stewpidcheescatarinabluu

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Synopsis: You’ve built your company from the ground up, and Giselle has always been by your side — your secretary, your confidante, your constant. Years of working together have formed a bond deeper than business, but when you finally confess your feelings, she insists it must stay professional. Heartbroken, you throw yourself into work… until a gala brings Karina into your life. Her warmth and charm spark something you didn’t expect, pulling you out of the past. Yet even as new feelings bloom, Giselle’s quiet presence lingers, reminding you that some bonds aren’t easily broken — and that the heart doesn’t always follow the rules.

Word Count: 4.8K

Karina & Giselle X Male Reader

Tags: Fluff, Angst

A/n: Thank you so much for commissioning me. Your support truly means a lot and it made me really happy to work on this project for you. I really enjoyed bringing your idea to life and I hope it brings you as much joy as I felt while creating it, It was such a pleasure working with you and I hope we get to collaborate again in the future. Your support really encourages me to keep doing what I love, and I’m so grateful for that, Thank you so much once again from the bottom of my heart

Playlist 💘➡️ HERE

You hadn’t imagined success would begin in a tiny, crumbling office that smelled faintly of old carpet and stale coffee. The walls were yellowed with age, the ceiling tiles squeaked whenever the air conditioner kicked on, and the fluorescent lights buzzed with a persistent hum that promised headaches by the end of the day. But to you, this place was more than a room; it was the starting point of everything you had dreamed of.

You had nothing but ideas, stubbornness, and a burning desire to prove that you could make it work. No investors, no staff, not even proper chairs. Just a battered desk, a laptop that threatened to die at any moment, and piles of papers covered in sketches, notes, and half-formed plans. And then there was Giselle.

From the very first day, she had been your anchor in the chaos. When you fumbled with boxes, tripping over a stack of office supplies that had somehow ended up in the middle of the floor, she caught the heaviest one without hesitation, set it down carefully, and gave you a small, calm smile. “We’ll get through this,” she said. And somehow, you believed her.

The early days were brutal. Days and nights blurred together. You were constantly on calls with potential clients who were polite, kind, and ultimately uninterested. You attended meetings that started late and ended even later, leaving you drained but refusing to quit. Coffee cups were stacked in corners like trophies of survival, and laptops overheated on makeshift tables that served as both desk and dining area. Through it all, Giselle never faltered.

She had an uncanny ability to sense the small things—the tremor in your hands after a difficult negotiation, the way your shoulders stiffened when the weight of responsibility pressed down, the subtle exhaustion that came with sleeping too few hours and carrying too many burdens. She never judged, never complained. She simply worked beside you, organized your chaos, reminded you to eat, and sometimes, just sat in silence, letting you think through your next move.

You remembered one particularly long night. A client had backed out at the last minute, citing reasons you knew were excuses, and you had been ready to collapse on the floor. Giselle had stayed by your side, stacking papers and quietly humming a tune that you couldn’t identify but that somehow steadied your frayed nerves. She brewed coffee, brought it to you, and waited until you were calm enough to function again. “Drink this. You’ll think better with caffeine,” she said, setting the cup down on the cluttered desk. And somehow, you did.

There were moments of levity too, though rare. One night, you had attempted a presentation for an investor over video call, only for the laptop to freeze mid-sentence. You had flailed dramatically, cursing the machine, when Giselle leaned over, clicked a button, and saved the day. “Maybe next time, don’t threaten the computer with your existential despair,” she quipped, her lips twitching in amusement. You had laughed despite yourself, the sound echoing in the tiny office and feeling like a small victory.

Even amidst exhaustion and failure, Giselle had a way of making small victories feel monumental. The first time you landed a client who actually signed the contract, she had let out a whoop of joy that startled you. Then she had grabbed your hands and clapped them together like a child celebrating a birthday. “We did it!” she had said, grinning. And though it had been ridiculous, it had felt perfect.

There were nights when the office was completely empty except for the two of you. City lights stretched through the glass, soft and distant, like stars that had fallen into the skyline. Those nights were quieter than any other — filled with the sound of typing, the hum of the air conditioner, and occasional muttered curses at stubborn printers or software crashes. Sometimes, she would pause her work and just watch you, head tilted, eyes calm, as if silently gauging your endurance. You would meet her gaze and smile tiredly, and she would smile back, not with judgment but with understanding.

