teach me this level of social maneuvering.”

You shook your head, smiling as you guided her away before she developed a backstory and assigned him a name. She kept sneaking glances over her shoulder like she was tracking a rare bird, nearly tripping over a stray basket left on the ground.

At checkout, she dumped both your hauls onto the counter like she was unloading a smuggled artifact. Travel-sized everything. A rollerball perfume. A suspiciously expensive blush you definitely didn’t need but had somehow ended up holding like it had chosen you.

“New plan,” she declared, nudging your arm as the cashier began scanning items. “Post-haul ramen. I’m starving.”

You blinked. “We were in here for thirty minutes.”

“And yet,” she said, solemn, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “My body cries out for noodles.”

You stifled a laugh. “Fine. But you’re buying my drink.”

“Done.” She handed the cashier her card with flair, like it was her credit card and her resignation letter. “Just don’t tell Changbin. He still thinks I’m saving money.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. Somehow, the stress of the week felt lighter, tucked between perfume samples and the promise of warm food.

Outside, the night had cooled.

The sky was clear now, the rain from earlier leaving the pavement damp and gleaming under the soft light of the plaza. Your bags swung gently at your sides as you stepped into the evening air, your breath misting slightly in the cold.

You weren’t even five steps out before someone collided into your shoulder.

Three figures.

You staggered slightly, blinking against the sudden blur, only to hear a gasp so dramatic it could’ve ended an episode.

"Changbin!" Chaeryeong cried, clutching her shopping bag to her chest. “We literally manifested you.”

Changbin looked vaguely alarmed. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said, laughing as he shifted back a step, giving you both room.

Chan was just behind him, hoodie zipped halfway, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’d been waiting to be amused. He gave a polite nod, eyes flicking to your bags.

Hyunjin lingered a few paces back. Shoulders slightly hunched. Hood up. His posture was looser than usual, but his hands were fidgeting with the sleeve of his coat, tugging at a thread that probably didn’t exist.

He looked like someone deciding between walking home or vanishing into the sidewalk now that you’d seen him.

You offered the group a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the collision.”

“All good,” Chan said easily, giving you a grin that felt familiar in the way coffee shops and study playlists were. He nodded toward the haul in your hands. “Retail therapy?”

“At its most expensive,” you joked.

“I regret nothing,” Chaeryeong added, shifting her shopping bags like she was carrying treasure.

Then her eyes lit up. “Wait, this actually works out. We were literally about to hunt for food.”

At the word, Changbin’s head snapped up like someone had summoned him by name. “Food?” he repeated, already halfway invested.

“Ramen,” Chaeryeong said with a nod, like she was offering a sacred truth. “Few shops down. Cozy, life-changing, slightly overpriced. Want in?”

You caught it in the corner of your eye. Hyunjin, still quiet, still standing just outside the circle. His fingers shifted on the strap of his bag, but his gaze flicked up at the mention of ramen. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker.

“I’m in,” Changbin said, already turning in the direction of the restaurant like a man with purpose.

Chan looked between you and the rest, hands still tucked into his hoodie pockets. “You guys mind if we crash?”

You shrugged, already smiling. “The more the merrier.”

“Perfect,” Chaeryeong said before anyone could second-guess it. She looped her arm through yours with flair. “Let’s go.”

So you did.

Just like that, you were all walking down the plaza together, a slightly chaotic little group drifting past late-night shops and glowing storefronts.

The ramen place sat tucked at the far end, half-hidden behind hanging lanterns and a dark wood façade. It looked like it belonged somewhere much fancier than a college plaza. The kind of place that felt secret once you stepped inside.

The door swung open with a soft chime.

Inside, the world shifted.

Warm air hit your face, thick with the scent of slow-cooked broth and toasted sesame oil. Golden light hung low from paper lamps, painting the wooden walls in a honeyed glow. Most of the noise stayed outside. This space held only hushed voices, the gentle clink of bowls, and the soft shuffle of slippers against floorboards.

