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rraaaannnn · 25 days ago

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"All Yn wanted was a peaceful new start. Quiet mornings, calm neighbors, maybe a cat. What she got instead… was Hanni — a human hurricane with a gummy smile and zero concept of personal space."

FEM READER

—

You had exactly zero expectations when you moved into the new apartment.

All you wanted was a quiet room, a working fridge, and a roommate who didn’t smell like expired monster energy and abandonment issues. You didn’t need friends. You didn’t need chaos. You didn’t need… her.

You’d barely stepped into the shared space—box in one hand, iced coffee in the other—when the universe personally said: “Oh, babe. That’s cute. Let me ruin your life real quick.”

A scream echoed from inside the apartment.

Not a normal scream. Not a “there’s a bug” scream.

A full-on, blood-curdling, I-just-saw-God-and-she-owes-me-money type of scream.

You froze in the doorway.

And then, she came running out of the kitchen.

Wearing one sock, a Hello Kitty crop top, and oven mitts on both hands. There was flour in her hair. And was that… a slice of cheese stuck to her elbow?

“Oh my god,” she gasped when she saw you, eyes wide like a raccoon caught in the fridge light. “You’re real.”

“…I’m your roommate,” you said slowly, eyes flicking to the literal trail of chaos behind her. “You almost made me drop my coffee.”

“Wait—no! That would’ve been tragic.” She paused dramatically, putting her oven-mitt hands over her heart. “Your coffee is, like, the only thing keeping you alive, huh?”

“…How do you know that?”

She stepped closer, eyes squinting at your face like she was trying to read a very complicated manual. “Dark circles. Mild caffeine addiction. Quiet rage in the eyes. I know your type.”

You stared at her. She grinned. You blinked once.

“…You’re insane.”

She beamed wider. “People say that, yeah.”

You sighed, stepping past her and toward your room, already exhausted. “This is going to be hell.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, roomie,” she called after you. “I’m Hanni! With an ‘i’ and chaotic energy by birth!”

You shut the door behind you. Not hard. But not gently either. This was fine. Everything was fine. You just needed to survive the semester and maybe not catch fire in the process.

You learned quickly that Hanni didn’t believe in rules. Or silence. Or logic.

She cooked ramen noodles in the coffee pot. She sang One Direction at full volume in the shower, adding dramatic gasps and fake sobs like she was in a soap opera. She once brought home a cat and swore it was a stray. (It had a collar. And a sweater.)

But for some reason… she made everything feel like a fever dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

She was loud and messy and exhausting. But she was also funny. And sweet. And lowkey emotionally intelligent in a way that made you uncomfortable.

Like the time she brought you a heating pad and cookies when you were too tired to get out of bed. Or the time she noticed your breathing get tight after a phone call and wordlessly put on your favorite show and sat beside you—not talking, just there.

You didn’t ask her to. She just… knew.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Three weeks in, you found her asleep on the couch. Again.

There was a half-eaten bag of chips on her stomach and some kind of glitter on her cheek. You don’t even know where the glitter keeps coming from. At this point, it might be embedded in her skin.

You stood there for a second, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t soft. Pretending your heart didn’t stutter at the way her nose scrunched in her sleep. Pretending you weren’t… feeling things.

God. You were so screwed.

And then, in the quiet of the room, she mumbled in her sleep, half-smiling:

“...hey sleepyhead... I saved you the last chip…”

Your heart did a little backflip.

You were so, so screwed.

You had one goal.

Buy groceries. Nothing fancy. Just milk, cereal, maybe some frozen dumplings if life felt generous. You made a list. You put on your headphones. You mentally prepared to walk through the aisles like a fully functioning adult.

And then Hanni said, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”

You should’ve said no.

But you looked at her—standing there in an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks, and sunglasses that did absolutely nothing to hide the chaos in her soul—and you said:

“…Fine. But we’re not buying any more glitter.”

