sleepyhoons

[sleepyhoons]

jihoon cooking for me WHEN????

it's me again 🥹🥹 i love your jihoon fics so bad, i literally get so excited when i see your works. so NEW REQ

this is completely up to you, whether you want it to be angst or not. how about chef jihoon 😼 or or a school teacher etc like a different job :D that'd be kewl, also hope you have a great day ahead :]

A RECIPE FOR US

(Chef!Lee Jihhon x FemReader)

*slice of life, romance, drama, Emotional Connection*

You never thought cooking could be such an adventure until Jihoon stepped into your life. Not just as your best friend, but as an unexpectedly talented chef who somehow managed to turn every simple meal into a moment worth savoring

Jihoon wasn’t flashy in the kitchen. No grandiose techniques or fancy ingredients just pure, sincere passion. The kind that made even burnt toast feel like a masterpiec

It had been a draining day. Your body felt heavy, and your mind was foggy as you dragged yourself through the door. The usual plan was to eat something quick, something easy or maybe nothing at all, just collapse into bed.

But instead, you were met with the faint sound of sizzling, the sweet smell of garlic and herbs wafting through the air. You blinked, confused. Jihoon stood by your stove, apron tied around his waist, concentrating hard as he chopped onions with precise, deliberate motions.

“Surprise!” he said, grinning sheepishly when he noticed you.

You leaned against the doorframe, eyes wide. “Since when do you cook?”

He shrugged casually, but you caught the nervous spark in his eyes. “Since I wanted to make you dinner.”

Your exhaustion lifted just a little as you took a seat at the small kitchen table. The next hour was a blur of flavors, laughter, and stories shared over a steaming bowl of homemade soup.

That night, you realized that food was more than just fuel it was love served on a plate.

Over the next few weeks, Jihoon’s cooking became a constant in your life. Sometimes it was a carefully prepared meal; other times, an experimental dish that went hilariously wrong like the time he forgot to set the timer and your kitchen filled with smoke.

But it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way he looked at you when you smiled, the way he reached out to hold your hand across the table, and how even his mistakes felt like little love notes.

One afternoon, while you were helping him stir a pot of sauce, he confided, “I’ve been taking cooking classes.”

You nearly dropped the spoon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed softly. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to get better, for you.”

Your heart melted. You wrapped your arms around him, grateful for this quiet, unassuming kind of love.

The kitchen was their favorite place sometimes more than the couch, the park, or anywhere else.

There were nights when the music was low, but their laughter was loud. Jihoon would pull you close between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, spinning you around in a goofy kitchen dance.

You’d bump into counters, knock over bowls, but neither of you cared. You were alive, present, and everything felt perfect.

Between stolen kisses and shared smiles, you realized you were falling not just for the delicious meals, but for the man who made them.

One evening, after a long day, Jihoon surprised you again.

He set the table, lit candles, and served a dessert he’d spent hours perfecting: a delicate chocolate mousse with fresh strawberries.

As you savored the sweetness, he reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

“You’re my favorite recipe,” he said quietly. “One I want to keep perfect forever.”

Your cheeks flushed. The moment was delicate, a mixture of hope and fear, but you found yourself whispering, “Me too.”

Of course, it wasn’t all easy. There were days when Jihoon’s perfectionism in the kitchen spilled over into his patience with himself and sometimes with you.

You learned to support him through his doubts, to remind him that imperfection was part of the beauty.

And he learned to trust you to let his guard down and share his dreams, fears, and the little secrets he’d never told anyone else.

One chilly winter night, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by the soft glow of fairy lights in your tiny apartment, Jihoon pulled out a small box from his pocket.

Inside was a simple silver ring elegant, understated, just like him.

“I don’t need a fancy restaurant or a perfect dish to tell you this,” he said, voice trembling with nervs. “But I want to spend every meal, every moment, with you.”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, heart bursting with love.

In that moment, you knew your recipe for forever was just beginning.

[sleepyhoons]

my kind of fluff

a couple months back you started kissing jihoon on the cheek a lot.

like, not on the cheek directly, but under his eye on the cheek. it's been random, usually when you've “felt like it”, and it's caused many flushed cheeks and red ears on jihoon. he always returned the kiss though, a small chaste peck back.

and recently, you've noticed that he has a new mole. it started small, like they usually do, and slowly got bigger and… it's where you usually kissed him on the cheek. huh.

“ji, do you believe in soulmates?” you asked one night, randomly, while laying on the couch in his studio.

he didn't react to your question— from what you could see at least— but after a beat or two he turned around and took his headphones off.

“what do you mean by soulmates— like someone you're destined to be with?” he stands, stretching, before sitting next to your waist.

“like, i dunno… yeah, someone you're made for i guess?” you look up at him. “something like that i think?”

“not soulmates, in that sense no… but i think you can make a soulmate. like us— we had to work for our relationship,” he smiles at you, caressing your face. “why?”

“...y’know the mole theory?”

he shakes his head. “explain?”

“like… you get moles where your past lover kissed you most, and i realized you got a new mole where i keep kissing you… do you think we were past lovers?”

he smiles, eyes turning to crescents as he laughs. he leans into you, kissing you under the eye. “yes, i do think so. i bet we’ll be future lovers too.”

you grin at him, giggling, and wrap your arms around his neck to bring him back down to your face. you kiss him on his new mole. “i bet we will be too.”

[sleepyhoons]

i love cute fics 😔😔😔 GWJFJVISOS he's so adorable please kill me

genre fluff , established relationship , timestamp , beomgyu x fem!reader   cw none   wc 364   request yes    note i love soft moments like this :( the kind of love i need   net @kstrucknet

23:41 . . . Beomgyu’s messy hair covered his forehead and eyes, but you could still feel his gaze on you.

His body relaxed completely, head resting on his arm outstretched on the table, fingers in your hold. You were laser-focused on his hands, a small nail polish applicator in your right hand applying another thin layer across the nail on his thumb. Your boyfriend always let you paint his nails in the evenings before bed, even if he had to remove it a few days later for work. It was more about the moment than the end result. He would keep whatever you painted on, even if you claimed you messed up, or the design wasn’t as pretty as you wanted. On days he wasn’t filming, he liked the little reminder of you, even if it was only expressed through a shiny black polish. 

Your careful fingers rubbed a spot where the polish had gotten on his finger before moving to the next nail. You had already completed the first two coats of black on his right hand, and Beomgyu was nearly falling asleep already. He couldn’t really help it when your touch was so soothing. He had to keep completely still for you anyway, and drowsiness set in quickly whenever that happened.

“I’m gonna add stars to your ring fingers,” you announced as you finished painting his left pinky finger. He hummed in acknowledgement. You had been practicing your stars recently on your own hands. Beomgyu remembered noting the pastel star design of your nails last week. They were a bit blob-like as you were still struggling a bit with the smallest detail brush, but you were quickly improving. He was more than willing to be your practice subject.

“Do you want white or silver stars?”

He lifted his head at your question as you held out two different bottles of polish. Beomgyu nudged the white one silently, smiling when you picked up his hand again. Your fingers tapped thoughtfully against his knuckles as you rummaged for the right nail art brush. He let his head fall again, eyes blinking shut. You’d have to wake him up once your masterpiece was finished.

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @yudaies,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hyukabean,, @nicholasluvbot,, @i03jae,, @lilbrorufr,, @tmrwsuns,, @sea-moon-star,, @hanwoolvhs

[sleepyhoons]

i LOVE LOVE LOVE your jihoon fics, never fails to hit my heart

i came back to request again 🥹 i need more lee jihoon in my life so another angst to go please :> what do you think about non celebrity life for the fic? maybe like a bad ending angst >:]

Even the Moon Let Go

Non-idol!Lee Jihoon x Non-celebrity!Reader

*Angst, Domestic Life, Tragedy, Slow Burn, Emotional Miscommunication, emotional distance, breakdown of a relationship, quiet grief, subtle heartbreak*

🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️

There was a time where mornings felt like poetry. You, in his hoodie, humming softly in the kitchen. Jihoon, curled up at the edge of the bed, one eye barely open, calling out:

“You’re burning the eggs again.”

“Shut up and get the plates.”

That apartment was small, the tiles chipped, the curtains uneven but it was yours.

And Jihoon? He loved it. He loved you.

He was just… bad at saying it.

Jihoon wasn’t a man of grand gestures. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t flood your phone with ‘I miss yous’ or whisper sweet things in public.

But he showed love in quiet ways.

Always checking if you had water by your bedside.

Downloading your favorite movies before you asked.

Fixing the Wi-Fi in the dead of night so you wouldn’t stress about your remote work.

That’s how he loved. Silently. Devotedly.

But the silence? It grew.

It started with late replies.

“Sorry, I was working.”

It continued with skipped dinners.

“The guys dragged me out.”

And then one day, you were eating alone again. Three nights in a row.

You asked, voice unsure, “Jihoon… are we okay?”

He blinked. Looked up from his laptop. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t we be?”

You wanted to scream. But instead, you nodded.

Because you didn’t know how to tell him:

“I feel like I’m living with your ghost.”

You stopped sharing playlists.

He stopped kissing your forehead when you fell asleep.

You started walking home alone. He stopped asking if you got home safe.

You still loved him. He still loved you.

But it was buried under work, stress, routine, pride.

You fought once. A real fight. The kind with broken mugs and broken hearts.

“Why are you always on my case?” he shouted.

“Because you stopped acting like I matter!” you yelled back.

He didn’t answer. Just stormed out.

That was the first night he didn’t come home.

He came back. Eventually.

With tulips. And silence.

You forgave him.

But something stayed broken.

The “I love yous” were mechanical. The kisses brief. The laughter gone.

You weren’t lovers anymore. Just… cohabitants clinging to a memory.

You cried one night beside him. He pretended not to hear.

And that, in some cruel way, hurt more than any argument could.

Jihoon stayed up late, as usual.

You had fallen asleep on the couch in one of his shirts, face smushed into a pillow.

He watched you from the hallway.

And it hit him.

You were the same person he used to write songs about. The same girl he once ran through the rain with, barefoot, laughing like a child.

But now?

He hadn’t touched your hand in two weeks.

He hadn’t told you you were beautiful in three months.

He hadn’t made you laugh in what felt like forever.

Jihoon bit his lip.

And for a moment just one he wondered if he was still the man you fell for.

You knew it was ending before he did.

You folded his laundry. Left his favorite tea on the table.

And then

You packed your toothbrush.

He came home early that day, a rare thing.

“You’re going somewhere?” he asked, voice unusually soft.

You didn’t look up.

“I think… we forgot how to love each other.”

He didn’t say anything. Not even “don’t go.”

You waited.

A whole minute.

Nothing.

So you zipped your bag.

And walked past him.

“I would’ve stayed,” you whispered, “if you had asked.”

The door shut behind you.

And Jihoon stood there.

Alone.

He didn’t cry. Not then.

Not when he saw your coffee mug still in the sink.

Not when he found the note you left a song you once wrote together, folded into the back of his journal.

But the next morning?

When he made two cups of coffee out of habit, then realized you weren’t there to drink it?

He sat down.

And wept.

People asked him if he was okay.

He smiled.

“Yeah, just tired.”

They asked about you.

He’d nod, say you were doing fine.

They never noticed how hollow his voice sounded.

At night, he played old voice notes.

On repeat.

Your laugh. Your humming.

Once, you had said,

“Even if we fall apart someday… I hope you remember me kindly.”

And he does.

Every day.

With regret.

He never moved your mug.

Never threw away the tulips.

Never deleted your number.

You never came back.

And he never really let go.

Because when Jihoon loves…

He loves once. He loves hard. He loves forever.

Even if it breaks him.

Somewhere in another life, he holds you tighter. Speaks louder. And you stay.

[sleepyhoons]

who tf is cutting onions?

you have me sobbing at 3am i love it HAHAHAHAH just me and my love for angst.

intentionally hurting my feelings...I might need therapy- I'm joking I'm fine, WHOSE crying? not me obviously

HELLO so I've read your white noise jihoon fic and I'M IN LOVEEE (i love angst LMAO) could you write another heavy angst jihoon 🥹🥹 i just happen to love heavy angst and jihoon at the same time 🥹🥹

DISAPPEARING ACTS

(Lee Jihoon x Fem Reader)

*heavy angsr, emotional, slice of life, drama, slow-burn, tension, emotional unraveling*

I used to think I understood people well. I study them for a living, after all criminology demands it. Profiling minds, decoding motives, understanding why people do the things they do... But somehow, with Jihoon, everything I’ve ever known felt completely inadequate.

He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t hiding anything sinister. He was just... a boy who slowly began to slip away without realizing it.

We met on a rainy night cliché, I know at a small café near the university. I was buried in notes about victimology while nursing a cold Americano, and he walked in, drenched from head to toe, looking like something that had just escaped a dream and got lost in the wrong reality. I didn’t recognize him at first not as the famous Woozi, producer of hits, member of SEVENTEEN. I just knew he had kind eyes, and that he asked the barista for two sugars and no cream, just like I did.

He sat across from me, headphones on, tapping away at his laptop. For the next few hours, we exchanged glances and shy smiles. When he left, he said, “Good luck with whatever you’re studying,” and I replied, “You too, with whatever you’re making.”

Fate or maybe something more mundane, like routine brought us back to that same café the next week, and the week after that.

Soon, he was watching me underline textbook passages, and I was watching him tweak vocal tracks. I didn’t know it then, but I was falling. Slowly, then all at once. And when he asked me out awkwardly, like it was a song he hadn’t finished writing I said yes, because I already knew that nothing had ever felt so right.

We became each other's safe place. On days when autopsy reports made me sick to my stomach, he held me until I could breathe again. On nights when a deadline kept him in the studio, I brought him dinner and reminded him to sleep. He'd say things like, "You're the only person I want to see after 16 hours of mixing," and I'd pretend I wasn’t already in too deep.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with missed texts.

At first, they were just delayed responses hours late, simple things like "Sorry, was recording," or "Didn't see this." I understood. His job demanded focus, long nights, chaos. Mine did too. I once spent 48 hours analyzing a serial offender's pattern for a term paper, so who was I to judge?

But then came the missed calls. The forgotten dates.

My birthday. Our anniversary.

He always apologized. Always looked genuinely sorry. Hugged me like he meant it and whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

And I believed him. Every time. Because Jihoon wasn’t careless just consumed. I told myself that. Repeated it like a mantra.

He wasn’t fading because he stopped loving me. He was just... overwhelmed. Right?

But how do you explain the ache of eating dinner alone again? Or the way your heart sinks when you walk past the old café and realize it’s been months since you shared a moment there?

How do you hold on to someone who’s still there but no longer with you?

One night, I stayed up until 3 AM studying forensic pathology. My phone was silent. Jihoon had promised he’d call after practice, but I knew better now. I’d stopped holding onto promises like lifelines.

Still, when I heard the soft knock on my door, I ran.

He looked tired. Pale. Overworked.

“I missed you,” he said.

“You always say that,” I replied, voice colder than I intended.

He stepped inside, taking in the open books and messy desk. “You’re still studying?”

“I live in this apartment more than you live in yours, so yes.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. I wanted to take them back. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “You know I am.”

But trying isn’t enough when it’s one-sided.

I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Beg him to just see me again.

But I didn’t. Instead, I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared at my palms red from gripping my pen too tightly. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying until Jihoon walked over and wiped a tear with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to miss your birthday. The studio-”

“The studio always needs you,” I cut in softly. “Everyone always needs you, Jihoon. Except me, I guess.”

He froze.

“You think I don’t need you?” he asked, disbelief washing over his face.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I think you don’t notice when I need you.”

That silence that followed was heavier than anything I’d studied in all my classes. He looked at me like he was seeing me through a fog like maybe, somewhere along the way, he’d gotten lost.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I know you do,” I whispered. “But love isn’t supposed to feel like I’m always waiting for you to come back.”

He sat beside me. Close, but not close enough. His hand hovered near mine, like he didn’t know if he had the right to hold it anymore.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” he said. “I got so caught up in deadlines and concepts and schedules that I forgot I had something someone who doesn’t see me as work. Just as Jihoon.”

I blinked back fresh tears.

“I used to love how hard you worked,” I admitted. “It made me feel safe. Like I was dating someone who never gave up. But now... I just feel like I’m last on your list.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly. “You’ve never been.”

“But it feels like I am.”

He reached for my hand then, cautiously, like he thought I’d pull away. I didn’t.

“I don’t know how to be in a relationship while also being... me,” he said. “I’m scared I’ll never figure out the balance.”

I finally looked at him. Really looked.

“I’m not asking you to change, Jihoon. I’m just asking you to try. Really try. Because I’m scared, too. Scared that one day, I’ll stop waiting. That I’ll stop hoping you’ll choose me over another late night.”

He flinched.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’ll slow down. I’ll try harder. Please... don’t give up on me yet.”

And there it was the part that shattered me. Because despite everything, I still loved him more than anything else. But love, no matter how deep, couldn’t survive on apologies alone.

I didn’t answer right away. We sat there, hand in hand, hearts bruised but still beating in sync barely.

I knew the road ahead would be rough. I knew he wouldn’t magically become the perfect boyfriend overnight. But part of me still believed in him in us. Maybe that made me naïve. Or maybe it just made me human.

“I’m not giving up yet,” I whispered finally. “But Jihoon... don’t make me regret staying.”

He nodded slowly, eyes glassy. Then he pulled me into his chest, arms wrapping around me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my sorrow.

We stayed that way until the sun started to rise.

And even then, I didn’t know if we’d make it..

Things were different after that night.

Not better. Just... different.