Some tables sat open near the front, but the real charm was deeper inside. Alcoves tucked behind narrow dividers, each with a sunken table and thick floor cushions. It looked more like a dream than a college late-night dinner.

The hostess greeted you all with a soft smile, hands folded politely. After a few beats of mild chaos—mostly Chaeryeong trying to convince her that “five can totally squeeze into one booth, I swear”—you were led toward the back, past hanging noren curtains and a gently humming heater.

The floor dipped slightly into the recessed area, and the heat beneath your socks was immediate.

“Take off your shoes,” Chaeryeong whispered like it was a secret, already kicking hers off and sliding in with practiced ease.

You followed, stepping carefully over the threshold and tucking your shoes neatly to the side, the warmth of the floor making you relax without thinking.

The seating settled naturally, like a puzzle clicking into place: you in the middle, with Chaeryeong on your left and Chan on your right. Across from you, Changbin spooled out into his seat like a cat, already messing with the paper napkin holder. And Hyunjin slipped in beside him, careful not to jostle the table.

Somehow, it didn’t feel crowded. It felt intimate. The divider muted the rest of the restaurant, turning your corner into a private bubble of clinking spoons and soft lighting. The lamp above your table glowed amber, casting halos across every sleeve and half-shadowed smile.

As soon as you were seated, the chaos started again.

Changbin dove in immediately. “Okay, so explain to me how you almost broke Lunevelle, Chae.”

She exhaled dramatically, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater like it was part of the story. “I almost tripped because I was distracted by love.”

“Love?” Changbin raised a brow, clearly entertained. “What, did a highlighter call your name?”

Chaeryeong swatted his arm. “No, idiot. A guy. And how do you even know what a highlighter is?”

“YAH, I’m not illiterate—”

You snorted into your sleeve, the edges of your menu curling slightly in your hands. Their voices were overlapping now, sparring with ease and rhythm like they’d been doing this forever.

“You should’ve seen him,” Chaeryeong went on, eyes wide. “Tall. Black coat. Hair that looked illegal.”

Changbin gagged. “Illegal hair. Fantastic. I’ll alert the authorities.”

Chan chuckled low beside you, and you turned toward the sound, half-curious. He looked relaxed, arm resting on the low table, eyes squinting a little with the smile.

"Is he like this around you too?" you asked, tilting your head toward Changbin.

“Unfortunately.” Chan leaned into his palm, still grinning. “We’ve known each other too long. I can’t take him anywhere.”

You laughed under your breath, your thumb tracing the edge of your menu. “Figured. You two in the same major or something?”

Chan shook his head. “Nah. Different departments. Just found each other early. Stuck, I guess.”

There was something easy about the way he said it. Like it didn’t need to be deeper than that. And you liked that. The idea that some people just stayed because they wanted to, not because they had to.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your major?”

“English,” you said, fiddling with the corner of your napkin. “Technically literature, but same deal.”

“Ahh.” He nodded like something had clicked. “Explains the bookstore energy.”

You blinked. "The what?"

He gave a half-laugh, more like a confession.

“Bookstore energy. You know, like you’re always about to recommend a novel that’ll emotionally destroy me, but in a character-building kind of way.”

You stared at him, then cracked up, half-embarrassed. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a red flag.”

“Both,” he said easily, his grin widening. “But I mean it in a good way.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, another voice chimed in. Quieter, a little hesitant.

"What kind of stuff do you read?" Hyunjin asked.

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to find him watching you.

His fingers played absently with the hem of his sleeve under the table, and his voice, though soft, carried easily in the cozy space.

You tilted your head slightly. “A little of everything. Lately… mostly poetry, I guess.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised. Like he’d already guessed that. Like maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it out loud.

You tried not to think about how still he looked when he was listening. Or how the space between you across the table suddenly felt more noticeable than it had five minutes ago.

“And you?” you asked gently, because it felt right to return the question.

He shrugged, gaze dropping to the table. “Sketchbooks. Notebooks. Whatever fits.”

His voice was light, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Like he was trying not to sound like he cared too much about the answer.