She gasped like you told her her hamster died. “First of all, glitter is a lifestyle. Second of all, we’re definitely buying glitter now.”

You regretted everything.

Twenty minutes later, you were pushing a cart with one wheel that screamed like a dying bird, and Hanni was walking beside you with a can of whipped cream in each hand like they were weapons.

“We don’t need whipped cream,” you muttered, crossing another item off your mental list.

“But what if we do?” she said, dramatically throwing her head back. “What if we have a whipped cream emergency?”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is if you believe.”

You gave her a look. The kind of look that said I haven’t slept in 3 days and you’re the reason why.

She winked.

You turned the corner into the cereal aisle, ready to speed through it, but Hanni stopped. Suddenly. Like she’d seen a ghost.

You barely had time to register before you crashed into her. “Dude—”

“Shh,” she whispered, eyes narrowed at something—or someone—down the aisle. “It’s my nemesis.”

“…Your what.”

“That girl. The one in the crop top. She stole my lunch in high school and told everyone I cried about it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

You stared at her, deadpan. “You’ve been holding a grudge over a sandwich for five years?”

“It was a good sandwich,” she said solemnly. “There was avocado.”

You groaned and grabbed the first box of cereal you could find.

She followed you again, but this time—silent. Until she wasn’t.

“Hey, do you think if we got matching hoodies people would think we were dating?”

You almost choked on air.

“Wh—what?”

She shrugged, totally nonchalant. “I’m just saying. People assume stuff. Might as well lean into it. We’d be a hot couple, right?”

Your brain lagged like bad WiFi.

“…Do you want people to think we’re dating?”

She paused, turning to face you full-on. “Would it be that bad?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“...You’re holding a tub of whipped cream and a bag of mini marshmallows. You look like a five-year-old left unsupervised.”

She grinned. “So that’s a no?”

You turned away before she could see the way your ears turned red.

Later that night, you sat on the couch with your legs tucked under you, trying to watch a dumb reality show while Hanni laid sideways across the cushions with her head practically in your lap, whispering commentary like:

“She’s lying. Look at her face. That’s a liar face.” “God, I hope they break up. This is so toxic. I love it.” “Do you think I’d survive on this show? Actually don’t answer that.”

You didn’t reply. You were too focused on the fact that your fingers were gently playing with her hair and she hadn’t told you to stop. Not that she ever would. Not that you wanted to stop. Not that you weren’t completely and utterly falling apart inside.

She sighed softly, then looked up at you, her voice quieter this time.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You sure?” she asked, eyes scanning yours. Less chaotic now. More real. That scary kind of real where you feel seen.

You nodded again.

She hummed. “Okay. Just making sure. ‘Cause like… I know you act like you hate everything but you kinda… don’t fool me anymore.”

You paused.

“…You don’t?”

She smiled. “Nope. You’re soft as hell. You just pretend to be a cactus.”

You rolled your eyes. “Says the human glitter bomb with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly. “Opposites attract.”

Your stomach flipped.

You were so screwed.

You never meant to fall asleep next to her.

You were tired, yeah. But you were always tired. That wasn’t new.

What was new? That dumb movie marathon she insisted on. The way her blanket somehow became your blanket. The way she kept stealing the popcorn from your lap like it belonged to her. The way her legs ended up tangled with yours at some point.

And the way her head eventually rested against your shoulder like it belonged there.

It started with the usual chaos.

Hanni throwing all the couch cushions on the floor, saying, “This is our fortress now. Nothing can hurt us but bad rom-coms and our unresolved trauma.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “So basically everything.”

She gasped. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

She wasn’t. She’d yawned six times in the last minute and had one sock halfway off. But she was grinning like a kid on a sugar high, and you… didn’t want to ruin it.

So you stayed.

One episode turned into three. Three turned into a movie. You didn’t even like the movie. She picked it because she said the main couple “had our energy.” (You didn’t ask what that meant. You were scared.)