Jihoon started trying in the small ways he left sticky notes on my desk that said, “Good luck on your midterm ♡,” or brought home my favorite takeout when I worked late on my thesis. He sent me voice notes when he couldn’t come home for dinner. He’d text me good morning and goodnight like clockwork, even if he couldn’t call.

But even with all that, there were still days I sat on the couch waiting for him to come home until the food got cold. Days when I’d pass out on the floor in front of my laptop, eyes blurry from analyzing crime scene data for hours, and he wouldn’t be there to help me into bed.

It wasn’t his fault. Not really.

He was trying. I could see it in how he reached for me more often, how he’d kiss my forehead before rushing out to the studio and whisper, “I’ll make it back early tonight, I promise.”

But early became 2 a.m.

Tonight became next week.

And promises?

They started to feel more like hopeful guesses.

One night, I was up grading mock forensic reports for my TA job. I’d brewed coffee three times already, and my neck felt like it was fused to my spine. I looked at the clock: 1:41 a.m.

Still no Jihoon.

I stared at my phone, my finger hovering over his contact.

But I didn’t call.

What was the point?

If I called, he’d answer, apologize, say he was on his way. Maybe he even meant it. But I was tired of hearing “I’m sorry.” I wanted to feel it.

Just as I closed my laptop and buried my face in my hands, the front door creaked open. Soft footsteps, the rustling of his coat, the quiet shuffle of someone trying not to wake the house.

Too late.

“Hey,” I said without looking up.

He froze. “You’re still awake.”

“I had work.”

He stepped into the kitchen awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I brought bread from that bakery you like…”

I didn’t respond.

He set the bag down slowly. “Did I forget something again?”

“No,” I said, standing. “You just forgot me again.”

“YN…”

“Don’t.” I finally looked at him, really looked. “You say you’re trying, and I believe you. But Jihoon, I’m exhausted. I’m drowning in assignments, exams, autopsy reports, case studies hell, I’ve barely slept. And the one person who’s supposed to be my calm in the storm is never here.”

“I’m here now,” he whispered.

“But for how long?” My voice cracked. “Until your phone rings? Until the next beat hits you and you forget I exist?”

“That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is I keep giving and giving, and you keep... not showing up. Not in the way I need you to.”

He looked like I’d punched him. “So what now?”

I took a long, shaky breath.

“I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. I didn’t know.

Because I still loved him. But I also loved me. And I was starting to realize I couldn’t keep bleeding for someone who didn’t even realize I was cut.

He crossed the room then, slowly, like I might vanish. He took my hands.

“I know I’m failing you,” he murmured. “But I don’t want to. I’m scared. Scared that I don’t know how to be everything you deserve. That I’m too far gone in my own world to love you properly.”

I swallowed, eyes brimming with tears.

“I don’t need perfect, Jihoon. I just need you to show up. Really. Not just physically emotionally. I need to know I’m still a part of your world.”

He nodded, tears trailing silently down his cheeks.

“I’ll prove it,” he whispered. “Not with words. I’ll prove it with actions. Please… give me time.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no either.

And for now, that was enough.

Three weeks later.

I hadn’t heard his voice in twenty-one days.

It wasn’t because we were angry. There were no screaming matches, no broken plates, no one storming out. That would’ve been easier, I think. Something to blame. Someone to point fingers at.

But we were just… tired.

He stayed at his studio the night I told him I needed space. Packed a duffel bag and left without protest. His eyes were glassy, jaw tight, but he didn’t try to stop me. Maybe that was the worst part how easily he let go.

I moved in with a friend near campus. Her place was smaller, a bit messier, the walls thin enough to hear her laugh when she FaceTimed her boyfriend. But it felt warmer, somehow. I could breathe again.

I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d lost until I was no longer orbiting his world.

For once, my mornings weren’t rushed. I woke up with sunlight in my hair instead of bags under my eyes. I drank coffee that wasn’t cold. I read chapters without rereading the same line ten times. I went on solo walks, bought myself flowers, smiled at strangers, and cried a little when no one was looking.

I missed him.

Of course I did.

His hoodie still hung in my closet. His laugh still echoed in my head when something dumb happened. I still reached for my phone when I saw something I knew he’d love before remembering there was no message to send.

But I also missed me.

The version of me that dreamed of working on criminal cases, of writing policy reform, of standing in a courtroom defending justice. That girl had started dimming her light for someone who barely noticed she was fading.

That couldn’t happen again.

I wasn’t sure if I still believed in fate. In timing. In people “meant to be.” Because if Jihoon was really my person, why did love feel so damn lonely?

Then… a text.

[Jihoon] I hope you're okay. You don’t have to reply. Just wanted to say I’m thinking about you. And I’m sorry again. For all of it.

I stared at the message for five minutes.

Then ten.

And I didn’t respond.

Because the thing about time is when you finally give yourself some, you start to realize what you deserve. I deserved more than just love. I deserved effort. Attention. Consistency. And I was starting to believe I didn’t have to beg for it.

Jihoon’s POV Three Weeks Into the Separation

I still park outside her campus sometimes.

Not to stalk. Not to be weird. I just… like knowing she’s okay. Seeing her walk out of the lecture hall with her messy notes and oversized tote bag. Watching her tuck her hair behind her ears when she’s focused on her phone. I’ve even caught her laughing with her friend once, and for a moment, I let myself believe she was still mine.

She looked lighter.

I should be happy about that. But it crushes me.

Because I made her heavy.

I didn’t mean to.

I didn’t realize love could feel like a burden until I became one. It started with missed dinners. Ignored calls. Me saying “just five more minutes” and turning that into hours. Her cooking dinner for two and eating alone. Her dressing up for a date I forgot. Her eyes watering and me too tired to ask why.

I didn’t mean to be absent. I was just… stuck in a cycle of needing to make something of myself. Every song I worked on, every melody that slipped through my fingers, felt more important than rest, than sleep, than her not because she didn’t matter, but because I thought she'd always be there.

She was the one constant in my chaos.

And I took that for granted.

I keep her hoodie folded in my room the yellow one she always wore when painting. It still smells like her. Faint lavender and acrylic. I haven’t washed it. Can’t bring myself to. Sometimes I sleep with it under my pillow like some lovesick teenager.

The studio’s been quiet without her humming while she waited for me to finish up. No soft giggles. No late-night snacks. No hand on my back reminding me to eat, to stretch, to exist outside of my obsession with perfection.

I check my phone more than I should.

She didn’t reply to my message. I didn’t expect her to. I said she didn’t have to. But fuck, it still stung.

I wonder if she’s forgetting the little things. How I used to run her bath when she got cramps. How I’d sneak into her classes just to watch her present. How I carried her paint set in my backpack once because she forgot it and cried from stress.

She never asked for much. Just me. Just my attention.

And I couldn’t even give her that.

Now someone else might.

That thought haunts me.

I don’t want to stop her from healing. She deserves peace. But I can’t stop loving her either.

So here I am. Outside the campus library, sitting in my car like a ghost, wondering if maybe just maybe she misses me too.

YN’s POV

It was just a regular café.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I walked in, the bell above the door chiming softly like it always did. I had my headphones in, hoodie up, messy sketchbook tucked under my arm. I just needed to get out of my own apartment, away from the memories that clung to the walls like dust.

I wasn’t expecting to see him.

Jihoon.

He was at the corner table. Same old black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug like it was holding him together. He looked thinner. Tired. His under-eyes were dark, his usually neat hair curling out at the sides like he hadn’t run his hands through it in days.

I froze mid-step. He didn’t see me yet.

My first instinct was to turn around. To pretend I never saw him. Because I wasn’t ready. Not to talk. Not to remember. Not to feel everything again.

But then he looked up.

And our eyes met.

His lips parted slightly. No words. Just that same unreadable, searching expression I’d seen the day I walked out.

The tension hit like a wave. My chest tightened. The air felt too thin. The playlist in my ears faded into nothing as my fingers slowly pulled the earbuds out. He stood up. Slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to scare me away.

I wanted to run. But I didn’t move.

“Hey…” he said softly.

One word. One stupid word. And everything inside me cracked open like glass under pressure.

“Hi,” I whispered.

There was a beat. A silence so loud it made my ears ring.

“You look good,” he said, voice rough. “Healthy. Painting again?”

I nodded. “Trying to.”

We stood there in the middle of the café, like the rest of the world had faded away. Like we were suspended in a memory neither of us could erase.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice trembling. “God, YN, I’m so sorry. For not being there. For letting you go through it all alone.”

I bit my lip, hard. “I never wanted to be alone, Jihoon. I just… didn’t want to feel invisible.”

His eyes welled. And then so did mine.

“I was drowning in work,” he said, stepping closer. “But that’s no excuse. You were always the most important thing. I just forgot how to show it.”

“I used to wait by your door like a fool,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. “You were five feet away from me and still out of reach.”

“I know. I know.”

His hand reached up, trembling as he brushed a tear from my cheek. I leaned into it before I could stop myself, because damn it, I missed his touch like air.

“I still wear your hoodie,” he admitted with a broken laugh. “It still smells like you.”

That did it.

A sob ripped out of me and I collapsed forward not caring that we were in public, not caring who saw wrapping my arms around him tightly, desperately.

He caught me mid-fall, but he was shaking just as hard.

We ended up on our knees on the café floor, clinging to each other like the world would split in half if we let go.

“I missed you,” I choked out, burying my face in his chest. “I missed you so much it physically hurt.”

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered into my hair. “Not for a second.”

I didn’t know if we were ready to fix it. If this meant we’d be okay again. But in that moment, in that fragile embrace on the café floor, we were just two people who had hurt and missed each other too much to keep pretending we were fine.

And sometimes, that’s where healing begins.

[sleepyhoons]

my heart shattered and i love it LMAO

Please write producer!woozi x reader just anything about it I BADLY NEED WOOZI FICS

White Noises

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*slice of life, angst, heavy angst, Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, emotional neglect*

You loved him. You loved him.

And that made it worse.

Because Jihoon wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t neglectful by intention. He didn’t forget anniversaries or raise his voice or flirt with anyone else. He was consistent, gentle even in his silence. And he loved his music the kind of love that burned so bright, it left little space for shadows like you.

He used to invite you in into his studio, his world, his chaos. You’d curl on his small couch, chin on your knees, while he played melodies he wasn’t confident about yet. “It’s not good,” he’d mutter, scratching his neck, but you’d shake your head and smile, hearing what he couldn’t.

Now?

Now he shut the door.

Now, you only saw him in passing hunched over his monitors, headphones on, eyes distant even when you waved from the hallway. A ghost lingering in the home you once shared.

And the hardest part?

You didn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was after that third comeback. Maybe it was the constant pressure to outdo himself. Maybe he just assumed you’d always be there, waiting quietly like a favorite verse in a song he hadn’t played in a while.

Maybe… you’d let yourself disappear for him.

The dinner table sat for two. It had been sitting for two for the past five nights.

You brought him food warm at first, lukewarm by the time he remembered, untouched when he didn’t.

There was a note scribbled on a napkin in front of his untouched soup.

“I don’t want to eat alone anymore.”

You crumpled it before he could see. Threw it in the trash.

Maybe you were being dramatic. Maybe he was just stressed. Maybe this was what loving someone brilliant looked like loving them from a distance, understanding their silence, waiting for slivers of time like gifts.

But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You missed the version of Jihoon who tugged you by the wrist to slow dance with him at 2 a.m. in the kitchen. Who whispered lyrics into your hair as you fell asleep. Who wrote your name in the corner of sheet music like a secret.

Now? He was just… tired.

And you were tired too.

But not from work. From waiting.

That weekend, you packed an overnight bag and left.

No dramatic note. No angry voicemail. Just a message:

“Going to stay with a friend. I need some air.”

You didn’t expect him to reply immediately. He didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to chase after you. He didn’t.

Three days passed.

You checked your phone, irrationally hoping he’d say something.

But silence.

On the fourth day, you came back. The apartment smelled the same like jasmine candles and dust and silence. His shoes were at the door. His hoodie still draped over the couch, the one you used to wear.

You walked into the kitchen and paused.

The soup was gone. Plate washed. Counter wiped.

But the emptiness was still there, humming like feedback static through every room.

That night, he came out of the studio.

It was late. You were curled on the couch in your hoodie, scrolling aimlessly, not expecting him to say anything.

But he stood there.

Still in that same black shirt, sleeves rolled, a pencil tucked behind his ear. Tired. Pale. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

“You left,” he said simply.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Then, “Why?”

You almost laughed.

Instead, you met his eyes. “Because I was tired of feeling like a stranger in my own relationship.”

His jaw tightened.

“You’ve been busy. I know that. But there’s a difference between being busy and being absent, Jihoon.”

He shifted, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

That’s what made it worse.

He walked forward, but not close enough. “I thought you understood…”

“I do,” you whispered. “That’s the problem. I understand everything your dreams, your ambition, your pressure. But who’s understanding me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was hollow. Defeated.

You stood up. “I’m not asking for grand gestures. I just wanted to matter.”

“You do.”

“Then show me. Not in words, Jihoon. In presence.”

You walked past him.

This time, he didn’t stop you.

That night, you slept in the guest room.

No tears. Just silence.

And a pillow that didn’t smell like him.

In the days that followed, you danced around each other. Polite. Distant. Like roommates rather than lovers.

He left coffee on your side of the table again. You didn’t touch it.

You folded his laundry. He left his charger on your nightstand.

Small things. Habits pretending to be affection.

But no late-night hugs. No forehead kisses. No lyrics murmured into your hair.

You sat on the balcony one night, knees to your chest, watching the city breathe beneath the stars.

You didn’t hear him until he was behind you.

“I wrote something,” he said softly.

You turned.

He held out a notebook. Pages dog-eared. Lyrics scribbled messily. Your name on the first line.

“I didn’t know how else to say it,” he confessed. “So I wrote.”

You didn’t take it.

Instead, you asked, “Do you love me, or do you just love writing about me?”

He froze.

You stood, brushing past him. “Words are easy. Presence is hard. And you haven’t really been here in months.”

For once, Jihoon had nothing to say.

You walked away again.

And this time, he let you go.

The kitchen lights were harsh tonight, humming against the tiles like a second heartbeat. You stirred the tea absentmindedly, barely hearing the spoon clink. Everything felt unreal like you were floating somewhere outside of yourself.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Same tired eyes. Same clenched jaw.

“You’re being dramatic,” Jihoon said, tone flat. “Again.”

The spoon stopped.

You looked at him slowly. “Again?”

He stepped in, voice tightening. “You always do this when I’m working. Suddenly I’m the villain because I’m focused?”

You blinked. “I never said that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he cut in. “It’s the sighs. The walking away. The guilt-tripping.”

You flinched.

He stepped closer. “You think I don’t notice the way you make everything about how I don’t love you right? Just because I’m not sitting on the couch 24/7 doesn’t mean I don’t care, Y/N.”

“I never asked for that,” you whispered. “I just wanted—”

“You wanted what?” His voice rose, sharp now. “For me to drop everything because you’re insecure?”

It hit like a slap. Your breath caught in your throat.

Jihoon shook his head, almost laughing. “This is always how it goes. I get busy, and suddenly you’re packing bags and sending guilt texts.”

“I never guilt tripped you,” you said, but even as you said it, your voice wavered.

He pounced on that. “Right. Because, ‘I don’t want to eat alone anymore’ isn’t emotional blackmail?”

Your heart stopped. You hadn’t even let him see that napkin. How did he know?

“You read the trash?” you asked, voice breaking.

“I live here,” he said coldly. “I saw it. And you knew I would. That’s why you left it.”

You shook your head slowly, stepping back. “No. I threw it away so you wouldn’t see it. I was venting, Jihoon. I’m allowed to feel lonely.”

He laughed not loudly, not joyfully, but like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t even realize how much pressure you put on me. You think you’re gentle, but you want me to feel guilty for not being enough for you.”

The words felt like ice in your chest.

“I’ve never asked you to be anything other than present,” you said, quieter this time. “I’ve always supported you—”

He cut in again. “And I didn’t ask for someone who needs hand-holding every second.”

Silence.

That one stung.

Your hands trembled, but you clenched them into fists to hide it.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“I think you just… make problems when things are fine,” Jihoon continued. “Things were fine until you started acting like I don’t care.”

You stared at him, something inside you cracking like glass.

So this was it.

This was how it turned how the man who once pulled you into his arms without words now stood across from you, arms crossed, acting like you were the problem. Like you were unstable. Needy. Selfish.

Maybe you had been quiet too long. Maybe he thought your kindness made you easy to bend.

But tonight, something shifted.

“I’m not making this up,” you said slowly. “I’m not imagining the distance, Jihoon. You stopped being there. You shut me out. And now you want to blame me for noticing?”

He looked annoyed. “You’re twisting this.”

“No,” you snapped, and it surprised you the fire in your chest. “You are.”

His lips parted, but you didn’t let him speak.

“I have done everything I could to love you. Even when I was being ignored. Even when you forgot what day it was. Even when I sat alone in that tiny couch in your studio like a prop in the background of your life. I stayed. But I won’t let you turn this on me.”

The silence between us was suffocating, yet it wasn’t the kind that begged for comfort. It was thick, heavy, like a storm gathering behind closed doors. Woozi’s eyes, usually so gentle and soft, now held a cold, unyielding edge. The words he had just spat out kept replaying in my mind like a broken record, echoing the disbelief, the hurt.

“You’re imagining things. I never said those things. You’re making this up.” His voice was steady, almost clinical, as if I were a child accusing him of some childish mischief.

I stared at him, my chest tight, eyes burning. “How how can you say that? After everything I told you? After how it made me feel? I trusted you…”

He cut me off with a tired shake of his head, as if my pain was a bothersome interruption in his day. “You’re overreacting. You’re too sensitive. I don’t know why you keep twisting things. Maybe you just want to fight.”