You smiled, soft. "That's fair."

The conversation could’ve ended there. Should’ve, probably. But somehow, it didn’t.

Chan leaned in a little, his shoulder brushing yours. “You guys have the same poetry seminar, right?”

You blinked. "Yeah. How’d you—"

"Hyunjin mentioned it." Chan smiled innocently.

Your stomach dipped, just slightly. The kind of shift you feel before anything’s actually said. You glanced at Hyunjin. He didn’t look up. Just traced the edge of his chopsticks along the table, like they might draw a line he could disappear behind.

Beside you, Chaeryeong popped back into the conversation like she hadn’t just been arguing about the superior gyoza dipping sauce. “Speaking of tragic poetry—do you think Mystery Coat Guy is thinking about me right now?”

Changbin didn’t miss a beat. “He’s probably filing a restraining order.”

“You’re evil,” she said, launching a paper napkin at him with perfect aim.

You ducked your head, laughing softly into your hands as their voices tangled together again, warm and too familiar to fully tune out. Somewhere in the middle of all that, you risked another glance across the table.

Hyunjin wasn’t looking at you. But his hands stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder what that meant.

In the background, Chaeryeong had declared war over appetizers.

“I swear on my mother, Bin, we are not ordering plain edamame again—”

“It’s healthy!”

“It’s depressing!”

Chan raised a hand like a weary coach breaking up a team fight. “Split the order. Half gyoza, half… whatever Changbin’s weird health phase is.”

“I accept these terms,” Chaeryeong said, nodding solemnly like she was signing a treaty.

The waitress returned mid-laugh, clearly amused by the chaos, dropping off thick menus and a wooden clipboard for drinks. Changbin snatched the list with the determination of a man making history.

“Okay, team,” he announced, tapping it against the table. “We have a decision to make. Shots?”

You nearly choked. “Changbin. We haven’t even ordered food yet.”

“Exactly.” He looked dead serious. “Empty stomach. Maximum efficiency.”

“You’re going to pass out before the noodles even show up,” Chaeryeong muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Chan shrugged. “One round won’t kill us.”

You and Chaeryeong exchanged a glance. The kind that spoke in full sentences.

She sighed like she was giving in to fate. “Fine. One round. But we’re ordering actual food first before Changbin’s spirit leaves his body.”

Menus were passed. Orders were shouted over each other. Someone demanded extra broth; someone else lobbied for dessert mid-meal. The entire table fell into a kind of organized chaos that only made sense among people who felt safe with each other.

The heater against the wall filled the alcove with slow, gentle warmth. One by one, people started shedding layers. Chan shrugging out of his thick jacket, Changbin tossing his hoodie beside him, Chaeryeong stretching out her legs with a dramatic sigh as she slid off her fuzzy cardigan.

You pushed your sleeves up, tucking your legs beneath you, comfortably folded into the glow. The playlist hummed softly through overhead speakers. A slow roll of Japanese city pop, syrupy basslines and dreamy vocals giving everything that floaty, out-of-time feeling.

When the drinks arrived, a neat row of shot glasses and a bottle of soju that looked far too unassuming for what it was about to unleash, Changbin clapped once, loud enough to startle a nearby table.

“Alright! Round one, let’s go!” he declared, already pouring like an enthusiastic bartender with zero training.

“Wait—” Chan reached for his glass. “Drumroll. It’s law.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Drumroll!”

Chaeryeong immediately started smacking the table like she was in a percussion ensemble. You joined in, then Chan, the rhythm gaining speed until even Hyunjin caved and tapped a lazy beat with his knuckles, a half-hidden smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Changbin raised his shot glass like he was about to deliver a campaign speech. “To retail therapy, ramen survival, and future mistakes we can blame on peer pressure!”

“Cheers!” everyone chorused, the clink of glass sharp and bright before the burn hit your throat.

It was smooth. Sweet at first, then sharp as it settled. You winced just slightly, and when your eyes flicked up, you caught Hyunjin watching you, the corner of his mouth quirking into something crooked and unreadable.