Somewhere between the fake-confession scene and the cliché forehead kiss, Hanni went quiet.

You glanced over.

She was asleep.

Her mouth was slightly open. Her cheek was squished into your arm. Her hand was gripping your hoodie like she’d anchored herself to you in her dreams.

And you?

You forgot how to breathe.

You should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve done anything other than sit there like your heart wasn’t combusting in your chest.

But her body was warm against yours. Her breathing was steady. Her fingers twitched every now and then, still holding onto you, like she was afraid you’d disappear.

So you stayed.

For a minute.

Then five.

Then an hour.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep next to her.

But you did.

You woke up to something warm pressed against your neck.

Her.

She was wrapped around you like a freaking octopus. One leg across your waist, her arm thrown around your middle, her face practically buried in your hoodie.

You froze.

Your brain, still half-dreaming, whispered something truly unhinged:

marry her.

You tried to move. Gently.

Her grip tightened.

She mumbled something under her breath. You couldn’t catch most of it—just a sleepy murmur, her voice soft and messy from dreams.

But then she said it.

“…don’t leave me…”

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t know if she was dreaming about someone else. Some memory. Some pain you hadn’t seen behind the glitter.

But you stayed.

You let her hold you.

And for once, you didn’t pretend to be annoyed. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say a word.

You just… let yourself be held.

Later, when the sun started peeking through the curtains, she blinked awake slowly.

“…huh,” she said, voice raspy. “Did I kidnap you in my sleep?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like it.”

She stretched, still tangled in you. “You didn’t even fight back. Suspicious.”

“You were surprisingly strong for someone under five feet tall.”

“Hey!” she gasped. “I’m five-one.”

You smirked. “With heels.”

She groaned and buried her face in your hoodie again, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “you smell good,” and you almost died.

Died. Dead. Deceased. Buried.

You played it cool. Didn’t say anything.

But your heart was screaming.

A few days later, she asked, super casually, like it was nothing:

“Do you… cuddle everyone like that?”

You blinked. “No.”

She grinned. “Cool. Just checking.”

And walked away.

Like she didn’t just set your soul on fire and leave it there.

You weren’t jealous.

Obviously.

You were just… observing. Casually. Calmly. Like a normal, non-jealous person who definitely wasn’t staring holes into the back of that guy’s head.

He was tall. Too tall. Probably drinks protein shakes and says “bro” unironically. He wore that kind of smug, toothy grin that screamed “I peaked in high school.” And he had the audacity to lean just a little too close to Hanni while she laughed at something he said.

Laughed.

Like, full-on laughing. That laugh you’d heard at 1 a.m. when she was wearing your hoodie and telling you about the time she got stuck in a vending machine. That stupid, bright laugh that made your chest feel like it was melting and exploding at the same time.

And now he got to hear it?

No.

Absolutely not.

It had started as a normal afternoon.

A small campus event. Food trucks. Music. Too many people. Hanni begged you to come with her.

“Come on,” she whined, linking her arm through yours. “I can’t go alone. I’ll die. I’ll combust. I’ll make a scene.”

“You make a scene everywhere.”

“Exactly. Come with me so I don’t get arrested.”

You rolled your eyes but followed her anyway, because saying no to her was like trying to put out a house fire with a juice box.

It was fine. You were fine.

Until he showed up.

You were holding Hanni’s drink while she talked to him—some guy from her music theory class who apparently “loved her energy” and “always noticed her in lectures.” Vomit.

You tried not to listen.

Tried.

But she smiled at him. She tilted her head like she does when she’s being cute without realizing it. She twirled the straw in her drink.

And then he touched her arm.

Nothing big. Just a little casual brush of the fingers. But it lit your entire nervous system on fire.

You didn’t even realize you were glaring until she turned around, catching your expression.

“…You good?” she asked, walking over with that same dumb smile.

You blinked. “Yep. Totally. Love watching you flirt with strangers. Really warms my heart.”