That hit me harder than any slap could. The sharp sting of being blamed for my own feelings, my own truth, collapsed me inward.

I blinked back tears that threatened to fall. “I’m not lying. You said it. You hurt me.”

“No, I didn’t.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “You’re just too emotional. Stop making me the bad guy.”

It was the ultimate betrayal—not just the cruel dismissal, but the deliberate rewriting of reality. I wanted to scream, to shake him awake, but my voice caught in my throat.

“Why… why are you doing this?” I whispered, the pain raw and exposed.

He looked away, the mask slipping for a split second. Then, with a small, bitter laugh, he said, “Because if I admit it, then I have to face what I did. And I’m not ready to do that.”

That was the cruel truth he was afraid. Afraid to confront his own mistakes, so he pushed me away instead. Left me alone in a room full of shadows.

I wanted to reach out to him one last time, to plead for the man I thought I loved, but the walls I had built to protect my heart trembled and cracked under the weight of his words. Instead, I turned away, retreating into myself.

Days passed like a blur. I spoke less, smiled less, a ghost lingering in the corners of our shared spaces. The warmth between us was replaced by icy distance. Woozi stayed busy in his studio, buried in music and deadlines, barely looking my way.

And I let him because what was left to say? The person I loved had become a stranger who denied my reality.

Late at night, I lay awake, fingers clutching my sheets, haunted by memories of whispered promises and gentle touches that now felt like echoes from a past life. I told myself to be strong, to hold onto the fragments of who I was before this unraveling.

But sometimes, the loneliness crept in like a tide, threatening to drown me in its relentless waves.

One evening, after a particularly silent dinner, Woozi finally spoke, voice tired and distant.

“We should talk.”

My heart thudded with a mix of hope and dread. “About what?”

“About us.” He sighed. “About everything.”

I wanted to believe we could fix this, but the memory of his cold denial made me hesitate.

“I’m not sure if ‘us’ still exists,” I whispered.

He closed his eyes, the exhaustion plain on his face. “Maybe it doesn’t. But I don’t want to lose you.”

His words were fragile, but I wasn’t sure if they were enough anymore. Not without truth. Not without accountability.

I looked at him, searching for the man I once knew in the shadows of his guarded gaze. But all I saw was the pain of two people slowly unraveling, tangled in silence and broken trust.

And maybe, that was the hardest truth of all.

[sleepyhoons]

keeping this so i can remember >:]

Weirdly Healing Things to Do When You’re Feeling Creatively Burned Out...

Write a fake 5-star Goodreads review of your WIP—as if you didn’t write it. Go ahead. Pretend you're a giddy reader who just discovered this masterpiece. Bonus: add emojis, chaotic metaphors, and all-caps screaming. It’s self-indulgent. It’s delusional. It’s delicious.

Give your main character a Pinterest board titled “Mentally Unstable but Aesthetic.” Include outfits, quotes, memes, cursed objects, and that one painting that haunts their dreams. This is not about logic. This is about ✨vibes.✨

Make a “deleted scenes” folder and write something that would never make it into the book. A crackfic. A “what if they were roommates” AU. The group chat from hell. This is your WIP’s blooper reel. Let it be silly, chaotic, or wildly off-brand.

Interview your villain like you’re Oprah. Ask the hard-hitting questions. “When did you know you were the drama?” “Do you regret the murder, or just the way you did it?” Bonus points if they lie to your face.

Host a fake awards show for your characters. Categories like “Most Likely to Die for Vibes,” “Worst Emotional Regulation,” “Himbo Energy Supreme,” or “Best Use of a Dramatic Exit.” Write their acceptance speeches. Yes, this counts as writing.

Write a breakup letter… to your inner critic. Be petty. Be dramatic. “Dear Self-Doubt, this isn’t working for me anymore. You bring nothing to the table but anxiety and bad vibes.” Rip it up. Burn it. Tape it to your mirror. Your call.

Create a “writing comfort kit” like you’re a cozy witch. A candle that smells like your WIP. A tea that your characters would drink. A playlist labeled “for writing when I’m one rejection email away from giving up.” This is a ritual now.

Design a fake movie poster or book cover like your story is already famous. Add star ratings, critic quotes, and some pretentious tagline like “One soul. One destiny. No chill.”

Write a scene you’re not ready to write—but just a rough, messy outline version. Not the polished thing. Just the raw emotion. The shape of it. Like sketching the bones of a future punch to the gut. You don’t have to make it perfect. Just open the door.

Let your story be bad on purpose for a day. Like, aggressively bad. Give everyone ridiculous names. Add an evil talking cat. Write a fight scene with laser swords and emotional damage. Just remind yourself that stories are meant to be played with, not feared.

[sleepyhoons]

SLEEPYHOONS IS DREAMING...

OF ME !?

OF SVT !?

OF XDH !?

OF ENHA !?

OF OTHERS !?

and I miss you... let's play games like we used to...

[sleepyhoons]

I'M STARRING WITH THEM IG? LMAO

STREAM XDINARY HEROES NEW ALBUM BEAUTIFUL MIND !

taggingggg @wonkierideul @yudaies @bella-feed @blue-jisungs @hhaechansmoless @am00ures @slytherinshua @talkingsaxy @kissbyoon @soubeomies @seokminfilm +++ whoever wants to join!

you’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title…who/what is it?

thank you so much for the tag @starry-eyed-wild-child @vi0l3tluvsu @strawb3rrystar love y’all !!

no pressure tags: @lisboncy @chaimilkshake @loveofcherry @lostreverb @taintandviolent @gingerteafairy @ticifics @merrydoe @r0rysreid + anyone who wants to join !!

[sleepyhoons]

i love lee jihoon 😔 sighhh

the one - ljh

pairing - lee jihoon x f!reader

genre/warnings - est. relationship, petnames, angst, slight fluff, skinship, anxiety, comfort,

summary - all your past relationships have left you with nothing but an unending fear of things ending too soon. but lee jihoon is different.

wc - 0.9K

author's note - to the anon that requested this, thank you so much for doing so, and i hope this is worth it 🤍

Is it my fault again?

The question rings in your head over and over again, involuntarily keeping you from a much needed slumber. You stare at the empty spot on the bed next to you, hand reaching out to caress the cold place.

It has been nearly a week since you haven't been able to properly see your boyfriend. You weren't able to meet him because he has been stuck in the studio for many days. When you did go to visit him there on one occasion, you were disappointed to see him caught up with work to the point that he couldn't even greet you fully before he had to go. You know he's busy with work. You can't blame him for not being able to make time for you because you understand.

Yet, there is a lingering stress in your mind that threatens to eat you up. It has only been six months since you've started dating him — two months more than what your past relationships averagely ever lasted.

You'd always been worried about this growing thing between you both, and it always made you insecure. Afraid. Of loosing him, of losing everything you built just like always.

Your hand reaches out to unlock your phone again to check for any messages but there are none. Jihoon hasn't responded to your texts, nor has he contacted you himself.

You know what this means. You've been here before. You're aware of how this ends.

Your brain goes into an overdrive, and you suddenly feel like choking on nothing. There's a growing lump in your throat that begins to resist your air supply, and you sit up in restlessness, tears streaming down your face before you know it.

You cannot do this. You cannot loose Jihoon. Not him. Has he really given up on you?

“Y/N?”

You hear him before you see him. Jihoon is walking inside the bedroom, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense of your state. You regain your senses a little at his sight, but it also makes you more breathless.

“Babe, are you okay?” His concern-filled voice reaches your ears after his hands cup your face. He scans your whole face, thumb involuntarily wiping at the wetness on your cheeks.

You try to speak, but your voice cracks, and all that comes out is a sob. Jihoon's expression softens, and he pulls you into a tight hug, holding you close as you cry.

You can tell he's trying not to panic, and you know he's sick worried.

"It's alright," he whispers into your ear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

His words make you tighten yourself in his arms. Even when you haven't said a word, he knows just what to say to make you feel better.

He gently guides you to lie back down, and he joins you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you. He holds you in silence for a while, letting you cry it out.

When you finally calm down, he speaks up, his voice low yet firm. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to spend time with you lately. I know it's been tough. But it's not because I don't want to be with you. It's just...work has been crazy."

You sniffle, looking up at him "I know. I'm sorry. I just...I feel like I'm losing you."

Jihoon's grip on you tightens, and he softly caresses the back of your head. "You're not losing me, Y/N. I promise. I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."

He pauses, taking a deep breath. "You're my priority, love. You and us. I know I haven't been showing it lately, but that doesn't mean my feelings have changed. You're the one I want to come home to. Nothing can change that as long as you want the same.”

Suddenly, you want to cry more. You feel a weight lift off your shoulders as you look up at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes.

"Really?" You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You continue looking at him, his eyes shining with conviction, and your heart swells with indecipherable emotions. You feel a lump form in your throat again, but this time, it's not from sadness or anxiety. It's from the overwhelming love and gratitude you feel for this man.

"Really," Jihoon repeats, his voice filled with affection. He leans in, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. You feel assured now, and your tears dry as a soft smile spreads across your face.

Jihoon pulls back, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles back at you. "I'm sorry again for making you worry," he says, his voice filled with regret. "I promise to do better, to make more time for you."

You shake your head, your smile growing wider. "You don't have to apologize, babe. I know you're busy, and I'm proud of you for working so hard."

He smiles back at you, internally glad that you both are able to talk things out like this. When his lips meet yours, you know you don't have to worry about anything. This man is the one for you, you're sure.

| @maestro-net

[sleepyhoons]

I LOVE THIS SO MUCHSKEKCJKDJSICJCKSK

Spotlight on Us || Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Idol Jihoon x Idol Reader Genre: Fluff, Idol romance Summary: Jihoon and Y/N are forced to sit together at an award show, causing endless cheers, teasing, and viral moments. From sneaky glances to Woozi protectively covering Y/N with his blazer, the night is full of heart-fluttering chaos. When Jihoon tears up during his speech and sees Y/N crying too, it becomes clear—no matter how much they pretend, everyone knows. Feel free to make requests || M.list

Jihoon knew this would happen. He saw it coming from a mile away.

Yet, here he was, forced to sit beside you at an award show, and the crowd was absolutely losing it.

Seungcheol had nearly fallen over laughing when Jihoon realized where he had to sit. Jeonghan had patted his shoulder like a proud parent.

And now? Now, he was trapped.

The moment the camera panned over to your table, the cheers hit like a tidal wave. The entire venue shook with the sound of fans screaming their lungs out, and Jihoon could already see the headlines forming in real-time.

"Woozi and Y/N: Power Couple of the Century?"

"Woozi's Reaction to Sitting Next to Y/N is Priceless!"

"Destiny? Fate? Coincidence? We Think Not!"

He sighed, rubbing his temple as Seungcheol cackled beside him. "Hyung, it's like a concert in here," Dino whispered, wide-eyed.

Jihoon glanced at you, only to find you smirking. "Did you plan this?" he accused.

You feigned innocence, sipping your drink. "Me? I would never."

Liar.

The second the camera landed on your table, the screaming was deafening. The venue, which had been relatively calm just moments ago, erupted.

Jihoon fought every urge to groan as he kept his expression neutral, while you—completely unbothered—smiled and gave a polite wave. You were enjoying this way too much.

"Look at you," you teased, voice barely audible over the noise. "Are you blushing?"

Jihoon scoffed. "It's hot in here."

"Uh-huh, sure," you mused, nudging his knee under the table.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the host on stage decided to make things worse.

"So, I think we have to talk about one of the most beloved pairings in the industry right now," the MC said, grinning. "Our audience is going crazy for these two—Woozi and Y/N, everyone!"

The camera panned right back to you both, a split screen of your reactions broadcasting to millions.

Jihoon shut his eyes. "Kill me."

Meanwhile, you? You blew a kiss to the camera.

The screams reached another level.

The members of Seventeen lost it. Seungcheol clapped like a seal. DK was howling. Jeonghan actually got out of his seat to dramatically bow in your direction, like you had just won an Oscar.

"You're enjoying this," Jihoon muttered, side-eyeing you.

"Oh, absolutely," you replied, resting your chin on your hand as if you lived for this moment.

His phone vibrated. Another message from Jeonghan.

[Jeonghan]: Just kiss on camera. I dare you.

Jihoon choked on air. You glanced at his phone and laughed. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing," he snapped, locking it immediately.

And then, it got even worse.

A special segment played—a montage of all the best collaborations of the year. And right there, in full HD, was a clip of you and Jihoon from a previous music show, standing way too close, exchanging small smiles.

It ended with a close-up of Jihoon watching you perform, eyes soft in a way that was damning.

The camera cut back to you both just in time to catch Jihoon covering his face with both hands.

Absolute pandemonium.

Even you were giggling now. "Wow, you really don’t help your case."

"I hate this," Jihoon grumbled into his hands.

You leaned in slightly. "Hate it enough to run away?"

Jihoon peeked at you through his fingers.

You smiled. The same smile that made his heart stutter every single time. The same smile that made him—despite all his complaining—stay exactly where he was.

Every time the camera even slightly panned in your direction, the audience roared in approval. At one point, the big screen accidentally caught Jihoon sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, and the fans lost it.

He knew the fancams would be everywhere by the time he got back to the dorms.

And then—disaster struck.

During a short intermission, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, when you realized—it was shorter than you thought.

The realization hit at the worst possible moment because, just as you moved, the camera cut back to your table.

You froze.

Jihoon noticed immediately. His sharp eyes flickered to you, then to the screen, and without thinking, he reached for something—his blazer.

With swift, natural movements, he leaned in and draped it over your lap, completely casual, like he had done it a million times before.

The camera caught everything.

A split screen showed Jihoon placing his blazer over you while you whispered a flustered, “Jihoon, what are you doing?”

"Just wear it," he muttered, pretending to focus on the stage.

Fans erupted.

Jeonghan burst into laughter, clapping his hands as if Woozi had just confessed on national television. Seungkwan gasped so dramatically that DK had to hold him back, and Mingyu was already on his phone, probably tweeting about it.

The big screen replayed the moment in slow motion, zooming in on Jihoon's effortlessly protective gesture.

Jihoon stiffened when he saw it. "You have got to be kidding me."

His phone blew up.

[Jeonghan]: ROMANTIC LEAD ENERGY!!!

[Mingyu]: Jihoon, OUR SWEETHEART???

[Hoshi]: THIS IS CRAZYYYYY

[Seungkwan]: GOODBYE, WORLD. THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.

The captions wrote themselves.

"Lee Jihoon, the definition of boyfriend material."

"Woozi naturally protecting Y/N?? We are living in a fanfiction."

"When will my boyfriend be like this?"

Meanwhile, you were trying so hard to hold back your laughter. "Did you have to be so smooth about it?"

Jihoon cleared his throat. "It wasn’t smooth."

"You literally just gave me your blazer without blinking."

"Because you needed it," he huffed, crossing his arms.

You peeked up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. "…Thanks, Jihoon."

He looked away immediately, ears turning red. "Shut up."

Jihoon should have known the night wasn’t over yet.

After all the teasing, the chaotic fan reactions, and the never-ending camera zoom-ins, the moment had finally arrived—Seventeen’s category was being announced.

The entire group sat up straighter, hands clasped together, nervous energy crackling in the air. You could feel it from your seat beside Jihoon, his usually steady hands slightly curled into fists on his lap.

“And the winner is…”

The pause was agonizing.

"SEVENTEEN!"

The entire venue exploded.

Seventeen shot up from their seats, hugging each other tightly, overwhelmed with joy. Fans screamed, members cheered, and Jihoon—despite his usual composure—looked stunned.

You watched as Seungcheol pulled Jihoon into a tight hug, and that’s when you saw it—his eyes, glossy with tears.

The camera captured the moment perfectly. Jihoon, the man who poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, standing there, wiping at his eyes as the weight of everything hit him all at once.

And suddenly, your own eyes burned.

You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to hold back the emotions bubbling up inside you. You had seen Jihoon work himself to the bone, staying in the studio until dawn, striving for perfection in everything he did.

He deserved this. They all did.

Jihoon stood on stage, microphone in hand, staring out at the sea of fans and glowing lightsticks. The award sat heavy in his grasp, but not as heavy as the emotions swelling in his chest.

The cheers had barely died down when Seungcheol, ever the leader, began their speech—thanking the fans, the staff, the families, and everyone who had supported them.

But when the mic was passed to Jihoon, the crowd fell into an expectant hush.

Jihoon took a deep breath. “Um…” He let out a small chuckle, voice already wavering. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

The audience cheered, as if encouraging him to let it out.

Jihoon swallowed hard, gripping the microphone tighter. “This… this award means a lot. More than I can put into words. We’ve worked so hard, and to be standing here, receiving this, it still feels unreal.” He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly, but the tears still escaped, rolling down his cheeks.

Seventeen members immediately reached for him—Jeonghan placing a hand on his back, Seungkwan nodding at him reassuringly. The crowd cooed, some fans already tearing up themselves.

The camera panned across the group, capturing their emotions, before shifting—straight to you.

Sitting at your table, eyes glassy with unshed tears, you watched Jihoon with nothing but pure admiration and pride. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the camera lingered on you, your lips pressed together to keep from outright sobbing.

And just like that, the entire venue reacted.

Fans screamed.

The members on stage noticed, and before Jihoon could even process what was happening, Jeonghan grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face the screen.

There, clear as day, was you, wiping at your cheeks, eyes fixed on him like he was the most important person in the world.

Jihoon's face turned red instantly. He quickly turned back, covering his face with his sleeve, but it was too late.

Mingyu burst out laughing, Joshua clapped his hands like an excited kid, and even Seungcheol cracked up, patting Jihoon's back.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones crying,” Seungkwan teased into the mic, making the crowd go wild.