She had her own rituals, too. She liked her coffee black, with no sugar, and would set it on a coaster beside her laptop, always careful not to spill. She organized documents meticulously, labeling each folder with precision that made your own chaotic notes look like child’s play. She remembered birthdays, anniversaries of milestones, and the tiniest details about your schedule that you sometimes forgot. She remembered when you had skipped lunch three days in a row, and she left a sandwich on your desk with a note that simply said: “Eat. Now.”

In turn, you had small gestures of your own, ones that only she would notice. The way you always left a sticky note on her desk with a reminder about deadlines, the little sketches you sometimes doodled when thinking through ideas, the choice of background music in the office that you knew she liked but rarely commented on. Over time, these gestures built a silent language between the two of you, one that required no words but said everything: “I see you. I need you. We can do this together.”

There were challenges, of course. Financial struggles that made you question whether you had been foolish to start at all. Equipment failures, power outages, client meetings that ended in disappointment. And yet, through every obstacle, Giselle never wavered. If anything, her presence made the impossible feel manageable.

You remembered the night the server crashed completely, taking hours of work with it. You had been ready to scream, to throw something across the room, when she simply sat down beside you, opened a backup file, and started piecing everything together. “We’ll recover it,” she said quietly, almost as a promise to both of you. And somehow, you believed her. That night, as you watched her work with calm determination, you felt a mixture of awe and gratitude so deep it nearly left you speechless.

There were the small, human moments too: shared laughter when one of you spilled coffee, the quiet sighs after a long day, the comfortable silences where nothing needed to be said. You began to rely on her presence, on the rhythm of your partnership, more than you realized. You didn’t have to explain yourself; she understood without words. And she relied on you, too, in her own quiet way — trusting your decisions, following your lead, and sometimes challenging you just enough to make you think differently, to grow.

Sometimes, she would tease you. Like the day you tried to carry too many boxes at once and dropped half of them. “Are you trying to start a new sport called ‘Office Olympics’? Because if so, you’re failing spectacularly,” she had said, laughing. Or the time you forgot to pay a vendor on time, and she shook her head, exasperated but amused. “Next time, I’m hiding your wallet until you remember. Don’t test me.”

The early mornings and late nights forged a bond that was stronger than either of you had anticipated. You became a team in the truest sense, anticipating each other’s needs, covering for each other’s weaknesses, celebrating small wins together. That bond was unspoken, almost invisible to the outside world, but it was there in every glance, every shared sigh, every quiet moment of support.

As the months passed and the company slowly began to take shape, that bond only deepened. The first time you moved into a proper office space, with walls that didn’t smell of mildew and chairs that didn’t threaten back problems, you and Giselle were the first to walk through the empty rooms. She had wandered from corner to corner, checking the light, the desks, the little things you had overlooked in your excitement. “Not bad for a start,” she murmured, smiling faintly. You watched her with quiet affection, noting how natural she looked in the space that was now yours — no, your both’s — and you realized that she had become more than an employee, more than a friend. She had become the constant in a world of uncertainty.

Even as you hired more staff and the office grew noisier and busier, your bond with her remained. She never complained about staying late, never demanded recognition for the countless small things she did, and always seemed to know when to push and when to let go. You often caught yourself glancing at her during meetings, noting the way she calmly organized her notes or subtly guided discussions, and silently thanking whatever fate had put her at your side.

By now, the two of you had developed little rituals. You brewed coffee for each other during late nights, shared leftover snacks like tiny celebrations, and sometimes, when the exhaustion was too much, you just sat in silence and let the hum of the office lull you into a shared, quiet comfort. She had a way of turning even the most stressful day into something bearable with a joke, a small gesture, or just her presence.

And even though neither of you admitted it, even to yourselves, that foundation was stronger than the company itself. It was what had allowed you to survive, to persevere, to dream bigger than you ever thought possible.

Some things — like trust, loyalty, and quiet understanding — couldn’t be measured in profits or milestones. And with Giselle by your side, you realized you had already built something far more valuable than success. Something enduring. Something unshakable.

Even if the world didn’t see it, you did. And she did too.

The office had changed. Where there was once barely space to move, now there were desks lined up in neat rows, computers humming steadily, and phones ringing more frequently than you could count. The company was growing, and with growth came chaos of a different kind. Deadlines tightened, new clients demanded attention, and you found yourself juggling more than you ever thought possible.

Through it all, Giselle remained constant. She moved among the chaos like a quiet storm, precise and calm, always knowing what needed to be done before you even asked. You often caught yourself watching her as she coordinated a new hire or fielded a difficult client email. There was a grace to her efficiency that made the long days bearable, and somehow, even amidst the pressure, you felt a strange comfort simply knowing she was there.