She tilted her head. “That sounded… fake.”

“It was.”

She smirked. “Were you jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of him? Please.”

“Because he’s tall?”

“Because he’s not funny.”

“You didn’t hear the joke.”

“I don’t have to. Your laugh is a lie.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “How dare you.”

“I dare often.”

She leaned closer, smile turning smug. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Your heart fell out of your body. It rolled into the parking lot and got hit by a taco truck.

“I’m not jealous,” you lied, voice way too tight.

“Sure you’re not,” she said, stepping even closer. “You just get real mad when I talk to people who aren’t you.”

“…You’re annoying.”

“I know,” she said sweetly. “But I’m your annoying, right?”

You said nothing.

Because if you spoke, you’d confess everything.

Later that night, you were lying on your bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to breathe normally, when your door creaked open.

Hanni peeked in.

“You still mad at me?”

You didn’t look up. “I wasn’t mad.”

She walked in anyway. Flopped down next to you without permission. Rested her chin on your arm.

“You know,” she whispered, “if you were jealous, it’d be kinda cute.”

You turned your head, meeting her eyes.

She looked so smug. But under it—something else. Something softer. Nervous, maybe. Or hopeful.

“I wasn’t jealous,” you said again, quieter this time. “I just… didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a shrug: “…He’s not me.”

She blinked.

And then—slowly, so slowly—her smile faded into something real.

“You don’t like when I pay attention to other people,” she said quietly. Not a question.

You nodded.

She looked down. Her hand found yours. Played with your fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Good,” she whispered.

You looked at her. Really looked.

“Hanni.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna kiss me one day, don’t do it when you’re being annoying.”

She grinned, teeth and all. “So never, then?”

You laughed. You actually laughed, even though your heart was a firework show in your chest.

“You’re the worst.”

She leaned in. Her nose brushed yours. She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t pull away, either.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“…You’re the worst.”

She smiled like you’d just said I love you.

And maybe, in a way, you did.

Hanni was not okay.

She was so not okay, in fact, that she found herself violently mashing bananas into a bowl at 2:17 a.m., wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon ducks and blasting a playlist titled “Songs to cry-dance to but make it cottagecore.”

This was her coping mechanism now. Banana bread.

Because what else do you do when your entire emotional system malfunctions over the way your roommate said your name earlier?

It had happened that evening.

You were both on the floor in the living room—again. The couch was right there, but for some reason, the floor always felt closer. Warmer. More real.

You were tired. She was talkative. The usual.

But then you’d laughed at something—one of her dumb jokes, probably—and said, all soft and casual and sleepy:

“God, I really like you.”

Not in a flirty way. Not even in a joking way.

You just… meant it.

And Hanni felt like her lungs had turned into confetti.

She couldn’t sleep after that.

She tried.

She rolled around in bed. Kicked off the blanket. Pulled it back on. Screamed silently into her pillow. Googled “why does my stomach hurt when I think about my roommate” and got zero helpful results.

So now she was here. At the kitchen counter. At 2AM. Making banana bread like a woman on the verge.

“Stupid feelings,” she muttered, mixing flour way too aggressively. “Stupid laugh. Stupid hands. Stupid hoodie that smells good. Stupid face—”

A voice interrupted her spiral.

“Are you making banana bread at two in the morning?”

She turned.

You were standing in the doorway, hair messy, wrapped in your blanket like a concerned burrito.

Hanni froze. Then tried to play it cool.

“I—uh. No?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s… that?” You pointed to the bowl. And the flour-covered counter. And the mashed bananas. And the literal banana in her hand.

She looked down.

“…Okay maybe yes.”

You stepped closer, yawning. “Why though?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

You didn’t push.

You just walked over and leaned on the counter beside her, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag and popping it into your mouth.

She stared at you. You stared back.

And then she blurted:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

The kind that made the air buzz. The kind that made her want to curl into the bowl of batter and disappear.