Jihoon groaned into his hands, but despite his embarrassment, he peeked up at the camera again—at you.

And in that moment, as he saw you smiling softly through your tears, he couldn’t even be mad.

Because no matter how much he pretended to ignore it, no matter how much he groaned when the cameras caught you both—deep down, he knew.

There was no one he’d rather share the spotlight with.

[sleepyhoons]

great minds think alike >:]

tagging... @loserlvrss @yudaies @seokminfilm @hhaechansmoless @ anyone who wanna do it!

Seventeen will have an upcoming game this april; called PUZZLE SEVENTEEN. Pre registration is open now!! They also had quiz related to the game.

🥹 i thought i was gonna get Soonyoung but i got pookie instead

tagging: @kissbyoon @jjjjeonww @hanniescookie @hannah81141418 @gyubakeries @gyuwrites @mi9yuz @seokminfilm @seokmn @loserlvrss @slytherinshua @blue-jisungs @loserlvrss @noircheols @talkingsaxy + everyone else who wants to join!!

[sleepyhoons]

MY POOKSTER HAS ARRIVED RAHHHH this is so good I can't. it's always on my mind like what if the kpop idols today never pursued being a kpop idol as a career choice, like what would they do? etc

on the ice with you, always.

sunghoon x gn!reader, 699 words content warnings: mental health, pressure, exhaustion, insecurity, emotional vulnerability, intimacy

(masterlist)

author's note: tysm for requesting ashley!

The rink was nearly empty, save for the quiet hum of the lights above and the soft scrape of blades cutting through ice. You leaned against the railing, watching Sunghoon glide effortlessly across the ice, his movements as fluid and graceful as they always were. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he skated. The world seemed to slow down when he was on the ice, like everything else faded away and all that remained was him, the rink, and the rhythm of his body moving through the air.

Sunghoon had been practicing for hours, the competition looming closer with each passing day. You could see the exhaustion on his face, the way his shoulders drooped slightly after a particularly tough routine, but there was still that spark in his eyes—the same fire that had driven him to start skating all those years ago. He had come so far, his passion and dedication turning something once only a dream into a full-fledged career. And you, well, you were right there with him.

You’d always supported him, from the very beginning when he first told you about his aspirations. Back then, it was just a hobby, a way to escape the world, but now, watching him chase that dream, you realized just how much it meant to him. The sacrifices, the late nights, the pressure—it all came with the job, and you could see how it weighed on him. But you’d never let him feel like he was alone in it.

The moment he skated toward you, you smiled, pushing off from the railing and walking over to meet him. He slowed down, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face when he saw you.

"How's the routine?" you asked, gently reaching for his gloved hand.

"It’s... coming along," he replied, his voice softer than usual. "I’m just a little worn out." His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the exhaustion in his expression melted into something vulnerable. "I’m not sure I’m ready for the competition. It’s like... no matter how much I practice, I feel like I’m still not doing enough."

You squeezed his hand, pulling him closer, your forehead lightly resting against his. "You’ve been training for years, Hoon. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready."

His laugh was quiet, almost a puff of air, but you could hear the uncertainty in it. "I don’t know… I want to do well, not just for me, but for everyone who’s been supporting me. For you, too."

You felt a small flutter in your chest at his words, but you brushed it aside, focusing instead on giving him the reassurance he needed. "You don’t need to do this for anyone else but you," you said softly. "We’re all already proud of you, Hoon. Just being able to see you do what you love—that’s enough. You don’t have to be perfect."

He stayed quiet for a moment, his breath warm against your cheek as you both stood there, the sound of his skates on the ice now distant. Slowly, he pulled back, his expression softening into a smile.

"I think... you’re right," he said, squeezing your hand. "Maybe I just need to remember why I started this in the first place."

You grinned. "Exactly. For you. For the joy of it."

Sunghoon took a deep breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Of course," you replied, leaning up to kiss his cheek gently. "You’re going to crush it out there. I believe in you."

And as he skated away, practicing the final touches of his routine, you stayed behind the barricade of the rink, watching him with nothing but pride. You didn’t need to say anything more—because Sunghoon already knew that your support wasn’t just in the words you said, but in every silent moment spent by his side.

No matter how many times he doubted himself, you would always be there, cheering him on from the sidelines, reminding him of the dream he was already living.

[sleepyhoons]

thanks for the tag vesp & dani! @yudaies @wonkierideul

no pressure tags - @loserlvrss @talkingsaxy @slytherinshua @blue-jisungs @am00ures @hhaechansmoless @jvkeslvr + anyone who wanna do it <3

In honor of valentines month, search up your name on the unsent project and share the posts which you relate to or think are written to you. Here's mine

[sleepyhoons]

i just LOVE LOVE historical fics (and angst >:])

chunhyangjeon redux

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

☆ historical!au jihoon x reader

☆ word count: 17.8k

☆ rating: M

☆ genre/warnings: historical, major character death, period-typical sexism, physical violence (not between jihoon and mc) angst, so much goddamn angst, fluff if you squint, but mostly angst

☆ notes: look i had a thought about guqin player lee jihoon, yapped to people, and that's it, this happened. many many thanks to @gyubakeries for beta'ing this, and @imujings for encouraging my delusions. dedicated to kae @ylangelegy, because I yapped in her dms about this first, and then this baby happened. banner from here. love you loads, everyone.

playlist: what kind of future, woozi | interlude: dawn, agust d | don't, eaeon ft. rm | blue side, j-hope | jashn-e-baharaa, a.r rahaman | shokhi bhabona kahare bole, rabindranath tagore (jayati bhattacharya)

The string breaks off with a discordant twang, and everyone winces, including the gardener, who's been weeding on the opposite side of the yard from me. I scowl, and Songhwa, my maid, offers me a drink of water. It does nothing to calm me down. My fury is great, and my present agony even greater. There's absolutely nothing that can stop me from breaking the instrument, my own arms,  or someone else's leg in the process.  

“Young lady,” Songhwa manages to whisper with a pitiful look, but I'm already on the warpath, angrily pushing the offending instrument away from my lap, and standing up to stomp around the yard. The gardener takes several steps away. “Young lady,  please,” she pleads again, to my better sensibilities (I have none) “you shouldn't get angry, you're still weak—”

“If you say ‘weak’ one more time, I'm going to jump in the well with a grindstone tied to my leg,” I threaten, before flopping down in an entirely unladylike manner, my hands threatening to rip out my entire braid, “they're going to hate me. Why did my mother go ahead and boast about me being good at the guqin? I hate the instrument, I've never played it. Why couldn't she tell them I'm good at the gayageum?”

“Well, you see—”

“And now I have to perform for the whole family. My would-be husband’s family. Does this make any sense to you, Songhwa?” I moan, before sitting up and glaring at the offensive instrument, “I'm going to burn it. I'm going to burn it and die.”

“Well, that would be inadvisable, lady,” Songhwa says, ever the picture of serenity. Good for her. She's not the one being sold into marriage, “the Master did say that you have one month to prepare for it.” 

“And one month is too little!” I stand up, determined to go into theatrics,  because then, at least, I'll have the privilege of being termed as a madwoman, and get out of this mess. “They've already delayed the marriage by years, not months, mind you, Songhwa,  but years, and then they tell me to perform for them? What do they think I am? A monkey?”

“Your father and mother both agreed to this marriage arrangement, Miss.”

“My father and mother are not the ones learning an entirely unfamiliar instrument a month before having to play it in front of an audience consisting of the Minister of War, so I don't much care about their opinions.” I mutter darkly, “Their opinions matter little to me.”

Songhwa now looks abjectly terrified, “do you mean the marriage, miss?”

“Not the marriage, of course,” I wave a hand, “I've always known I'm going to be married to someone I didn't know and wouldn't care about. I've known since I was sixteen, that I would be married to the third son of the Minister of War, whenever they saw fit. I'm talking about the absolutely unconscionable decision of making me learn the guqin in a month. And when my mother knows, that I'm proficient on the gayageum! This is insanity, Songhwa, insanity, I say.”

“Well, they're both zithers, so—” Songhwa begins to say something,  but shuts up immediately when I glare at her, “Very well. You require help, then.”

“I require a hammer, so that I may destroy this monstrosity and go back to playing my gayageum. Anything less than that is not acceptable,  I'm afraid.” A large fruit falls from the tree outside the yard as if on cue. How impudent. Do I need to consult with a shaman after all? “Tell my father that I shall not be playing the guqin for the Minister of War’s family. And if they insist on hearing me play, well, they’ll have to be satisfied with hearing me play the gayageum.”

“You see, Miss, that is the problem,” Songhwa grimaces, “the Madam said that the War Minister's wife said that playing the gayageum was—” she squints, avoiding my eyes, “was beneath the station of a minister’s daughter.”

“Ha!” two crows fly across the sky, “and as if she, with all her love for the Great Ming, has managed to make any kind of meaningful contribution to society save bullying her second son’s widow to death? Has she? And she comes to talk to me about the station I should maintain? She should learn how to shut up!”

“Miss,” Songhwa is close to tears now, “miss, you must not be so loud. What if the Madam hears you? What will happen to you then?”

“I’ll die,” I say, seriously, and she huffs, “No, I’m serious. I’ll die, and then I will haunt this house until the end of time.”

With that, I flop down next to the imported guqin, brought in only the other day by a trader from the Imperial Ming, and go silent. Songhwa takes this as a sign to bring me something to eat, and returns momentarily with a couple of candied orange slices, no doubt swiped from the kitchen, and the two of us sit in the late morning sun, in companionable silence. There are two songbirds on the tree, and the sun is mild; it's early autumn, and the biting chill of winter will come much later. For now, they are happy, content in their own world, trying to survive yet another day. 

It's Songhwa who breaks the silence first. “Miss,” she turns to me, a serious look on her face, “do you really want to get married to the son of the War Minister? You have been betrothed to him for so long, and he kept delaying the marriage on account of his examinations. Then he delayed it because he had to deal with bandits near the village he governed. He keeps delaying it, and there are rumors of him being a womanizer, going to gisaeng houses, and being one of the worst kinds of man possible. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

I sigh. Songhwa is fiercely loyal and has been ever since the day I bought her freedom and gave her a name instead of the plaque that had hung around her neck, with a number instead of a name, but her loyalty makes her a danger to herself. I knew. I had been anticipating this ever since the news came of the confirmation of the wedding date, but one thing I had failed to calculate was how much Songhwa hated the idea of me marrying that man. 

“You must not repeat anything of what you just said, to me or to anyone else,” I say, and her face drops, “you know why I’m telling you this, Songhwa. Your life is just as expendable to these people as mine is, even less so because you are a servant.”

“Miss—” Songhwa begins, and I wave to cut her off. 

“It’s not about what kind of person he is, or what are the things he is known or rumored to be doing. He is a man, and therefore, he has no sins. I’ve always known my duty is to be married well, to be an asset to my parent’s reputations, and to move away from my home. It sounds difficult to you, Songhwa, because you are so young,” she makes a face at that, “but a woman’s duty is always more important than her own self. Even more so when you’re a member of the nobility. Then they’ll force the ideas of imaginary respect into your mind, and it’ll grow so big that you would not be able to walk properly.”

Songhwa giggles, “Would you like to go to the market, miss?”

I clap my hands, “Excellent.”

—

The market is a sensory nightmare. Vendors selling everything, from expensive silks to cheap norigae flock to the streets, calling out their wares. Songhwa moves closer to me as we move through the crowds, she keeps a firm hold on my skirts, afraid of getting lost in the throng of people. Usually, the marketplace is for me to savor what remains of my freedom, roaming amidst the people who are, ostensibly, less privileged than I am, but at the same time, freer than I can ever imagine becoming. I come to the market in a masochistic bid to remind myself that my station is fleeting; my freedom is imaginary, and that being a woman has essentially destroyed my prospects of ever being free. 

But not today. Today, as fate would have it, I have a mission to carry out. This is the reason why the day finds Songhwa and me at the gates of the Plum Flower House, and Songhwa is tapping her foot impatiently, both out of fear and frustration. On either side of us, there are brightly-colored pavilions, with streamers of colorful paper waving in the air, and tranquil ponds where fish lazily swim by. It’s a picture of happiness and serenity. I hate this place. The facade breaks as easily as ripping apart one of those colorful banners hanging from the eaves, and all one can find underneath is the growing rot that has captured Joseon society. I hate how I have to tolerate this monstrosity, and how we have made its existence into a part of our daily lives. Songhwa, beside me, is uncomfortable, frustration etched on her features. Your betrothed comes here almost daily, she had said, why do you still want to go through with the marriage? 

Truth is, there’s nothing that I can do, as a woman. I have to put up with a womanizer of a husband and an overbearing family, all to protect the honor of my father—a concept that I have been taught, but one that eludes me at every step. 

“Miss,” Songhwa moans from  my side, hands fisted into my skirts, “do we really have to be here?”

“Yes, Songhwa, we kind of have to,” I reply sweetly, “since we’re about to ask for help from someone, it’s only fair that we go and ask them directly, instead of making them come to us for it.”

“I—you’re asking for help? From who?” Songhwa almost shrieks, and three women in colorful hanboks stare at the two of us. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d disapprove,” I reply, looking around, “and despite what you have to say about the music scene in Hanyang, there’s one thing that is always true.”

“Which is?”

“You can never really remain anonymous.” I give her a large smile, one that she does not return, “Songhwa, do you mean to tell me you really have no idea about the new player at the Plum Flower House?”

“New player?” Songhwa narrows her eyes in an effort to be intimidating, which falls adorably flat, “Miss, have you been sneaking out again? You know, if the master gets to hear about this, he is not going to let you go out anymore, he’s already reduced your trips to the market, Miss. We had to lie to your mother and almost sneak out of the house, Miss. You cannot be meeting men outside of the house.”

“So I should have brought him into the house?” I raise an eyebrow, dragging her away, “listen. The music is coming from that pavilion.”

Songhwa wants to open her mouth and ask me exactly what it is that I have been looking for—when the two of us are forced to stand still, because, from the pavilion in front of us, with overhanging branches of plum trees that obscure our vision, comes the most beautiful music. Songhwa stands, transfixed. I pick up my skirt and walk closer to the source. 

The player is sitting with his back to us, but his guqin is on his lap, and he’s plucking the string carefully, slowly, while coaxing a familiar melody out of it. It’s an old song from the Great Ming, one that I had heard being played by an ambassador to the King, once, five years ago. I have remembered it ever since. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the calmness of the piece, flowing over me in a serenade that is almost otherworldly. I've wanted to learn this piece on the gayageum for a long time, and I've failed every single time. And yet, he's here, playing the piece with an ease that comes from years of practice and innate talent, almost monstrous in its simplicity. 

“What's the piece that he's playing?” Songhwa asks, voice a low murmur. I guess even she's mesmerized by the playing. 

“The ambassador from Ming told me the piece is called Mist and Clouds over the Xiang River,” I say, picking up my skirt and stepping into the pavilion, “that was a great performance, Lee Jihoon.” 

The player stops and glares at me. He's dressed in a pale blue hanbok, his shoes and hat set aside. His hair is gathered in a knot at the back of his head, wisps of black hair falling to his shoulders.  He keeps his hair much shorter than usual, I notice idly. It makes him look wild, and in the right light, I can imagine a faint glow coming off of him.  

“Why is the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites in the Plum Flower House?” he asks, setting the guqin down, “Miss, you shouldn't be in a den of iniquity like this one.” His voice is sharp, a contrast from the gentle music floating from the instrument earlier, and the ends of his sentences fray, making him sound like a caged wild animal, being presented to a nobleman to satisfy their curiosity. 

“I don't think I should be taking advice from the main player of the said den of iniquity,” I say, settling down in front of him, “Or is it because of your father that you're here?” 

His face takes on a hard look, and he stands up, his hair falling in a curtain around his face, “if you want to talk about my father, I'd suggest you leave. Immediately.”

“Take a seat, Lee Jihoon,” I say, “I have not come here to talk about your father, although I could spend an afternoon and an evening talking about him. I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“A proposition? Made to a player in a den of sin?” his voice is dripping with sarcasm even as he resumes his seat before me, “I’ll assume that you’ve lost your way. Please see yourself out, Madam. As you know, it will be inappropriate of me to accompany you to the gates.”

I scowl, despite marveling at how easily he has managed to get under my skin, “I am not a madam.”

“Ah, but you will be, soon, won’t you?” He smiles, “We here at the Plum Flower House get to hear things too, especially when it concerns such an important client of ours.”

I sigh. Of course, that is why they know. They all know, someone in my mind tells me, they all know your fiance comes here every night when he’s in Hanyang. “It seems people are aware of my betrothed and his—indiscretions,” I reply through gritted teeth, “however, this does not concern him. I come here to seek counsel for an entirely different matter.”

“Then why are you here, Miss? I doubt very much that spending time with someone who plays the guqin at a kisaeng house is high on your list of things to do.”

“It does not,” I reply, and he raises an eyebrow, “it concerns the instrument you were playing.”

His eyebrows remain raised, but he has a curious smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “the guqin? You want to buy my instrument?”

“I don’t want to buy it from you,” I roll my eyes, “teach me how to play the guqin.”

He stares for a beat too long, and I’m compelled to return his gaze, needlessly piercing, almost as if he wants to commit me to memory, and I ignore his gaze to focus on my hands instead, fisting them in my skirt. All of a sudden, he laughs, loud, melodic, completely at odds with his voice from even a moment earlier, and I’m taken aback because his laugh is a departure from his voice, so on edge, sharp and brittle enough to cut glass. His laughter is high-pitched, free in a way I had never thought of him being. He laughs and laughs until Songhwa is itching to get away, and I am considering just walking away from the pavilion. Who does he think he is? Laughing as though it did not take me a whole afternoon to pick up the courage to ask him for his help. I would not be sitting here, forcing myself to be subjected to this, if he was not as good as he was. 