Food arrived in waves. Bowls of steaming ramen, plates of crispy karaage, glistening gyoza, and enough side dishes to make the table creak. Everyone leaned in, elbows bumping, sleeves rolled, stealing bites and swapping side-eyes when someone went in for seconds.

Somewhere between noodle slurps and laughter, Changbin struck with zero warning.

“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning in like this was about to be classified information. “I’ve got tea.”

Everyone immediately went silent, heads snapping toward him. Even Chaeryeong lowered her chopsticks. “What level of tea?” she asked suspiciously.

Changbin looked around theatrically, despite no one in the restaurant paying them any attention. Then, in a voice so serious it could’ve passed for academic, he said, “You guys know Wooyoung, right? Works the front desk at the campus gym?”

Chaeryeong sat up straighter. “The Wooyoung? Trainer, flirts with everyone, weirdly good at dance?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Okay?” you said slowly. “What about him?”

Changbin exhaled, like this physically pained him to hold in. “Apparently, he got caught hooking up with one of the student coordinators. During a wellness event.”"

You choked on your water. “During?! Like, mid-yoga?!”

“Not in the class,” Changbin clarified, “but like, ten minutes before his scheduled shift. In the storage room.”

“No,” Chaeryeong whispered, scandalized. “The one with the mats?!”

“The very one,” Changbin said, solemn as ever.

Chan let out a sharp laugh. “Man really said mind, body, and soul.”

“And the worst part,” Changbin continued, lowering his voice even more, “is the student coordinator was already dating someone. Long-term. Like three-year relationship. Everyone thought they were going to graduate and move in together.”

“Nooooo,” Chaeryeong moaned, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was,” Changbin said, looking deeply pleased with himself.

“Who told you this?” you asked, stunned.

“I have sources,” he replied cryptically, sipping his water like it was wine.

“You’re the worst,” Chaeryeong said, practically vibrating. “But also, give me names.”

“I value my life too much.”

“Coward.”

Laughter crackled around the table again, louder this time, more unhinged. The kind that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest feel warmer than the soju ever could.

As the buzz settled back into the glow, the playlist shifted. Something breezy and sparkling, the kind of upbeat tempo that made your feet itch to move. You barely had time to register it before Chaeryeong turned to you with a gleam in her eye.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing your wrist. “Dance break.”

“Wait—what—no, no—”

But she was already pulling you from the booth, into the small open space near the front of the restaurant where a few other diners were casually swaying in their seats. The lights blurred slightly from the alcohol and warmth, and the air pulsed with synths and sugar-sweet vocals.

Chaeryeong twirled you clumsily, both of you laughing like kids at a sleepover. You stumbled over your own feet, tipsy and too full, dizzy from the sudden movement and everything that had led up to this moment.

From the table, Changbin whooped like a proud father filming his child’s recital. Chan banged his hand on the table like he was front row at a concert.

And Hyunjin—

He wasn’t laughing, but he was watching. Smiling, yes, but not like he was entertained. Like he was remembering. His chin rested in his hand, hair falling slightly into his eyes, and for a long, steady beat, his gaze never left you.

You felt your pulse stutter. You almost missed a step.

When the song faded and you and Chaeryeong stumbled back, breathless and flushed, Changbin immediately shoved his phone in your face. “Behold: cinema,” he said, showing you the wobbly video. “You’re welcome.”

You lunged for the phone. “Delete it right now or I will throw it into the broth.”

“Justice for the arts!” he cried, holding it out of reach.

“You’re both insane,” Chan said, but he was laughing too, his face crinkled with warmth.

More shots were poured. More toasts shouted—to surviving exams, to not texting your ex, to chaotic retail purchases that may or may not fix your life.

It was one of those rare, glowing nights. The kind that doesn’t become a memory so much as a feeling. Soft around the edges. Warm at the center. A small collection of golden hours folded into the corners of your chest.

As the night wound down, shoes were pulled back on with lazy groans and wobbly balance, receipts were stuffed into pockets, and the group spilled out of the restaurant in a loose, slightly tipsy drift.