“…Cool,” you said softly.

She blinked. “Cool?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Cool.”

Then, casually—like you were talking about the weather:

“I’ve been in love with you for like two weeks.”

She dropped the whisk.

“…What.”

You grinned.

“I was waiting for you to catch up.”

Hanni stared. Absolutely malfunctioning.

“I made banana bread to cope with my crush on you. Do you even understand how unhinged that is?”

“I find it endearing.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re worse.”

You stepped closer. Her heart stopped.

You reached for the batter on her cheek and wiped it with your thumb, then sucked it off your finger like it was nothing.

Hanni made a noise that wasn’t human.

“…I’m gonna pass out.”

“Please don’t. You still have to bake the bread.”

The bread went in the oven. You sat on the counter. She stood in front of you, hands on your knees, still looking at you like she couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“That you like me.”

You smiled, leaning forward until your forehead rested against hers.

“I like you. I really, really like you.”

She smiled so hard it hurt. Then said:

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Um. Can I kiss you or should I go cry in the pantry first?”

You kissed her.

Gently. Softly. Like a promise.

Like something you’d both been waiting for.

And when you pulled back, she whispered:

“This is better than banana bread.”

There was no label.

No “we’re dating.” No “this is a relationship now.” No dramatic Instagram post with matching captions and heart emojis.

Just the memory of Hanni kissing you in a kitchen that smelled like bananas and chaos. Just the way her hand had lingered on yours the next morning when she passed you your coffee like it wasn’t the most intimate thing in the universe. Just the quiet, breathless way you both smiled at nothing sometimes, like there was a secret only your hearts knew how to tell.

So no. Not official.

But also? So obvious it was embarrassing.

The first person to call you out was your upstairs neighbor, Jaemin, who casually leaned over the balcony while you were unlocking your door one afternoon and said:

“So… you and sparkles, huh?”

You blinked. “Who?”

He tilted his head toward your apartment. “Your glitter gremlin roommate who sings ‘Toxic’ at 3 a.m. and looks at you like you invented sunlight?”

You stared. “We’re… just roommates.”

He snorted. “Babe, she was waiting for you outside last night like a golden retriever who lost her owner in Target. She hugged you for two full minutes. I timed it.”

You said nothing. Just went inside and collapsed on the couch, face down.

“Don’t mind me,” Hanni chirped from the kitchen, “just baking cookies for my favorite person.”

You peeked up. “Me?”

“Do you live here?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then duh.”

You melted.

You both tried to keep things lowkey. You really did.

But lowkey doesn’t work when you’re both emotionally unhinged and in denial.

Exhibit A: You walked across campus together. Hanni insisted on not holding hands.

Her solution? Hooking her pinky with yours and saying, “It’s not holding hands if it’s only one finger.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s still… touching.”

“Yeah but like, emotionally distant touching.”

“It’s literally the opposite of that.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Just let me have this. I need it to live.”

You didn’t argue. You just blushed like a loser.

Exhibit B: Group hangout. Game night. Hanni sat on the floor next to you. Not in her own space. Not even in your space. She sat onyou.

Lap. Claimed. Possessed.

When someone joked, “Are you two… a thing now?”

Hanni didn’t even blink. “No.”

Then fed you a marshmallow like you were in a K-drama and she was trying to ruin your emotional stability.

Your friend Jisung straight-up said, “You two make me want to scream into a pillow.”

You and Hanni made direct eye contact.

Then she said, too softly:

“Do you want to be a thing?”

You blinked.

In front of everyone?

In front of GOD?

“I—I mean… do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t be feeding you marshmallows if I didn’t, genius.”

Everyone screamed. You screamed internally.

Back home, you both collapsed into bed, breathless and pink-faced from too much attention.

“I think we suck at being subtle,” Hanni mumbled, face buried in your hoodie.

You were quiet for a second. Then said:

“Do we want to be subtle?”

She looked up.