“Forgive me, Lady,” he says, mock-respect evident in his tone, “I seem to have forgotten about my manners.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, watching him compose himself. Infuriating. 

“I am merely wondering at the turn of events which would have the daughter of the Minister of Rites come to me, the player of a courtesan house, for his help in playing the guqin,” he says, “you can get anyone to teach you how to play, Lady.”

“No one is as good as you are,” I say simply, hoping that the boost to his ego will make him agree to this arrangement, “I want to learn from the best. And the word is, you’re the best in Hanyang. A fact that was corroborated by the playing I just heard. Xiang River, right?”

“You know the piece,” he says, half to himself, as though he cannot bring himself to believe me, “I’m sorry, Lady, I cannot help you.”

He stands up, picks up the instrument, and prepares to walk away from me. It’s your one chance,  a voice tells me, you’re never going to get back this opportunity to make the damn Minister of War pay. And unfortunately, it’s right. If I manage to fail at this task, they might actually break off the engagement, something that will make me happy, it ensures that my father will never be respected, for as long as he lives. Who would respect a man who could not control his daughter, the one person he was supposed to have full control over? 

“Would you prefer it if I go to your father, then?” I say, loud enough for him to turn back and glare at me, “I wonder how they would react, to having their long-lost son come back from the Great Ming, only to have him become a player in a courtesan house.”

“You would be greatly advised to keep that mouth of yours shut, Lady,” he practically runs up the steps to where I am seated, “I’m afraid going to my father would be difficult if one finds themselves dead, right here.”

Oh, he has claws. I smile, extracting a hairpin from my head. It's my grandmother’s gold dwikkoji, bequeathed to me on her deathbed—something I have never let out of my sight. Encrusted with rubies from the Kingdoms in the South Seas, with a large pearl set in the middle of it, bought from an Arab trader who traded it for spices in the Indian Sea, it is ostentatious, suited perfectly to my grandmother’s tastes, who never let anyone forget that she was a daughter of the Joseon King, given away to my grandfather who then became the Right State Councillor. It is only fair then, that I am trading away this memorabilia, to the disgraced son of a concubine. Lee Jihoon stares at it, the meaning of the gesture plain as day in front of him. I could not have been more clear even if I had slapped a box containing ten gold nyangs in front of him. 

“Are you trying to bribe me, Princess?” he mocks, picking up the headpiece and admiring it nevertheless, “a keepsake of the Late Princess Jeonggun. Almost offensive in its flamboyance. Why are you giving it to me, Princess?”

“Consider it payment, Lee Jihoon,” I say, standing up so that I can stare directly at him, “if you want, I will provide provenance of it. It is payment for teaching me the ways of the guqin.”

He laughs, and again, I am caught by how strange it sounds. In the middle of a gisaeng house, hearing this laugh should be illegal, almost—and shakes his head, “And if I refuse?”

“Then I go to the Minister of War,” I smile, relishing in how it drops just slightly, “and I tell him all about his son.”

With that, and a flourish of my skirt, I stride off of the pavilion, holding Songhwa by the arm, “Let’s go, shall we?”

We have not taken three steps when there’s that loud, sharp voice, calling out from behind me, “Wait!”

I turn around, “really? This fast?” 

Jihoon strides up to me, holding the hairpiece in his hand, a lazy smirk playing on his face. “You win, Princess. I’ll teach you.”

I raise an eyebrow, “you will?”

“Be here tomorrow, in the afternoon,” he turns around, “don’t be late, Princess.”

“Why, that little—” Songhwa makes a run towards him, but I stop her, gesturing to just go back. He’s been defeated, Songhwa, I tell myself as we make our way through the crowded streets, he’s finally been defeated in something by someone. And he has to teach me how to play. 

—

Unfortunately, as I had expected, Songhwa does not let me off easily. She corners me as soon as we step foot into my family’s home, quickly sliding the doors shut behind her as I collapse onto the silk bedding, fixing me with an impressive glare that would have even my mother running for her life, “Did you really have to give him the keepsake from your grandmother?”

I fix her with a look but say nothing, choosing to pull the hairpins out of my hair, and settling down on the bedding. Songhwa, emboldened by my silence, rages on, “What if the Master comes and asks for it? Why did you have to give away the most expensive piece of jewelry in your possession? What if you have a need for it later on? What will you do then?”

“I’m not such a fool to give him my most expensive hairpin without a thought as to how it might affect me, Songhwa,” I say, sternly, and she shuts her mouth, “neither my father nor my mother is aware of the gift grandmother gave me, mostly because she never told them of it. To her, it was something to be disposed of in secret, and the only witness to this was the nurse who stayed with her till the day she died.”

“And me.” Songhwa points to herself, “I’m aware.”

“You know what happened to the nurse who was there with Grandmother when she was sick?” I say, voice light, but Songhwa sees it for what it is, and sighs, evidently put-upon, and takes a seat on the floor, “You should stop threatening to kill me if you want to ensure that I never open my mouth.”

“It’s better that you don’t know, Songhwa,” I reply, “you do know what happened to the nurse who stayed with my grandmother when she was ill. She was killed three months after my grandmother died, presumably by people who thought the old, infirm woman was holding state secrets. I do not understand why you insist on knowing my family’s secrets even though you will most definitely get killed in the process.”

“It’s a testament to how much I respect you, Miss,” Songhwa says, seriously, lighting a candle in the semi-dark room, “it is already killing me that I cannot accompany you to your in-law’s house. What do they want, refusing to allow servants to be sent from your childhood home? It’s decidedly unfashionable, people are already talking about it.”

I know why they have made that demand, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. I don’t think we need to investigate the death of a minister so close to my wedding, but Songhwa is fully capable of eviscerating the Minister of War and his entire household, sentries be damned. She does not pick up on why I am silent, instead raging about the apparent lack of respect shown towards me, and I watch her amusedly as she pulls out the books that I will not be allowed to take with me when I leave my home. 

“Easy, Songhwa,” I smile, “one would think you were my mother, instead of being my companion.”

“I am your maid, Miss, there’s a difference.” Songhwa sighs, “Do you still think asking that man was the best course of action? You could have received help from anyone you want.”

“He’s still the best in Hanyang, no matter how much we try to ignore his existence,” I say, pickling at the seams on my bedding, “even you saw how good he was. That’s not just hard work, it’s also talent. And that kind of talent should not be languishing in a—in a courtesan house, of all places.”

Songhwa nods, “You also brought up his father when he didn’t agree to teach you.”

I smile, “That’s because I know a little secret about him.”

—

As promised, I make my way to the pavilion at the Plum Flower House, leaving Songhwa behind, the guqin heavy on my back as I manage to haul it across the marketplace. Lee Jihoon stands in the middle of the pavilion, smiling as I walk up to him, out of breath and bent over at the waist, perspiration dotting my forehead. He raises his eyebrows as I make my way up the stairs, flaunting a wide grin as I set the instrument at my feet, “you’re late. I did specifically say afternoon, did I not?”

“Apologies, for I do not own a water clock,” I breeze, unwrapping the linen coverings of my guqin, “and I think it would be treasonous to own one.”

He laughs loudly, again, before settling down, “I hear you are proficient at the gayageum. Why can you not play that for your in-laws? You can always play the gayageum for them, instead of learning an entirely new instrument.”

“That new instrument is what my prospective mother-in-law is partial to,” I give him a wry smile, running my hands over the silken strings of the guqin, “my preferred gayageum is too lowly for her, it would seem.”

 Jihoon observes my dress, plain pink and blue cotton hanbok, nothing of the pale blue silk that I had worn to the House the previous day. My braid falls over my shoulder, short but neatly tied off with a ribbon at the end. I had foregone the usual norigae at my waist too, opting for a slightly longer jacket instead. This way, I look like a maid, someone unimportant who came here to take lessons from a master. Not the daughter of a powerful man. As far as disguises go, I could have done better. 

“You look like a maid,” he smiles at me, and even someone like me, who has no idea about social cues, can understand that it's all mockery—as usual—and he continues, with that annoying smile fixed on his face, “it seems a little inappropriate, teaching you out here.”

I stare at him, because we are in the open, in the middle of the day, with no one to misconstrue what we are doing, and he thinks it is inappropriate. I want to take my offensive guqin and whack him around the head. He points to his clothes, and then to mine, “I dressed up for you. Now I think I should have borrowed one of the work costumes of the many people who come here to work for the gisaengs.”

I scowl. He’s wearing a pale green hanbok today, with his hair gathered in an elegant topknot, the wide headband sitting prettily against his skin, making for a sharp contrast. Strange man, I tell myself, as he settles in at a comfortable (more importantly, respectable) distance from me, and picks up his instrument. When he bends his head, I can see his copper sangtu, wisps of his hair peeking out from within. It reminds me of the first time I had seen him, his hair wild and untamed, and it's a shame how beautiful he could be, if only for the unfortunate accident of his parentage. 

Still, as he begins to teach me the basics of how to play the guqin (in a manner entirely different from what I am used to), I find myself thinking less about how disagreeable he was and more about his talent. If I were a lesser woman, I would have been jealous. All I could think about was how solemn his hands looked as he plucked the strings, instructing me to follow his lead. 

—

Songhwa waits at the back of the house as I hurry back in, ushering me into the yard as soon as the curfew bells ring. 

“How was the first lesson?” she demands, as soon as I place the guqin on the floor, picking out the plain hairstyle I had fashioned it in, “you never wear this one outside of the house.”

“Thought I should try my best to fit in,” I groaned, lying down on the bedding, “never thought learning an instrument would be so difficult.”

Songhwa raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said he was a genius.”

“He is, which makes it even more difficult,” I groan, suddenly overtaken by a fit of childishness, “it was as if I had been forced to come to terms with the fact that I was in fact, not a genius, and that all my efforts, monumental though they might have been, were actually no match in front of an actual, real, genius.”

She laughs, “You seem taken in by him.”

I bolt upright in bed, “I am not. He is annoying, as he is allowed to be—I am merely commenting upon the fact that he is a genius, and I am not, no matter how much I would love to be.”

Songhwa sighs, before sitting down in front of me, “Miss, I do think you’re a genius.”

“Nice of you to spare my feelings, Songhwa, but I’ve seen him perform. Twice, in fact. And there’s no way I, or anyone, even the legendary Bo Ya, could measure up to his skill. His hands—” I turn to look at her, eyes narrowed, “what do you want me to say?”

She raises an eyebrow, “You seemed to have found his hands interesting.”

“Enough!” I clap my hands, shaking the embarrassment away in what must have been a formidable challenge, and usher Songhwa out of the room, “I wish to sleep now. Tell the maids to send my meal to my room, please.”

After Songhwa leaves, I fall back onto the bed, waiting for the maids to bring me my dinner, trying my best to expel the image of Lee Jihoon playing the guqin, his long, elegant fingers coaxing the slow tunes out of the instrument, a testament to my utter lack of genius. And yet, I can’t find to bring myself to be jealous, because I am not a lesser woman. I am, shamefully though it might be, aware of the limitations of my talent. Besides, I am almost twenty years old. I’m not a child who might get jealous at the prospect of facing the fact that I might not be the genius that I once thought I was. 

And yet—and yet I spend more than a fashionable amount of time that night, thinking about his hands, moving across the strings. 

—

Surprisingly, it gets easier after that first day. The both of us talk less about our choice of clothing and more about how to play the guqin, and I can feel myself improving daily. Jihoon doesn’t make it a secret about how much he absolutely hates the idea of teaching me, but this too, I’ve managed to take it in stride now. 

“How long will you be pestering me to teach you?” he asks, barely a fortnight into teaching me, “I doubt you want to establish a new qin school in the middle of Hanyang. And I don't want to spend my days teaching a noble lady how to play my instrument.”

I pull a face, “Can't you just focus on teaching me?”

He pulls a wry smile,  “Maybe I wish to be rid of you.”

“Too difficult for you, Teacher,” I smile, before returning to pluck the strings, coaxing a melody (a slow, halting one, but a melody nonetheless) out of the guqin. It's almost spring, I notice, as the plum trees all around us have burst into bloom. Soon, the cherry trees will be in bloom. And as soon as the azaleas bloom on Biseulsan, I will be sent to the home of the Minister of War. I hate to be reminded of it, because all I can think of is that I have no time at all. None to enjoy the final few days of my girlhood. 

Still, Jihoon seems to be warming up to the idea of teaching me, and I can take a strange sense of pride in that, having the once-prickly Lee Jihoon teach me with a ghost of a smile on his face. 

—

“Miss,” Songhwa pokes her nose in my room  one evening as I change into a much more respectable outfit, “there are gifts.”

I roll my eyes, huff, and stand up, “Already? They only sent the official letter last month!”

“I know. They seem like they want to speed up the process,” Songhwa waves a dismissive hand. “The minister himself is here, giving the gifts to your father.”

“The minister of War himself?” I tie the knot to my jacket, lifting my skirt, “now I need to see this.”

My father’s rooms are in another part of the yard, differentiated from the women’s quarters by a gate. Songhwa and I slip easily past the gates, and servants largely ignore us as we make our way to the other, more secluded side of my father’s rooms, where the large boiler sits, making the air too hot for anyone to remain in for more than three minutes. I sit as close to the doors as possible, and for good measure, poke a hole into the paper, for ease of listening. One can never be too careful. 

“Miss,” Songhwa opens her mouth to say something, and I silence her because there are voices coming from inside the room, “fine.”

“—Of course, the lady will be an important part of the household, as she is expected to take on the duties of the madam of her own house in the future,” a voice that I know belongs to the Minister of War, says, “I have heard that the lady is playing the guqin diligently? My wife does indeed adore the guqin. It is one of her only comforts.”

Yes, I would bet anyone ten gold nyangs she holds it and goes to sleep at night when you are whoring around in gisaeng houses, you pox-ridden idiot, I think to myself, but it is the next voice that takes me by surprise. It is my father speaking, low and clear, the voice I had once adored as a small child, “Of course, minister. This is no longer her home now. She is to be a part of your family, and we will ensure that she is aware of her duties and responsibilities.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

They go on to say more things—about the state of the economy, how they are going to manage their farmlands in the coming year, how they think the harvest will be, how the virtues of the King have always been steady in steering the nation, but I understand nothing. I am nothing. And to hear that from my father—my father whom I had looked up to all my life, my father who had adored me, once upon a time, in a parallel history, puts it all into perspective. 

I stand up, feet shaking, whether due to the heat coming from the boiler or from the words I have just been privy to, I do not know. I do not remember walking to my room, I do not remember lying down on the bed. All I can think of are my father’s words. This is no longer her home now. I am no one. 

—

“You did not come for lessons these past three days,” Jihoon says, as soon as I climb up the stairs to the pavilion, guqin strapped to my back, “I was beginning to think you had stopped wanting to play altogether.”

I sigh, “I was sick, sorry. I should have sent word, except Songhwa was busy making medicines for me. I’m here now, though, right as rain.”

Jihoon still has his back to me, an insufferable trait that he refuses to correct, and I shake my head, setting the qin on the ground. “Shall we begin?”

My tone is clipped, and angry, which makes him turn towards me, an eyebrow raised. He pauses for a moment, then grabs a hold of the edge of my sleeve, pulling me closer to him. I avoid his gaze dutifully, but Lee Jihoon is nothing if not relentless, a fact of life that I am becoming increasingly familiar with, as much as I hate it. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says, after staring at me for what feels like an eternity, “you’re not normally this way.”

I glare, “Do you want me to hit you? I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” he replies, standing up and walking out of the pavilion, “not if that look on your face has anything to say about it. You’re suffering.”

I roll my eyes, but he is not wrong. He is not wrong at all, which makes me nervous, because if Lee Jihoon of all people could read me this well, what does that mean for my parents? The people who are supposed to know me the best, the people who are supposed to take care of me without question, what does it mean, that they saw me like this, and said nothing at all?

It’s not their fault. I’ve been repeating this throughout the week, it’s not their fault. Even though I had refused to come out of my room and had been laid up with a fever, only my mother had come to see me, and that too from a distance. It’s not their fault. They gave birth to a girl, and now they have to take care of her, for as long as they can. 

And really, who am I to complain? I am the daughter of a minister, one of the highest positions in Joseon. I should know my place, I should know my duty. Even if it meant leaving my home and settling down in a house where I knew no one, and no one cared about me beyond my abilities to provide an heir. 

Songhwa had, of course, refused to let me out of her sight, nursing me through the days I was bedridden with a fever, even insisting on coming along for the lesson, something I had taken pains to dissuade her from. 

“Maybe this will help,” Jihoon says, walking back into my line of sight, “you told me you played the gayageum.”

In his hands, is a gayageum, made out of the finest paulownia wood, and he pushes away the guqin currently in my lap, placing it in my hands instead. “You look like you have some feelings to work through, and I have always found solace in playing my music.”

I stare at him, “Are you quite mad? You want me to play for you right now?”

He shrugs, “I think it would be a good exercise for you since you always seem uncomfortable with the qin. Hence, the instrument that you are most comfortable with.” As if to prove his point further, he makes a ‘here you go’ motion with his hands, opening them wide for me to take in the look of the gayageum in front of me. 

I should not. This is madness, someone whispers inside my head, why are you playing for him when the only people who have heard you play before are your parents? Is this not inappropriate? What will your husband’s family say, when they hear about you showing off your skills at the gayageum to an unfamiliar man, who has no ties to you? Will they approve?