“Don’t forget the Henderson pitch tomorrow,” she reminded one evening, a stack of papers balanced expertly in her arms. “And please, try to get some sleep. You’re going to crash if you pull another 18-hour day.”

You glanced at her with a tired grin. “Sleep is for the weak,” you teased, and she rolled her eyes, her lips twitching with amusement. “Then the weak will take over and collapse your empire while you nap. Fair warning.”

Moments like these were frequent — small exchanges that held more weight than they appeared to. A joke, a knowing glance, a hand brushing a stray hair from her face without thinking. Nothing overt, nothing that crossed the line, yet everything between the two of you seemed loaded with a silent understanding that neither dared speak aloud.

It was during nights like these that the subtle feelings began to stir. You found yourself noticing the way she smiled when a deal went right, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the small gestures she made that seemed to communicate without words. And though you told yourself repeatedly that it was “just partnership,” the truth was harder to deny: you cared more than you had ever admitted, even to yourself.

Giselle, of course, had her own little ways of showing care. She would leave a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it on your desk. She had learned which deadlines made your chest tighten, which calls made your jaw clench, and she always appeared just in time to either calm or support you. There was a rhythm between the two of you, a silent choreography that no one else could understand.

One evening, after a particularly grueling client meeting, she stayed behind with you as usual. The office was empty except for the two of you, and the soft glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across the room. You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples, and she placed a hand on your shoulder lightly.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she said softly, her voice calm but insistent. “The company will survive without you working yourself to the bone.”

You looked at her, grateful yet exhausted. “And you? You’ve been here just as long.”

“I’m fine,” she said with a small, knowing smile. “I work better when someone else is panicking around me. Keeps me entertained.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “And yet, you rely on me every single day.”

The words hung in the air, unspoken but heavy. You looked away, pretending to busy yourself with documents, though your mind was elsewhere. It was moments like this — quiet, simple, ordinary — that gnawed at your chest. You cared for her. More than you should. More than you dared admit.

And Giselle? You were starting to notice the same subtle signs. The way she lingered a moment longer when you passed her in the office. The careful attentiveness when you spoke about stressful clients or impossible deadlines. The faint blush she tried to hide when she teased you, or the way her eyes softened when she watched you make a tough decision.

But both of you remained careful. Professional. Boundaries were never crossed, no matter how tempting it became. Every touch, every glance, every shared laugh was measured, deliberate. You worried that if one of you let it slip, everything you had built — the company, the partnership, the trust — might unravel.

Still, the tension built in the small ways. You found yourself craving her presence when the office felt overwhelming, and her attention when challenges mounted. And there were nights, particularly long nights, when you stayed late together, typing reports, organizing schedules, and occasionally glancing at each other in quiet acknowledgment of the exhaustion you shared.

One night, she handed you a stack of contracts with a soft, “Here, I double-checked all the figures. You don’t have to worry about a single mistake.”

You took the papers, studying her carefully. “You make this look effortless.”

“Someone has to,” she said, a playful spark in her eye. “If I don’t, who will stop you from burning the place down?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”

It was in these moments — shared jokes, quiet acknowledgments, small acts of care — that the bond between you deepened. Every late night, every crisis averted, every client won or lost together reinforced the connection neither of you dared to name. It was a bond forged in hours of exhaustion, shared victories, and mutual reliance, a foundation that would one day make confession almost inevitable.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the company continued to grow. New hires came and went, office routines settled into place, and the tiny, once-crumbling office became a bustling, functioning space of ambition and achievement. And through it all, Giselle remained by your side, the constant in a world that was ever-changing, the calm in the storm, the person who understood you better than anyone else.

Even without words, the unspoken feelings grew stronger. You felt them in every glance, every laugh, every shared exhaustion, every comforting gesture. She felt them too, you were certain, in the quiet way she lingered near you, in the attentive way she anticipated your needs, in the playful smirks that masked something deeper.

And though neither of you had crossed the line yet, you both knew — one day, perhaps sooner than later — something had to give.

The confession, you realized, was approaching. But for now, there was work to do, deals to win, and a partnership to maintain. And so you stayed, side by side, navigating the chaos of a growing company, silently aware of the feelings simmering just beneath the surface.

The office felt smaller than usual that evening. Perhaps it was the quiet, the city lights outside, or the weight of a long week pressing on your shoulders. You had stayed late, as usual, going over contracts and projections that seemed endless. But Giselle was still there, calmly typing at her desk, occasionally humming to herself.