The air outside was sharp with the bite of early nightfall. It kissed your cheeks, slipping into the spaces left behind by the restaurant’s warmth, making you pull your sleeves down again without thinking.

Chaeryeong and Changbin immediately launched into a half-serious argument about the nearest convenience store.

“I know it’s down this way,” she insisted, already marching in the wrong direction.

“I have the map app open right now,” Changbin groaned. “Trust the system!”

“You are the system, and I don’t trust you,” she replied without missing a beat.

They veered off down the sidewalk, still bickering. Chan lingered behind with you, hands in his pockets, exhaling slowly like he wasn’t ready to break the night apart just yet.

He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade your space, just enough to make it easier to hear his voice. “Hey,” he said, casual. “Let me get your number? Just in case. Group stuff. Or whatever else.”

You smiled, a little flushed from the drinks, a little warm from the moment, and handed him your phone. He typed his number in, then added a little star emoji next to his name, holding it up like it was official documentation. “There,” he said. “Now I sparkle.”

As you slid your phone back into your pocket, something caught your eye. A flicker of movement just past the soft glow of the restaurant window. Hyunjin.

He stood a few feet away, just near a small flower stand tucked between the ramen shop and a dimly lit store. The bouquets were cheap, wrapped in plastic, cellophane crinkling in the breeze, but his hand hovered over them gently. Fingertips brushing along the edge of a petal like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

He looked distant, untethered. Like someone replaying the night in his head before it had even ended.

You hesitated. Then, before you could second-guess it, you walked toward him. “Hey,” you said softly.

He turned, eyes widening slightly, like you’d pulled him back from somewhere else entirely. His hair shifted in the breeze, falling into his eyes before he pushed it away with a lazy flick.

You held up your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. “Mind if I get your number too?”

For a second, he just stared at you. And then he smiled. Not the polite one. Not the cautious, halfway-there version he gave most people. This one was quiet, almost shy.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

You passed him your phone, and he typed in his number slowly, like he wanted to get it right. His hands were graceful, slightly cold when they brushed yours as he handed it back. You glanced down. A little black heart sat next to his name.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Chan watching, a barely-there smirk tugging at his mouth, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Couldn’t.

Hyunjin tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, half-looking at you, half-looking away. “See you in class?”

“Yeah,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “See you.”

And for the first time that night, maybe for the first time since you met, he looked at you like he wanted to. Not like he was trying to figure you out, or keep a distance.

But like the space between you didn’t feel so uncertain anymore.

The others were starting to regroup down the street, Chaeryeong shouting something about chocolate milk while Changbin protested dramatically in the background.

You turned to go, but paused—glancing back over your shoulder. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. But he was still watching.

You jogged back toward the group, where Chaeryeong immediately looped an arm around your shoulders like you hadn’t just had a moment that rearranged the molecules in your lungs.

“Let’s go get milk,” she mumbled, sleepy and satisfied. “And water. Lots of water. I feel like a raisin.”

You laughed, letting her lean into you. But the laughter didn’t erase it. That hum in your chest, that electric thread stretched taut in the space behind you.

Still tugging.

Waiting.

As you walked farther down the street, the sounds of your friends blending into background noise, you heard quiet footsteps behind you. Chan and Hyunjin had fallen into step together.

Chan bumped his shoulder gently into Hyunjin’s, voice low but amused. “You gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”

Hyunjin gave him a small, lopsided smile. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Chan nodded like he already knew. Then, softer, almost teasing. “She’s got bookstore energy, huh?”

Hyunjin looked ahead, expression unreadable, but the smile stayed.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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⠀ˋ°•⁀➷ ‎ ‎ ‎stray kids

oneshots / fics

‎ " Hotline " ‎ ‎ hyunjin x fem!reader

smau's / texts

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series

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disclaimer ‎ ‎ — ‎ ‎ mdni ‎ , ‎ only posting when i have time away from studies & other things ‎ , ‎ pls no stealing or reposting any of my works !

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