I grow more irritated at that. Perhaps I am tired of thinking about my husband’s family, before myself. 

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” I mutter, picking it up and running my hands over the silk strings, “it is tuned already.”

“Thought you’d prefer if I took that out of the way for you,” he smiles, “in truth, I would be lying to you if I said that I had not been interested and curious about your playing, even before you stepped foot in the Plum Flower House. Everyone knows that the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites is proficient at the gayageum. I had kept this around—”

I cut him off with a sharp twang, and he goes back to his seat, eagerly waiting. It has been a long time since I played for another person who was not Songhwa, but the gayageum opens up eagerly underneath my fingers, much easier than the qin, but this is an instrument I have been playing since I knew how to walk. Still, the instrument itself is unfamiliar, but I can soon find it humming delightfully underneath my hands. This is what I want to do. I want to play this instrument for as long as I can live. 

This is no longer her home now. 

My hands grow erratic, and the gayageum follows suit, the music thundering as I chase it around, the strings keening underneath the sheer force of my hands, no longer the calm, composed tunes I have been accustomed to playing. This is no longer tranquil, this is something else entirely, the force of my rage, condensed and consolidated into a single moment in time, larger than life, hotter than the sun. 

After a long time, I stop, and Jihoon’s eyes are sparkling, something I never thought I would see, not on another person, not as a reaction to my playing. He’s smiling, broad, and genuine, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me, so hard and fast that I can barely distinguish my surroundings. Whatever remains, is the feeling of his eyes on me, as though he was seeing me for the first time. 

“You’re a revelation,” he smiles, “I’ve always been curious about your playing but this—this is brilliant. A genius.”

“Hah,” I scoff mildly, even though it does not hold any real venom or malice, “a genius, that’s a new sort of lie.”

However, as I lay in my bed that night, all I could think of were his eyes, steadfast on me, sparkling, as though he had seen a miracle, and his voice, the same sharp tone that I hated so much, saying, over and over again, you are a revelation. A revelation. A revelation, he had said. 

I slept comfortably that night. 

—

Apart from the gayageum, the only other thing I'm confident in, at least marginally, is my sewing. Like every other girl in Joseon, I've been taught needlework and embroidery ever since I could pick up a needle without hurting myself.  Embroidery was a non-negotiable skill, especially when compared to playing instruments, because of course who did not know that the honor and prestige of a noble family relied solely on the sewing skills of their youngest daughter? 

I’m exaggerating. I’ve been taught to take pride in my creations, and I do actually like it when people find happiness in it, whether it be through music or something else. 

“Miss,” Songhwa lets out another of her long-suffering sighs, holding up an unfinished gwanbok, “you’re supposed to finish this by yourself, not have it done by seamstresses.”

“Don’t want to, not particularly,” I pout, trying to balance a brush on my forehead, “besides, were you not the one who was the most against this match? Why are you so adamant on me making his ceremonial dress, that probably would not be up to his standards?”

“It’s because I hate him and I am firmly against this match that I am in support of this,” she says, folding the unfinished clothing into a box, “are you going to make your fiance a handkerchief too?”

“What?” I sit up, brush clattering onto the floor, “what do you mean?”

Songhwa holds up a piece of silk, and I stare at it. Just a piece of deep blue silk, plain and unassuming, evidently cut out from one of the pre-wedding gifts sent over by my husband’s family previously. It’s obvious, with the smooth edges from where I cut out the fabric, that it was meant for something else. “Oh, that,” I try my best to remain nonchalant, “I’m thinking of making something for myself.”

Songhwa narrows her eyes, “You refuse to pick up the needle for anything other than what is strictly necessary.”

“I’m just trying to be a better wife, and since sewing is a required skill, I thought I should brush up on my embroidery,” I say, trying my best to maintain Songhwa’s gaze, “nothing special, really.”

“Miss, you know that you cannot fool me, right?” she says, hands on her hips, “I know exactly what you plan on doing with this silk.”

I turn to her, shocked, “You do?”

Songhwa sighs, “How many times do I have to tell you, miss, that you have enough hair ribbons to last a lifetime? Even the princesses of this country do not have as many hair ribbons as you do, and you’re going to make another one? That too from the expensive silk the Minister of War sent over for pre-wedding gifts?” She sighs again, running her hands over her face, “I do not know what to do here. I hate him, but also, making a ribbon out of the cloth sent over for you to make your husband a hanbok will not be accepted. Well, it’s not as though we are going to tell people, but at least, don’t let your mother know about this.”

“You think I tell my mother anything?” I ask, my eyebrows raised high, “she is the one who finds out everything about me. I don’t tell her anything!”

“No, you don’t, you just act too secretive, and she finds out anyway,” Songhwa throws me a dirty look, opening the door with a foot, hands full of clothes, “Do try and come back home early tonight, because the owner of this house is coming home early too.”

“He is?” I groan, “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

—

I lied to Songhwa. It is not something I feel particularly bad about, since she keeps her own secrets from me too, regarding all the numerous admirers she has (If I knew, I would be forced to tell my mother about it, and she would be out of a job). The silk was not for a hair ribbon, not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. It is, however, for something far worse. 

“Lee Jihoon,” I say, half out of breath, setting down my qin, “you like the color a lot, I see.”

“Aren’t you a little too interested in fashion for someone who has to exercise the virtues of frugality from the moment you understood the Five Classics? Or am I to understand that the Minister of Rites did not teach his daughter the basics of a Confucian education?”

I roll my eyes, and Jihoon laughs, a sound I have become frequently acquainted with, ever since that afternoon. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over his white hanbok, a color he has worn the most since I met him for the first time. “Just answer the question, please.”

“You should pay me more respect, you know, since I am your teacher,” Jihoon sighs, “yes, I do like blue, in fact, I wear it all the time—what are you doing?”

I had been listening intently, but I was not going to tell him that, “I was just listening.”

He scowls, “You’re very annoying, has anyone ever told you that?”

“All the time, actually, they can’t seem to get enough of telling me off,” I say, my voice a tad bit too sharp for normal conversation, and he retreats, “Never mind, I have come to the realization that I do not know you at all. If I am to respect you as my teacher, should I not know at least some details about you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Need I remind you that you threatened me to teach you, using my father’s name?”

“Not that,” I wave, “you know, the little things. The details.”

“I’m not going to tell you details about my life.”

“Nothing? Not even about any ladies that you might be courting?”

He stares at me, and it is very strange, how his eyes resemble a cat I used to feed when I was a child, wary, as though I am going to find out all his weaknesses, “Why do you want to know so much about my love life?”

And really, why did I want to know? 

“Just wondering if I should be on the lookout for any angry woman accosting me in the marketplace, demanding that I stay away from her beloved,” I reply, and he scowls again, “I’m being serious!”

“No, there aren’t. And even if there were, why would I tell you?”

“You’re no fun at all,” I grumble, “at least tell me something silly.”

“Like?” It’s funny, how he is on edge, even at a normal question like this, “I don’t have a birth flower.”

“At least tell me your favorite one, then,” I grin, “if you want to know, my birth flower is the daisy. It is said to be a symbol of a pure heart.”

He snorts, “Pure heart? I would take it up with the fortune-teller. You are one of the most aggravating people I know. Pure heart?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” I roll my eyes. 

Jihoon sighs “If you have to know, my favorite flower is the barberry. They bloom even in the worst of winters, and I’d like to think I am that sort of person.”

“It symbolizes skill if you want to know.”

“I did not.”

I groan, before picking up my qin, “I’ve been improving at this, haven’t I?”

“You sound less horrible than you did before,” Jihoon acquiesces that much. “You are a genius at the gayageum; I don’t know why you must insist on playing the qin is beyond me. Instead of breaking your back to learn the one thing that you hate so much, just focus your energies on honing the skills that you already have. It is rare to see someone so talented at the gayageum outside a gisaeng house. You have all the talent in the world to be proficient at this one instrument, and yet, you are here, taking classes from me, in order to appease your fiance’s family. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I will answer that question another day,” I reply, trying my very best to remain nonchalant, “not today, I am afraid.”

—

I have been avoiding my father ever since that night when I eavesdropped on his conversation with the War Minister. Try as I might, I cannot look him in the eye anymore, not when I know the exact dimensions of my identity as his daughter. This is no longer her home. I have been raised for this since I was a child, but knowing that your father no longer considers you as a part of his household, or that the family you have known for all your life is no longer yours, is a bitter pill to swallow for anyone. 

This is why it is a surprise to see my father, the Minister of Rites, walk into my room right as I put the final touches of a small embroidered daisy on a piece of blue silk. The door slides open, and my father steps into the room, dressed casually, with his wire hat high on his forehead. I scramble, setting aside my 

sewing and offering him my seat in front of the silk screen. It is not even a conscious decision, my feet move of their own accord, forcing me to sit across my father as he takes his seat. There is a book open on the varnished table, a study on how to play the guqin. I have not managed to read more than three pages. 

“It is wonderful to see you so applied to your studies,” Father says, looking approvingly at the book, “I have heard you play these past few weeks. You have managed to improve a great deal indeed.”

“Thank you, Father.” I bow my head, “I have been practicing my best not to let our family down.”

“Of course, of course,” he shakes his head, “the War Minister, along with his son, will visit next month, to finalize the preparations for the wedding. I hope you will be able to maintain the honor of this family.”

“I shall try my very best, Sir.” I reply, “I shall play for the Minister of War, as requested.”

“It is not a request,” he says, “the honor of this family depends on you being able to make a prosperous match, one that will ensure the social standing of your family and your fiance’s, as you were raised to do. It is your filial duty.”

“Yes, Father.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, steadying himself, “While you might think this marriage is disadvantageous to you, this ensures the survival of this family. Your brother and sisters are depending on you to make this marriage work.”

“My oldest sister is one of the concubines of the King,” I reply, “I rather doubt that we are in any danger of survival, given that my oldest sister is the mother of a princess.”

“The birth of a princess to a concubine is nothing to be proud of!” my father slams a palm onto the desk, “if you had any sense of political knowledge, you would know that. All we have to show for our efforts is a weak slip of a girl who will not survive beyond her first five years!” 

“I’m afraid you are talking disrespectfully about a princess of Joseon, Father,” I say, calm enough for my voice to remain steady in a display of impressive brashness. “Even if you are the grandfather of the Princess, speaking ill of her could be tantamount to treason. She is the daughter of one of the primary consorts of the King, chosen directly from the gantaek.”

My father sighs, pushing the conversation away from my sister, “Do not forget about your duties as the daughter-in-law of the Minister of War.”

“And live as the meek wife of a man who will never be faithful to me?” I cannot help myself now, and the words come tumbling out of me, sharper than anything I have ever said to my father, the man who raised me, “Is that the life you want me to live? You, of all people, should know about the character of the Minister of War, and how his third son behaves in society.”

“How do you know about the Minister of War or his third son?”

“Everyone knows!” I throw up my hands, “everyone knows. Everyone who comes to my house and knows about my marriage, tells me about their behavior. The Minister of War sent away his son because he could not stand the sight of him, and his third son is no better! Even I, a person with no contact with outside society, even I am aware of who my fiance is. And yet, you choose to ignore everything and push me into this marriage, when you know I shall be unhappy at the very best, and mistreated at the worst. Is that what you want? To force me into—”

I hear the sound of it before I can feel the pain, but it spreads soon enough, stinging across my left cheek, and I turn my attention to my father, whose hand is still raised, “—you want to force your daughter into servitude?”

“You will cease those thoughts at once!” his hand is still raised, “You will be married to the third son of the Minister of War because we need his political power to stay alive. You will play the part of the dutiful daughter, and you will provide his son with an heir because that is what you have been born to do. No more talk of who the Minister is or who his son is. Prepare for your wedding.”

“You cannot do this to me.” I whisper, swaying at the spot where I stand, “I am your child, you cannot do this to me.”

“I’ve raised you with all the freedoms you should have been given, because of your station, but do not forget your purpose.” He runs a hand over his face, “I should have married you off as soon as I could have, instead of waiting around for the Minister of War to make a proper decision.”

And with that, he walks out of the room, leaving me standing in the middle of an empty space, wondering how long I have before everything goes to hell. 

“Miss,” Songhwa runs into the room, “I heard shouting.”

“Never mind that, Songhwa,” I wave away my thoughts, “there is much left to do. Will the seamstresses finish the ceremonial dress by the wedding? Who’s making my wedding dress? The preparations have to be perfect, Songhwa, you know this is the only time I will get to have a wedding.” I laugh at that last sentence, “never mind that.”

“Miss,” Songhwa is insistent, “are you all right?”

“Perfect.” I mutter, picking up my needle and thread, “Just need to finish making my fiance an assorted number of trinkets for our good marital fortune, and I will be done.”

“Miss,” Songhwa sits down in front of me, “I know people, you know.”

I narrow my eyes, “Of course, you do. We all know people, Songhwa.”

“No,” she huffs, “I don’t mean that. I know people, my lady.”

“And who might these ‘people’ be?” I ask, smiling, “Don’t tell me you’re keeping in touch with bandits or something like that.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” She shrugs, “Do you want me to have him killed?”

“Killed—Songhwa, Might I remind you that violence is not always the answer?” I sputter, almost poking myself in the hand with my needle, “I do not want you to kill my fiance.”

“Fiance, fiance, I hate the way you speak about him!” Songhwa exclaims, “Every time you speak about him, it is as though it physically pains you to do so.”

“That's not important, Songhwa.” I protest. 

“This has gone on for long enough,” She ignores me, “Ever since they pushed the wedding, you have been like this. The only time in the past year that you have truly felt alive, has been these past few weeks when you have been going to the gisaeng house to learn how to play. Do you really think that is normal,  Miss?”

I sigh, abandoning my sewing, because she is not wrong. What do I even tell her? In a way, Songhwa is far more free than I could ever hope to become, simply because she has no family whose reputations and honor she has to protect. Over these past few weeks, I have been looking forward to learning the qin, merely because it has given me a sense of purpose beyond getting married and beyond having heirs. 

That's wrong, someone whispers in my ears, that is not the only reason why you have been looking forward to those lessons. 

“Miss,” Songhwa takes my silence as acceptance, “I don't like that man.”

“You don't like any man, Songhwa,” I laugh, “but who are you talking about?”

“Lee Jihoon. The man who teaches you the qin,” she mutters, looking more like her fourteen years, “I don't like him. He's not someone you should be associating with, given your status.”

“I did not think you were someone who cared much about status.”

“I do, it's just who we are, but even I can't ignore the fact that he is the one who makes you feel alive. You're wasting away here, and it pains me to see it.”

I don't say anything because what do I even say to her? She is right, as she always is because the subject of my marriage weighs heavily on my mind despite how much I prepare my mind for it. I no longer want anything to do with my marriage, and not just because of my fiance. My fiance could have been the Crown Prince, and I would still hate it as much as I do now. I hate that I no longer have any agency over my choices in life. I hate that I have to listen to my father arrange my marriage with a beast of a man simply because it will give him the boost he has so desperately wanted in his political career. I hate that I will have to spend the rest of my living days in a family whose head of household sent away one of his sons after the death of his mother, simply because he could not bear the sight of an illegitimate offspring. I hate it all. Most of all, I hate the fact that I cannot do anything to change my situation. I might want what Jihoon symbolizes with all my heart, but at the end of the day, I will have to shut my mouth and do what my parents want of me. 

“Miss, should we talk to Madam?” Songhwa asks, “Maybe she could talk to the Master.”

“My mother has no interest in me beyond what purpose I can serve. She would tell me to suck it up and endure it, as other women have before me, and as women will, as long as there are men on this earth,” I laugh, “I’m not delusional, Songhwa. I know I am living a privileged life, something that is not afforded to a majority of women in this country. I just wish—that we had some freedom.”

“We have whatever they give us,” She replies, picking up my abandoned handkerchief, “were you embroidering the daisy on here?”

“And the barberry flower.” I groan, before realizing what I had just said. 

“The barberry flower?” Songhwa narrows her eyes, “did not know you were so fond of perennial herbs this way.”

“Just saw a particularly beautiful sketch of it the other day, and wanted to put it in my handkerchief,” I lie, “nothing else.”

Songhwa sighs, “I just wish you were a bit more careful, Miss, I do not want to see you in trouble.”

—

Jihoon had not even taken his seat at the pavilion the next day, when I brandished my closed fist in front of him. “Close your eyes,” I say, “I have a present for you.”

He looks at me warily, and then at my closed fists, “I feel like this is a trap made specifically for you to punch my face.”

I scowl, “And here I am, trying to give you a token of my appreciation.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but complies with my request anyway, and I retrieve the finished handkerchief from inside my jacket, “Here you go!”

He opens his eyes, looking at the piece of cloth held in my hands, “What is this?”

“It's a handkerchief, obviously,” I roll my eyes, “look, I even embroidered your favorite flower on there, just because you told me.”

“I do not remember asking you to make me a handkerchief,” Jihoon says, dry as always, but he takes the handkerchief out of my hands, inspecting it, “there is a daisy on there. I never asked for a daisy.”

“I put it on every one of my embroidered pieces,” I say, offering an explanation, “it feels like a signature of mine.”

“Is this what you spend your time doing, instead of making your marriage dress?” He stares at me, “My god, you are going to look very ugly in your wedding dress.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask, irritated, “I am going to look very nice in my wedding dress. And as you can see, my embroidery skills are top-notch. If you must know, I have had one of the best educations that could be given to Joseon ladies.”

“The work is shabby, and I would not be using it at all,” Jihoon makes a show of inspecting the handkerchief again, “why did you even put the daisy in there? It looks so—plain.”