Her eyes were tired but glowing. Warm like candlelight. Soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“…No,” she whispered.

“Me neither.”

And then you kissed her.

Not like the kitchen kiss. Not like a joke. Not like an accident.

This time it was real. Long. Certain. A little messy and full of everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.

She smiled against your mouth. You pulled her closer.

Everything outside the room fell away.

Later, in the dark, she whispered into your neck:

“I don’t care if the whole world knows.”

You ran your fingers through her hair. “Yeah?”

“I’d scream it from the roof if I didn’t think I’d fall off and die.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat.

“I’d catch you.”

She paused.

Then, quietly:

“I know.”

all started with a compliment.

A simple, harmless, not-even-that-deep compliment.

You were at a campus café—just minding your own business, waiting for your drink, humming under your breath. Hair still damp from your morning shower, hoodie three sizes too big (read: Hanni’s), face peaceful for once because, miraculously, your to-do list was empty.

And then someone leaned over the counter and said:

“Sorry, not to be weird, but… you have a really pretty smile.”

You blinked.

He was cute. Friendly. One of those art student energy types—paint on his hands, camera around his neck, nose piercing that somehow worked.

You gave a small, polite laugh. “Thanks.”

That’s it.

That’s all you said.

But across the café, sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and absolutely not working on her assignment, Hanni’s entire soul combusted.*

She didn’t say anything at first. She just… stared.

Eyes wide. Jaw slack. Eyebrow twitching like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

The guy said something else. You smiled again. Tilted your head. Tucked your hair behind your ear.

And Hanni—actual glitter goblin of your heart—felt something primal and ancient rise up inside her.

She closed the laptop. Hard.

Walked over like she was possessed.

Plopped down right next to you, arm casually thrown over the back of your chair, voice so sugary it could’ve given everyone diabetes.

“Hey, baby. Miss me?”

You choked on your drink. The guy blinked. Hanni? She was smiling. Sweet. Evil. Terrifying.

You turned slowly. “…Hi.”

She leaned in closer, like the universe hadn’t already started glitching, and pressed a kiss—quick, but way too loaded—to your cheek.

The guy blinked again.

“Oh,” he said.

Hanni turned to him, still smiling like a shark in lip gloss. “Hi. I’m her girlfriend. We’re in love. It’s a whole thing.”

You just stared at her, absolutely malfunctioning.

The guy got the message. He nodded—awkward, polite—and backed off with a quick “My bad, have a good day,” before disappearing into the void like a sensible man.

The moment he was gone, you turned to her, wide-eyed.

“…What was that?”

Hanni didn’t even flinch. “Me being normal and healthy.”

“You just staged a romantic ambush in a public café.”

“I saved you from a man with a nose ring and too much eye contact.”

“He complimented my smile.”

“I know! Rude!”

You blinked. Then slowly, slowly, a grin tugged at your lips.

“…Are you jealous?”

Hanni scoffed. “No.”

You tilted your head.

She squirmed.

“Okay maybe a little.”

“A little?”

“I was chill about it!”

“You fake-proposed to me with your vibe.”

Hanni huffed, cheeks flushing, lips pouting just slightly.

“…You’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

She looked up at you then—eyes big and shiny and full of way too much truth.

“…Yeah,” she whispered.

Later, you were back at the apartment, curled into the couch, a blanket around both of you, movie playing in the background but long forgotten.

She was curled up beside you, head on your chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

You ran your hand through her hair and said, teasing:

“I didn’t know you got jealous.”

She groaned into your hoodie. “I didn’t know I had feelings until you showed up like a walking serotonin shot.”

You chuckled, heart aching in the best way.

“Well… I like when you get a little possessive.”

She sat up. “Really?”

You shrugged. “It’s kinda hot.”

She grinned, proud now. “I knew it.”

You pulled her back into your arms.

“Just don’t scare every barista we meet, okay?”

“No promises.”