And really, I should not have done this. Because all I can feel right now is shame, white-hot shame spreading to the roots of my hair. Why did I even make a handkerchief for a man who does not want anything to do with me? Really, I feel so ashamed. I should not have even wanted anything. 

“Give that back,” I hold out my hand, “if it is so offensive to you, then give it back. I’ll destroy it.”

Jihoon whips it out of my reach, “Who said I am going to give it back? You gave it to me, now it is mine.”

“I made it, so it is mine,” I grind out, “give it back to me.”

He stands up, leaning on the wooden railing of the pavilion, “Don’t think so, Princess. This was given to me, so now it is mine. You’ll get it back if you can take it from me.”

The nerve of this man. I stand up, walk over to where he stands, and hold out my hand, “Give it back, Lee Jihoon.”

Instead of giving my work back to me, he holds it high above both our heads, a taunting smile on his face, “Too bad you won’t be getting your way this time, Princess.”

I try and swipe it out of his hands, but he reacts faster, swinging it out of my reach, over and over again, until I am heaving from the exertion, the skirt of my hanbok twisted and crumpled, as I hold myself up against the railing, “are you quite done playing with my hard work?”

Jihoon says nothing, just twirls the cloth in his hand, “You made this in blue, too. How did you know I preferred this color? Tell me, Princess, are you in the habit of making elaborate presents for all your teachers?”

I grab hold of his wrist with one hand, my other gripping my handkerchief, “I do not like being made fun of, Lee Jihoon. Give back my work.”

“Did not realize your work was so important to you that you grabbed hold of my hand, Princess,” He smiles, and it is less than a smile, it is a smirk, almost, as if he enjoys the feeling of my hands on his skin. I drop my hand, but he catches it, holding my hand in his. 

And—god. My skin is a furnace, and Jihoon is hellfire, his thumb moving slowly across the inside of my wrist, fingers leaving a trail of what can only be described as fire. I’ve never held a man’s hand before, never even thought of initiating touch with someone who is not my husband, but I want this. 

“The Princess of the Minister of Rites, holding a man’s hand, who is not a relation, nor is her intended,” Jihoon smiles, “are you being influenced by this place, Princess?”

I move  to extricate my hand from his grip, but he holds fast, still smiling, “It appears that the Plum Flower House has been having an effect on you, Princess.” 

I should try to pull my hand out of his grip. If anyone sees me standing here, my hands in his, there will be hell to pay. My father cannot find out about the lessons. I am, for all intents and purposes, playing with fire. 

But Jihoon’s fingertips are callused, and even if I try, I cannot move my hand out of his grip. “Unhand me right now,” I say, “How dare you be so familiar with me.”

“It feels as though you are the one being familiar with me, Princess,” He’s just smiling at me, “I am not holding on to your hand, you are the one who’s keeping it in my grasp.”

I pull my hand out of his, and he moves to grab it again, but stops halfway, “Why are you doing this, Princess?”

“What?” I stare at him. 

“The handkerchief. The embroidered flowers. Holding my hand. You’re the princess of the Minister of Rites. Of all people, you should know better, then why are you acting like a flighty girl—”

“Because I’m tired!” It’s the same thing as with the gayageum the previous day, and Jihoon is the same, watching as my self-control snaps, “I’m tired of this lie, waiting for someone else to make my decisions, and live according to other’s wishes. I refuse to do it.”

Jihoon stares at me for a heartbeat, “And I am what, your idea of a petty rebellion? The illegitimate son of a minister, perfect for a plaything? Oh, you must have loved getting lessons from me and then going back to your perfect little home, waiting for your wedding, like the perfect little princess that you are.”

“Do not presume to know me,” I spit out, “I have never once thought of you as a plaything. Nor is this my petty rebellion.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jihoon seethes, “that is why you sought me out in the first place, didn’t you, princess? The illegitimate son of the Minister of War, your fiance’s half-brother. Do you even know how it feels, to see him walk in here and spend entire fortunes as though it means nothing? You will never know how it feels—”

I slap him across the face. The crack of it sends a bird skittering from a nearby tree, and Jihoon steps back, holding his cheek. 

“It is my fiance who steps inside this brothel every night,” I say, “he is the man I am engaged to be married to, he is the man whose bed I will share until I die. And he is out here, dragging my name through the mud at every opportunity.” Jihoon says nothing, so I continue, “Everyone knows about our engagement, and everyone knows about his proclivities.”

“Did you grow up in the same household as him?” Jihoon sneers, “he was obnoxious to the point of being impossible to be around. He made every day of my childhood a living hell!”

“And he will do the same to me, for the rest of my life, too!” I snap,  “At least the Minister of War sent you to Ming. At least you get to make your own identity apart from that of your birth. I will be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, until the day I die. So, forgive me, if I tried to dream of something else.”

“Something else?” 

It’s strange watching him look at me. The same way that he did when I played for him, and somehow different. The same look, as though he was seeing me for the first time. It is no longer uncomfortable, and I hold his gaze as he puts the puzzle together.

“You don’t mean that.” He whispers, stepping closer to me, so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, so close that if I reach out, I can kiss him, “Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess.”

“You have no idea what I mean,” my voice comes out in a strangled whisper, “You have no idea what I want.”

“Tell me.” His voice is a ghost; chasing me, “Tell me what you want, Princess.”

If I want, I can kiss him right now. I can take a nebulous hold of my father’s honor, values, and morals and crush it in the palm of my hand. If I want to. The man standing next to me, with his skin flushed and with his eyes that contained a whole universe within them, this man can be my salvation. If I took a step forward. One step would do. Even if it means nothing, I will be free. 

Unfortunately, I am a coward of the highest measure, and so I step away, shaking my head, “Think about it, Lee Jihoon. Think about what I might want from you.”

—

That night, when the lights were snuffed out, I think of the way Jihoon had looked at me as if he could not believe his eyes or his luck, as if I was the only person who mattered in this world. His skin flushed, his eyes glistening. If I had stepped forward, he would have reciprocated; even I could understand that. He knew I wanted him, and on some level, he wanted me too. And whatever form my desire would take, he would have followed my lead. 

But why do you want him,  a voice asks in my mind, why is it that you are going to such reckless lengths, for the mere illegitimate son of your fiance’s father? Someone who would not have even been on your radar, and yet, here he is, seducing you to dream of a life away from this place. 

Bigger than all these questions is one that I ask myself every day: where will this end?

—

“There is someone here to see you, Miss,” Songhwa says, while I am in the middle of sewing my wedding dress, “he says it is important.”

“I will be taking no visitors, Songhwa,” I say, not taking my eyes off of my work, “I cannot meet any man while still unmarried.”

“Miss,” Songhwa pleads, and I look up at her, standing awkwardly in the middle of my room, hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt, “it’s—”

“Who is it, Songhwa?” I ask, already on edge, “There are very few people who would reduce you to that state.”

“It’s the youngest son of the Minister of War, Miss,” Songhwa says, eyes shifting, “he says he wants to meet you.”

I sigh, “My father?”

“He has gone to the palace, Miss.”

“Mother?”

“Tea, with the Left State Councillor’s wife.”

“Very well,” I stood up, abandoning my sewing, “take him to my father’s room.”

My father’s room stands in the Eastern corner of the outside yard, its roofs higher than the rooms in the inner courtyard where we live. I cross the yard quickly before the man who is supposed to be married to me even steps a foot into the yard. Inside the room, Songhwa has hung a sheer curtain from the rafters to allow us to have a conversation and still obscure my face. I suppress a laugh. All these measures against a man who is supposed to be my husband. What is the point of it anyway? If he is going to see my face after a few months, it does not make sense for him to be separated from me before the wedding. 

He enters through the door, his hat obscuring his face, and I have the distinct feeling that I am not the only one who is maintaining a disguise against the other person. Songhwa sets down a platter of tea in front of us, and I gesture for him to help himself. 

“Is it not custom for a woman to serve her fiance?” He asks, his voice almost the same as his half-brother’s, except it’s sharper, like an open sword, brandished right at my throat, “I thought that the daughter of the Minister of Rites would be learned in all the arts of how to serve one’s husband.”

“You are not yet my husband, my lord,” I reply, “and I am not obliged to serve you tea in my own household.”

“Very well,” He leans back, observing me through the curtain, “when they told me I had to go meet my fiancee, I did not expect to meet such a spirited woman, of all people.”

“How long have you been in Hanyang, my lord?” I ask mildly, “Was it your mother who told you to pay me a visit, or your father?”

“Neither of them, actually,” He smirks, and I can see his face vaguely through the curtain, and it is a cruel one, hard and rugged all the same, but cruel, in a way that makes a cold sweat break out across my skin, “if you knew who told me to pay you a visit, I do not think you would like it a lot.”

“Was it one of the ladies at the Plum Flower House, my lord?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and his face darkens, the undercurrent of which is a dark thing I do not know about. But he does nothing, merely sits more comfortably in his seat, observing me. 

“I was not aware that you had such extensive contacts, Princess.” He says smoothly, “do the whispers at Plum Flower House reach the hallowed halls of the Minister of Rites’ home? I did not think so.”

I sit, transfixed. Anyone else in my position would have their gazes trained on him, of all the transgressions he has committed against me, but all I can think about is that word. 

Princess. 

Only one person called me that, had called me that, until a minute ago. And now, there is a strange man, in my home, in my father’s room, using the same term of mock endearment, except his eyes do not have any warmth behind them. 

“It is common knowledge, if one puts in a little effort, my lord,” I manage to reply, “Hanyang does not afford great people to have secrets.”

“They afford people like you to keep their secrets, you mean,” he replies, “because try as I might, I could not find anything about you apart from what I already knew.” 

“That is because I do not have anything to hide, my lord,” I say, as smoothly as I can. 

He says nothing, simply observing me from his seat. 

There are a lot of similarities, if I look closely. There should be, since they’re born of the same father, but this man is miles apart from the Lee Jihoon that I know. Jihoon doesn’t have the same cruel turn of mouth, doesn’t have that same way of sitting that can only come from a lifetime of an aristocratic upbringing. His smiles might be wary, but they are freer, with no hidden intent underneath them. He sits upright, almost afraid of his seat being taken away. In comparison, this man, his half-brother, sits in the main room of a stranger's house of a stranger, as if he owns it. It makes me uncomfortable having him here. I do not want to sit with him any longer. Not here, not now, not in the future. 

And yet I cannot run to Jihoon anymore, because what do I actually want? 

Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess. He had looked so small at that moment, begging me to say something else, to say that I did not want anything to do with him, to push him away. For a moment, it had seemed to me as though he was begging me to walk away. I should not have stepped away. 

Stop this wishful thinking, I scold myself,  focus on how to get this man out of here. 

“No secrets, you say?” He finally breaks the silence, “I have found that everyone, no matter how pure they might look on the outside, harbors at least one secret.”

I roll my eyes behind the curtain, something which goes unnoticed, “My lord, I am sorry, but we shall have to end this conversation here,” I stand up, waving to the door, “you will be shown out of the house by someone.”

I had expected him to fight me on this, to stand his ground and refuse to leave until he met my father, but he didn't say anything, just stood up, looking at me with those unsettling eyes, and turned around. Before sweeping out of the room in his expensive pale pink silk hanbok, he looks at me, through the screen, “I look forward to having you in my home, Princess.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me standing in the middle of the room behind a silk screen, uncomfortable and wishing I had never really agreed to this marriage in the first place. No, even beyond marriage, it makes me wish I had never been born in this world in the first place. Not the daughter of a minister, not someone who had to deal with the endless noise of honor and dignity and respect since the moment she could walk. 

I lay my head on the pillow, and I allow myself to dream of a better world. 

It’s a habit of mine, dreaming. Useless things—a better dinner, a free day, moments of stolen happiness in between buying trinkets at the market, I dream of them. On the day my grandmother died, the old dragon of a woman, I dreamt of a white canvas, white as far as I my eyes could see. There was nothing else in that landscape, save myself. This time, the dream is different. 

This is a different Joseon—one without all the differences between social classes, one without the restrictions imposed on women, a space where I can think without being condemned for it. Somewhere where I don’t have to imagine a hundred threats before taking a single step. A place where, if I met Jihoon, I would be able to stand in front of him, without the chasm of societal rules separating us. A place where I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him, without fearing for both our lives. 

Maybe this is not our time. 

Maybe. 

“I’m leaving,” I call out to no one in particular, slipping out from the back door of the house, still in my expensive hanbok that makes people look at me as I half-run, half-walk towards the thrice-damned brothel that landed me in this position in the first place. Brightly-dressed women throw strange looks at me, walking past them, so obviously noble that it would take a miracle for this to not be reported to my father by tomorrow morning. 

I grabbed hold of a young servant girl, clearly new to the place, “show me where Lee Jihoon is.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve moved on, to the same pavilion where I had met him for the first time, because he’s playing the same song he played on that day. I ran up a few steps, “You.”

Jihoon stops, abrupt, but not discordant, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, “Princess.”

I pause. Now that I am here, standing in front of him, words have apparently decided to fail me, keeping me rooted to the spot, looking back at Jihoon’s eyes, expectant and warm, as if he’s steeling himself against a harsh scolding. 

“I was not joking.” I manage to say after a while, and immediately want to kick myself. 

“What?” 

I sigh, pushing through the shame, “I did not joke, the previous day. I’m still not joking. I love—”

It would be lying, if I said that I never imagined anything. I’ve read enough romance novels and bribed enough maids to know some things. But this—I had never imagined this. Jihoon’s mouth is gentle, hesitant against mine, as if he’s scared I’m not real. 

He pauses, coming up for breath, “I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t want to hear you saying you love someone else. Not when I’m here in front of you.”

“You didn’t have to be scared,” I mutter, holding onto him, “you are the only one I would cross a line for.”

His eyes widen, and finally, after what seems like a lifetime of waiting, Jihoon smiles at me, radiant, blinding, something that makes me hold desperately on to the belief that we will survive this. That my wedding does not loom on the horizon, that we can spend an eternity here, amidst the falling cherry blossoms, enveloped in each other. I love him in a human way, desperately, because I have never known love, not like this. If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard, and I can map the exact way the errant hair falls over his face, framing his forehead, the smile of his, one that I have grown to crave. 

But we don’t have time, and my hands are bloody. 

“My wedding is in two weeks,” I say, and his face pales, “I cannot evade the man who is going to be my husband.”

“I know him well.”

“Then you should know how cruel he is.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Jihoon sighs, and grasps my hand, “Run away with me.”

I stare at him, “And when the Minister of War comes knocking on my father’s door and demanding his dues, then what? Who will pay up?”

“Your father!” his anger is palpable, “The man who has sold you off to the cruelest man and his equally horrible son, that man will pay for his sins! Let him!”

“He’s still my father, Jihoon.” I step away from his embrace, “even if he did all those things, he is still my father, the person who raised me all my life. I cannot simply give up on the memories because of his decision regarding my marriage.”

“Then will you marry him? The man who used to be my worst nightmare as a child, who is still the worst nightmare of the courtesans here? Do you know how many of the women here spend a night with him, only to be found bruised and beaten the next morning? And you will willingly go to his bed, have his heir?”

“I don’t know all that!” I yell at him, and he stops, dumbstruck, “I just know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing that I let love slip out of my fingers because I was a fool for honor. If I could, I would have spent the rest of my life with you, but I cannot, and therefore I have to make the most of my life while it is still mine.”

Jihoon stares at me, “Two weeks, then? Is that all the time you will be mine for?”

I sigh, “Yes. Two weeks. Then I will be married, and I will be no one’s anymore.”

“But never mine.” His regretful tone spills over into my hands, and I can feel the tears spilling onto my hands, “Princess, I think I’ll die if you’re only mine once and not forever.”

“You’re not allowed to die, Lee Jihoon.” I smile, “Write a song for me.”

“For the gayageum?”

“A song we can play together. For the gayageum and the guqin.” I reply, “Even if I cannot be there with you for this life, there will be a song for us.”

He nods, wrapping me up in his arms, “There will be a song for us, Princess.”

—

Happiness is fleeting. It is incandescent, and it is fleeting, and I will hold on to it for as long as I can. 

“Show me the song,” I say, curled up against Jihoon’s chest, the soft rays of the dawn sunlight illuminating the room, “you’ve been working on that song for a week now, I want to see how it has shaped up.”

“I’ll give it to you on your wedding day,” Jihoon replies, yawning, “Oh, look, it’s almost dawn. I should be going.”

“So soon?” I sit up, “The sun is barely out, and you’re leaving me.”

“Princess,” Jihoon pulls me close, “I don’t want anyone to see me here. And that means I have to be out of here before anyone sees.”

“And leave me here to do embroidery on my wedding dress,” I grumble, “I’m better off making a shroud for myself.”

He says nothing, and leaves. Although it’s required for Jihoon to leave me alone, I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to be excited for this farce of a wedding, when my heart belongs to another person. I hate the fact that my father has never once bothered to see me for who I am, instead seeing me for the political advantage I could bring. Amidst all this, I am simply a pawn in my family’s schemes. To be bought and sold off to whoever pays the highest price. In this case, the Minister of War. 

“Miss,” Songhwa steps inside the room with a bowl of water, “I’ve brought water for you to wash your face.”

“I don’t want it,” I grumble, “what will happen if I don’t wash my face?”

“You’ll hate it.” Songhwa says, far too gently for my liking, “here, it’s warm enough that you like it.”

The water is indeed warm, far too warm for anyone else, but I like it this way, and Songhwa wipes my face with a soft linen towel, before saying, “I saw that man, this morning.”

I pause, “Which man?”

“Lee Jihoon,” she replies, still calm, “he was leaving from the back gate.”

I say nothing. 

“Miss,” Songhwa says, softly, “I know you don’t like this marriage, but there is no time for you to—”

“Don’t, Songhwa.”