And then, in the quiet between jokes and kisses and skin-on-skin stillness, she whispered:

“I’ve never wanted something to last this bad.”

You held her tighter.

“Then stay. That’s all you have to do.”

She nodded against your chest.

And she stayed.

It was a dumb moment.

Nothing big. Nothing dramatic.

You were brushing your teeth. Hanni was sitting on the bathroom counter, legs swinging, eating cereal out of a mug, watching you like you were the most entertaining movie she’d ever seen.

You looked up. Met her eyes through the mirror.

Foam in your mouth. Hoodie too big. Hair messy. Sleep still in your bones.

She grinned.

“You’re so cute. I love you.”

It slipped.

Just like that.

No warning. No dramatic music. No soft background sunset.

She said it like it was nothing.

And then she froze.

Spoon halfway to her mouth. Eyes going wide. Smile dropping.

You turned slowly, toothbrush still in your mouth.

“What?”

She blinked. Coughed. Laughed way too loud. “HA. HAHA. NO I MEAN LIKE. FRIEND love. Ha ha. Like… platonic… roommate love… ha…haha…”

You raised a brow, slowly spitting into the sink, the most romantic way to handle a confession.

“Right.”

“Right!! So anyway, do you want pancakes later?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at her with the softest, most dangerous smile.

“…You love me.”

She physically shrank. “I said it by accident!”

“But you said it.”

“You were cute!! You were foamy and grumpy and—UHH—I PANICKED.”

“You love me.”

She groaned and covered her face. “I’m going to jump into the garbage disposal now.”

You laughed, turning off the faucet and walking up to her.

She peeked through her fingers. “Please don’t say it back out of pity.”

“I’m not.”

“…You’re not what?”

You smiled.

“I’m not saying it back out of pity. I’m saying it because I’ve been trying not to say it for weeks.”

Her heart broke. Healed. Then exploded.

She let out a choked noise. “Wait. You do?”

You nodded.

“I love you, Hanni.”

She dropped the cereal. Didn’t even care.

Launched herself at you like a sleep-deprived kitten in love.

And you caught her.

Because of course you did.

You didn’t mean to fight.

It started with something dumb.

Laundry. Schedules. Dishes left in the sink.

You were tired. She was distracted. There were things neither of you were saying and it all just… cracked.

“You said you’d clean today,” you said, too sharp.

“I was busy,” she snapped.

“You were watching five hours of dance clips on TikTok.”

“It was RESEARCH.”

You laughed, bitter. “You don’t take anything seriously.”

She flinched. “Excuse me?”

You rubbed your temples. “I’m just saying—sometimes it feels like I’m the only one holding us together.”

She stared at you like you’d slapped her.

“…You don’t think I care?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence.

The kind that hurt.

She walked to the door. Paused.

“…I love you, you know.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”

She left.

The apartment was too quiet without her.

Your hoodie still smelled like her. Her socks were in the corner. A spoon was on the counter from the cereal she didn’t finish.

You sat on the couch. Didn’t cry. But your chest ached.

And somewhere across campus, Hanni sat on a bench in front of the art building, hugging her knees to her chest, phone in her hand, heart in her throat.

She wasn’t good at fights. She was worse at silence.

So she came back.

You heard the door click. Turned your head slowly.

She was in the doorway, soaked in rain, looking like something fragile and shining.

“I suck at this,” she said softly.

You stood up. Quiet. Calm.

“I know.”

She walked in, step by step.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I just… I freak out when I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

Your eyes burned. “I never said you weren’t.”

“But I heard it anyway,” she whispered.

You walked over. Reached for her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Silence again—but the good kind this time.

Then, she reached for your face, cupped your jaw, and whispered:

“Please don’t give up on me.”

You pressed your forehead to hers.

“Never.”

And then you kissed.

Not soft. Not slow.

But messy, desperate, tear-stained. The kind that says I choose you even when it’s hard.

The kind that says stay.

You fell asleep that night wrapped around each other, still damp from the rain, her head on your chest, your hand on her back.

And just before drifting off, she whispered:

“You’re still annoying, though.”

You smiled.

“So are you.”

Hanni wasn’t supposed to be gone for long. Just three days. A family thing. Simple. Routine. No big deal.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you waved goodbye at the bus stop.

She’d kissed your cheek, tugged your sleeve one last time, and said:

“Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”

You smiled, tried to act normal, and replied:

“Only if you text me first.”

She laughed. Walked backward a few steps. Still facing you.

“I’ll miss you.”

You swallowed. Forced a smirk.

“You better.”

She winked. And then she was gone.

The first night was… fine. You made tea. Watched a dumb show. Wore her hoodie even though yours was literally right there.

The silence felt a little weird, but whatever. You liked quiet.

Right?

The second night hit harder.

You made two mugs out of habit. You kept turning to say something—and realizing no one was there. You caught yourself laughing at a meme and instinctively opening her contact before freezing mid-thumb and locking your phone again.

Her bed was made. Empty. Too still.

The apartment didn’t feel like home without her humming in the kitchen or tripping over her shoes or narrating her inner monologue like a cartoon sidekick.

You missed her.

In the loud kind of way. The kind that presses behind your ribs and makes your hands fidget and your breath stick in your throat.

She sent you a voice note that night.

“Okay, I lied. I miss you more than I should after one day. I saw someone wearing a hoodie like yours and almost tackled them.”

“Also I had a dream you turned into a cat and I cried because you wouldn’t let me hug you. What does that mean.”

You played it twice. Then again. Just to hear her voice.

You sent her back a picture of your empty hand.

“This is where yours should be. Come home.”

She replied with five crying emojis, the clown emoji, and

“I’M MAKING IT WORSE STOP.”

The third day, you gave in.

You lay on her bed, head on her pillow, wearing her sweater like it was armor. It still smelled like her—strawberry shampoo and mint gum and whatever soft thing made her feel like yours.

You sent her a video. Just a pan of her side of the room.

Caption:

“This room is too quiet without you. It misses its chaos.”

She responded instantly.

“You’re gonna make me cry in front of my cousin and I don’t even LIKE her that much.”

Then:

“Also I just hugged my blanket and pretended it was you. I think I’m losing it.”

That night, you didn’t FaceTime. You both laid in your separate beds, earphones in, on a call with no video, barely talking.

Just… breathing together.

Your voice low.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hang up.”

“Same.”

A pause.

Then—

“Hey… Can I say something dumb?”

“Always.”

“…I miss your heartbeat.”

You closed your eyes.

“Then hurry home. It’s still beating for you.”

Silence. Soft.

Then you heard it.

A breath. A tiny laugh. A sniff.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that when I’m far away. It hurts.”

You smiled into your pillow.

“Then come back and make it stop.”

Neither of you said “I love you” that night.

But the call stayed connected until the morning light crept through your window. Until the silence didn’t feel lonely anymore—just shared.

You hadn’t been waiting for a message from Hanni saying she’d arrived.

She didn’t send one.

No “I’m home.”

No “Open the door.”

Nothing at all.

But then, at exactly 6:03 p.m., in the middle of a boring YouTube ad, the door creaked open.

And there she was.

“Hey.”

You were on the floor, back against the couch, wearing her hoodie, snacking on stale chips you didn’t even like…

All the exhaustion in your body vanished in a single moment.

You looked up.

And smiled.

“You’re back.”

She didn’t run to you.

She didn’t cry.

She just stood there, quiet and soft.

Then stepped inside.

The space between you felt like the whole world shrinking down to something warm and familiar.

She shrugged off her jacket, and her eyes found yours.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

You reached out, fingers trembling, and took her hand.

“Me too.”

No words needed after that.

You just held each other.

And for the first time in a long time, everything was exactly right.

The End.

#ran ★#newjeans x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #hanni imagines

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