She stops. It's the first time I’ve used this tone with her. 

I take a breath, before opening my mouth again, “I know what I have to do, but for the one week that I have left—let me—let me have this one thing, Songhwa. I’ll have to give it up anyway, once I get married. Until I step into that home, let me have this one thing, please.”

“Miss,” I turn to look at her, “I will not tell anyone. You can be assured of that, at least.”

I don’t know what to say. And what do I have to say to her, the girl who has served me for so long? The tears come hard and fast, and I cling to her sleeves as I cry enough to drench her jacket. I hate this place, and yet I cannot manage to break myself out of it. This is a prison of my own making, a prison I have unfortunately fallen in love with. 

“Miss,” Songhwa shakes me lightly, “you know you’re getting married soon, right?”

I nod.  I hate everything about time, I wish I could stop it. 

“Have you been laying with him?” 

“Songhwa!” Even through my tears, I burst out an indignant squawk, “how—how dare you suggest that!”

She shrugs, “I asked a question.”

“Do you want my first time being with a man to be with that—that brute of a man?”

“All men are brutes, my lady,” Songhwa tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, “just in different ways. I’m merely asking, do you know why you’re going there?”

“To make him an heir,” I say, so quietly that Songhwa leans forward to catch my words, “the Minister of War wants an heir from me.”

“And that man is someone’s son, I presume.”

I squint my eyes, the sunlight too glaring for my eyes, “How did you know?”

Songhwa rolls her eyes, “I’m not blind, you know. Even an old man could see the resemblance between him and your fiance. The question I want to ask is, did you approach him knowing this fact?”

“Yes.”

Songhwa sighs, “Miss, are you determined to kill me?”

“Songhwa, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Of course it is as bad as I think!” Songhwa paces around the room, clutching at her hair, “now if they find out you have been having—”

“Songhwa!” I yell, “there could be people listening!”

“There are always people listening, Miss, you told me this,” she sits down on the blanket, “what if you end up with child?”

“Child?” I squawk, unladylike, “what do you mean by that?”

“This is not the first time I’ve seen him come out of your room at an ungodly hour,”” Songhwa gives me an unimpressed look, “you think I’m the only person who has seen him walk out of this house?”

I groan, and Songhwa presses on, “So, I’m asking, what would you do if you found out tomorrow, that you were with his child?”

“Better his than that man’s,” I reply instantly, “if I was having that man’s child, I would kill it and then kill myself.”

Songhwa nods, grim lines set into the corners of her mouth, “You know what you have to do, right?”

“Just pretend,” I sigh, “yeah, a week from now, I have to pretend that the thought of being that man’s wife does not turn my stomach.”

“I’ll help you, Miss,” Songhwa says, “whatever they say, I do not like that man, and I will not let you have his child.”

—

Two days until the wedding. 

I put the finishing touches on my wedding dress, holding it up to the light. It’s a repurposed hwarot, previously owned by my grandmother, and I’ve adorned it with embroidery all throughout the fabric. Hidden amidst cranes and duck medallions, are flowers, flowers that I have embroidered overnight, small, hardy bunches of barberry flowers, entwined with daisies. Over and over again. The thread shimmers in the lamplight, almost invisible unless one pays particular attention.

“Is that the dress?” Jihoon’s voice breaks my concentration, “you did look royally pissed off when observing it. Did they make you do the embroidery yourself?”

“I’ve spent hours doing this godforsaken embroidery,” I groan, “it’s a pretty old dress. Belonged to my grandmother.”

“Explains why it is so gaudy.” He smiles, and I scowl, “well, it looks very beautiful.”

“It was already beautiful to begin with,” I replied, “do you want to see me wear it?”

Jihoon walks over to me, lightly kissing the tip of my nose, “I doubt it would be appropriate to let anyone else but your husband see you in your wedding dress.”

“The entire neighborhood is going to see me in my dress,” I grumble, “besides, I want to marry you. If it were up to me, you would be the one I’d be taking as my husband, not him.”

Jihoon smiles, something permanently broken in that gesture, and wordlessly slides off my jacket to pull on the wedding dress in its place. It’s heavy, weighed down with endless silk, the sleeves are too long, and I don’t know how to walk about wearing it, but he looks at me as though I hung the moon in the sky for him. How do I leave this man behind? In two days, I will marry his half-brother, a man known less for his name, and more for his cruelty. And in his place, I will have to leave behind this man with stars in his eyes, this man who would do anything for me, this man who holds my heart in his hand, a bloody, mangled mess that I willingly handed over to him. 

“Beautiful,” He whispers, “I love you, Princess.”

“Oh, Jihoon,” My tears are salty on both our lips, “I love you too.”

This is not our time, I think to myself, as Jihoon pulls me closer and silences any other complaints I might have, this is not our time. 

—

Night before the wedding. 

I stare at myself, my blurry reflection blinking at myself from the polished metal. What am I even doing here? The door is open, I should run away, I can run away, far from this place, to a mountain town, where Jihoon and I would live, tending to our crops, playing our instruments in the night. I do not want to stay here, I do not want to have a wedding night with a man who is to be my torturer, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with him. 

I stand up, stuffing my clothes and my jewelry into a cloth bag, pulling on my traveling clothes. Expensive hairpins, rings made of jade from the empire, everything bundled up with silk hanboks, tied together in a haphazard pile. I need to leave. Right now. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Songhwa asks, closing the door behind her, “I’ve brought a guest.”

I look up, frantic, “Songhwa, I cannot—I cannot go through with this wedding. I need to go, I need to go to Jihoon. Right now—” and it is Jihoon who steps out from behind Songhwa, wearing a pained expression on his face, tears threatening to fall, “—Songhwa, let me go to him, please.”

Jihoon rushes to my side, wrapping me up in his arms, as I sob, all over the front of his robe, “Please, Princess.”

“I cannot do this, Jihoon,” I whisper, “How will I stand there and take someone else as my husband when my heart belongs to you?”

“Miss,” Songhwa breaks the tense thread of silence, “I don’t know how to give you a present for your wedding. But I can give you one thing.”

She sets down a flask in front of us, ceremonial wine, and a simple gourd, and says, “you don’t have to be married in front of a whole house of people to be married, Miss. I haven't done anything for you, let me at least do this.”

I stare at her, blinking once, twice, before it dawns on me what she wants us to do. If the courtyard of this house is to be the execution ground of your dreams, let this room be its final refuge, her eyes seem to say, I’ll help you have this one night for you, my lady.

The wine is sweet, as it goes down my throat, and Jihoon drinks after me, never once letting his eyes drift. He knows, as well as I, what we are doing. The world will be angry with us, I know, but even as I bow down to Jihoon, my forehead touching the warm wood of my floor, I cannot bring myself to care about the world. The world will hate me, but I cannot look at the world when he is in front of me. 

“If there is a next life, Lee Jihoon,” I say, as he wipes the corner of my mouth with the handkerchief I had given him, “I hope we can meet there.”

“Promise me you won't forget me, Princess?” 

“I’d remember you across lifetimes, Jihoon,” I smile, kissing his knuckles, “even if all you do is hurt me, I would like to meet you again.”

This is my wedding night, I tell myself, as Jihoon extinguishes the lamp, no matter what happens tomorrow, this is the night I want to honor. All my lessons of honor and dignity have led me to this moment; in this moment, Jihoon is mine, and he is the highest honor I can dream of possessing. 

“You’ve rendered me entirely useless, Princess,” Jihoon says, in the end, when I am desperately clinging on to him to commit this warmth to memory, “I used to be useful before, you know. Now all I can think about is you.”

I say nothing, merely cling to him harder. If he notices, he does not say anything. 

Before I drift off to fitful, dreamless sleep, and Jihoon leaves my side for the last time, I wonder to myself, if the gods approve of this union, they will give me a child. A child that does not belong to the man I am supposed to marry, a child of my own, who will grow up to be just like their father. 

This is not our time. Maybe in another life. 

—

Epilogue

Jihoon steps down from the carriage in front of the house that he had left as a child, vowing to never return. And yet, here he was, raising a hand to knock on the door. 

He can barely knock once before the door heaves open, and it is the young girl who used to be her maid, Songhwa, looking at him with tears in her eyes, and for a second, he fears he is too late, too late to see her face for one final time, too see the spark in her eyes that had entranced him since the moment she stepped foot into his space. 

“How is—” He manages to stammer out half his sentence, when she grabs him by the cuff, and drags him to a small chamber across the yard, standing separate from the rest of the house. Jihon resists the urge to laugh. So much seclusion, even though they have sent her off to the hills to give birth by herself. 

“The man thinks it’s his child,” Songhwa says, gathering warm water and strips of boiled cotton in her arms, “both the lady and I know better, of course.”

Jihoon gapes at her, “You mean to say—”, but before he can finish his words, a low, pained groan reaches his ears, and then they are both running, into the humid room, where—

It's her. 

After so many years, Jihoon cannot help but stop in his tracks, because she has always managed to render him speechless. Even now—emaciated, in pain, and clearly dying, she still manages to look more beautiful than even the famed beauties of Ming. 

“Princess,” He whispers, stepping into the room, “you’re still as beautiful as I first saw you.”

“Flirt.” She laughs, and immediately curls up into herself, groaning in pain. 

“Sir,” Songhwa hands him a bowl of cotton cloth, boiled and cleaned, “she has a fever, you’ll need to cool her down.”

“No doctor?” He asks, placing a cold compress on her forehead, her pale forehead that now had a sheen of death on it, “did they leave her here to die?”

“The doctor is coming,” Songhwa clarifies, working quickly, “my lady, it’s almost over.”

“Ugh,” she groans in his arms, and he can see how her collarbones rise, stark against her skin, and he knows why Songhwa has called him here. She’s dying. She has no hope of surviving this childbirth, and she’s going to die. In his arms, as he looks on, hopeless. 

“Miss,” Songhwa urges, tearing up strips of cloth with her bloody hands, “miss, just one push, please, miss.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, her head falling back onto his arms, “I really can’t, Songhwa. I’ll die.”

“You won’t die,” He says firmly, “you can do it, Princess. I know you can.”

She shakes her head, convulsing violently, screaming bloody murder, but Jihoon has the ocean rushing in his ears, and all he can envision is a different reality; the two of them, with their own little family, in a place far, far away from here. He would never let go of her ever again. Please let me hold on to her, he had begged on their wedding night, I don’t want to ever let anything go again. 

All of a sudden, she breathes heavily, and the room lights up, with a newborn’s first cry. Songhwa holds the baby in her arms, deftly swaddling it, and places it in her arms. The cries of a newborn echoes throughout the room, and Jihoon—

Jihoon cannot look at anyone but her. 

Emaciated, she looks so small in his arms, a far cry from the woman who had captivated him, but he finds himself arrested by her gaze anyway, looking at her—at their child, with so much love he does not think there is a vessel big enough to contain it. 

“It’s a boy, my lady,” Songhwa says, and she nods, “congratulations.”

Her breaths are coming fast and hard now, a sign of her diminishing life, and Jihoon hates himself, hates the world that has made her this way, but most of all, he hates this child, who took her so cruelly from him. He has so much to tell her, so many things to do for her. He wants her to live a long life, to live a full life. Except life is fleeting, and she is dying, right in front of him. 

She looks up at him, the same bright gaze, glazed over with the pain of childbirth, “Name him.”

Jihoon stares. Even now, even now, when she is dying, all she can think about is her child. Their child, if the gods were so merciful. At this moment, he hates the gods. 

“He’s your son, Princess,” he replies softly, undoing the heavy braid that must have been so painful for her, “name him for the both of us.”

She nods, cradling the crying infant, “Woo-ju. The universe.”

The universe. A fitting name, for a child who has had everything taken away from him the moment he was born. “Woo-ju,” Jihoon nods, “our universe, Princess.”

She nods, and before he can say anything in reply, make a joke to lighten the mood, her body begins convulsing, her breaths coming rapid and shallow. The beginning of the end, Jihoon thinks, an end he cannot do anything save endure. 

Songhwa moves faster than him, picking up the crying infant from her arms and walking out of the room. She says nothing, but Jihoon knows, can hear her sob outside of the door. It’s a small mercy that Songhwa has gifted him, of being close to her in the final moments of her life. 

“Princess,” He lightly taps her cheek, and her eyes open, “Princess, I made a song for you.”

“A song,” she says, voice faint, “play it for me sometime, Lee Jihoon.”

“I’ll play it for you tomorrow, Princess,” He sobs, holding her close, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Jihoon.”

He looks up at her face, the same one that had held so much pain and love in it, “Lee Jihoon. In my next life, if you meet me—”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Come say hello to me once.” She smiles, “so I can tell you how much I love you, one more time.”

He sobs, “You’re delusional if you think I am ever letting go of you, Princess.”

She laughs, and oh how much he has craved to hear it, the same carefree, careless laughter of her youth, “I love you, Lee Jihoon.”

The sheets of music remain in his pocket until the sunrise. 

—

Songhwa comes in minutes later, to find them both curled up within each other, Jihoon’s sobs tapering into quiet whimpers as he holds her close. She says nothing, cries silently as she braids her lady’s hair for one last time. 

Jihoon tucks in a handkerchief inside her jacket, before he leaves the house. 

taglist: @hisnowbie2 @cherry-zip @facethesunflower

[sleepyhoons]

thanks for the tag! @yudaies YO WE'RE A GREAT MATCH

never knew i was a raccoon 🦝 and a hamster 🐹 i did it twice because i had two options i wanted to pick >:c

i fit the raccoon a lot though ngl LMAO cuz I'm not ticklish nor cheesy

no pressure tags <3 @loserlvrss @wonkierideul @hhaechansmoless @seokminfilm @blue-jisungs @am00ures ++ anyone who wants to do it!

Fun little quiz

[sleepyhoons]

i love him so dang much 🥺

◍　FALLING DREAMS　( 이석민 )

genre fluff , period comfort , established relationship , seokmin x fem!reader   cw cramps/nausea/headaches/other period stuff mentioned but no blood , not proofread   wc 804   request for @seokminfilm lyr my love this will cure ur cramps 100% (i hope)   note slytherinshua svt fic era WE ARE SO BACK (i'm not actually in an era only for my pookie lyr) ++ listen to falling dreams while reading   net @kstrucknet

You’d been cursed with painful cramps on your periods since you were a teenager. Coupled with nausea, headaches, and soreness, it was safe to say you loathed whenever that week of torture came around. Most people thought you were being dramatic about how much it hurt, even when sometimes it was too hard to even stand up because of the pain. 

The worst was whenever you had to bring up the topic to men. Calling in sick for work became more trouble than it was worth due to your prying boss who was stricter than reason. And God forbid you mentioned your time of the month as a reason for your absence. You’d been laughed at, threatened, and humiliated multiple times to the point that you avoided it at all costs. It was easier to suffer through the pain all day at the office than try to fight your way for a reasonable excused sick day.

But you were lucky that there was at least one reasonable man in your life. Your boyfriend Seokmin took your time of the month more seriously than you sometimes. He was always more than willing to get you anything you needed, and was extra affectionate and loving. Although he didn’t know how it felt to go through the painful cramps, he could imagine just how painful it must be. Seeing you grimace your way through every long day saddened him. He tried his utmost best to make it even a little easier for you.

Which was why now, after a long day at work and several breakdowns throughout the day due to the hormonal rollercoaster your body was riding, you were now lying in bed listening to the soft sound of Seokmin’s singing from the kitchen. He was making your favourite brownies as was tradition. 

It started years ago when you first started dating. You were a bit too shy to ask your boyfriend of only a week to help you with anything relating to the pain. Meanwhile, Seokmin was both confused and concerned on why you kept wincing every few minutes while trying to watch a movie. When he finally coaxed the answer out of you, he was unexpectedly sweet about it all. 

You laugh at the memory now. Of course Seokmin was the sweetest ever when he heard about the pain you were experiencing. It was perfectly in character for him. You soon learned that the attractive man who always made you laugh was also one with the kindest soul you had ever met. You knew from that day that you had chosen right. Seokmin was a dream. 

“Baby, I just put them in the oven, okay? Thirty minutes and they’ll be ready,” Seokmin called as he made his way back to your shared bedroom. A pretty smile graced his face as he caught sight of you wrapped up in the blankets. “How are you feeling now?” 

His soft question made your heart melt a little, and with a gentle hand reaching to brush back your hair, you felt overwhelmed all at once. What did you do to deserve a man as perfect as him?

“Still feels like someone’s stabbing my insides repeatedly, but you’re making it better,” you told him, raking your hand up to meet his, interlacing your fingers together. He frowned slightly at your response, hating to see you in such pain, even if it was a normal thing. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Seokmin’s voice was gentle, soothing to your ears. Whenever you were around him, all the pain you felt seemed to subside, even just a little. His touch was delicate as he pulled you up from the pillows for a hug, squeezing extra tightly when he heard the muffled whimper of pain escape your lips. He knew after years that this is all you needed. A warm hug, comforting words, and delicious fudgy brownies to distract from the pain.

Tender kisses were what came next, the first few pressed to your cheek before he travelled lower to your lips. You giggled with every exaggerated ‘mwah!’ that Seokmin added after every peck, attempting to lift your mood in any way. And it always worked wonders. 

It worked too well, in fact, judging by the whine of protest that left your lips as soon as he stopped kissing you. But he remedied it as quickly as he could, lips falling back onto yours, hands holding your waist gently, cautiously, as if you were in danger of breaking at any additional pressure. To Seokmin, you were the most precious part of his life. He made it quite known with his selflessness and caring towards you. And if you were to ever doubt it, all it took was one bite of brownie to be reminded again.

Seokmin was a dream. And he was all yours.

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