You watched her for a moment, noting the way her hair fell around her face, the way her fingers moved over the keyboard with precision and care. Every small motion reminded you why you trusted her so completely, why you relied on her not just professionally but emotionally.

And tonight, the feeling was different. Heavier. More urgent.

“You’re still here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Of course,” she replied without looking up. “Someone has to make sure you don’t drown in spreadsheets.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I could survive without you, you know.”

“Sure,” she said, a teasing note in her voice, “if by survive you mean stumble around, lose all the contracts, and cry in the corner. But hey, that might be entertaining.”

You smiled at her, but the grin didn’t reach your eyes. The truth was, you didn’t just want her around for the work. You wanted her there because she was her. Her calm, her humor, her presence that somehow made the impossible feel manageable.

The tension had been building for months. Small glances, accidental touches, quiet conversations that lingered too long. Both of you had felt it but never dared to name it. Tonight, though, the weight of it was impossible to ignore.

“Giselle,” you began, your voice catching slightly. She looked up, curious. “I need to say something. Something important.”

She blinked, pausing mid-typing. “Important?”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat felt in the quiet office. “Yes. I… I can’t keep it in anymore.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, a quiet tension threading through the air. “You’re scaring me a little,” she admitted softly.

You took a deep breath, stepping closer. Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to play it safe, but the months of hidden longing pushed you forward. “I’ve felt this for a long time,” you confessed, the words finally escaping after years of silence. “I care about you. More than I should, more than I’m allowed to. And I can’t pretend anymore that it’s just… professional.”

Her eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed suspended. You could see the conflict flicker in her gaze — the surprise, the restraint, the careful professionalism she always wore like armor.

“I…” she began, then paused, taking a steadying breath. “We can’t.”

Your chest tightened. “I know,” you whispered. “I know the boundaries, the risks. But I had to tell you. I had to.”

There was a long silence. You both stood there, two people caught between years of trust, reliance, and unspoken feelings. Finally, she looked away, her expression carefully neutral. “We should keep this professional,” she said softly.

The words hit like ice, sharp and clear. You nodded slowly, forcing a small smile. “Professional,” you echoed, but the weight in your chest told you it was a lie.

That night, you left the office feeling hollow, haunted by what could have been and what you had just risked. Yet, a strange clarity had settled over you. You had said it. You had admitted it. And now, even though it was painful, it was out in the open.

The office felt different now. Not the layout, not the light, not even the endless hum of computers and printers — it was him. You. Y/N. There was a weight in the air, subtle but unmistakable, as if the space itself had absorbed the tension of that night.

You arrived at the office earlier than usual, hoping to immerse yourself in work, but even the routine felt hollow. Coffee tasted muted, emails blurred together, and every small task seemed to stretch endlessly. Giselle noticed immediately, of course. She always did.

“You’re up early,” she said softly, glancing at you from across her desk, a folder in her hands. “Or… trying to escape the evening rush again?”

You shook your head, forcing a small, polite smile. “Just… wanted to get a head start. Lots to do today.”

Her eyes studied you for a moment, curious and concerned, and then she nodded, accepting your words at face value — though not entirely convinced. She returned to her work, the faint hum of the printer filling the pause between you.

For days, this became the pattern. You kept a polite distance — interacting when necessary, conducting meetings efficiently, answering emails and phone calls — but your laughter was quieter, your smiles rarer. Giselle tried to maintain her usual energy, but even her humor had softened when directed toward you.

“The Henderson client called again,” she said one morning, sliding a report across the desk. “I’ve drafted a response, but you’ll need to approve it before sending.”

You nodded, taking the paper with a distracted, almost absent expression. “Thanks. Looks good.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed gently. “You seem… off.”

You sighed softly, leaning back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fine,” you said, but the words felt hollow even as they left your lips. She didn’t push further, though the concern in her gaze lingered. She knew better than to press, but the worry was palpable.

Evenings became harder. You stayed late, not to immerse yourself in work, but to delay facing the quiet apartment waiting for you outside the office. Giselle, aware of your habits, sometimes lingered in the office too, organizing files or double-checking schedules. You interacted as needed — sharing notes, discussing strategy, passing each other coffee — but the warmth that had once defined your partnership felt stretched thin.

“You missed lunch again,” she said one afternoon, placing a neatly wrapped sandwich on your desk. “Please, just eat something. Even a CEO needs food.”

You looked at it, your heart tightening at her care, but forced a wry smile. “Thanks, Giselle… I’ll try.”

She tilted her head, a small frown forming. “You’re trying, but it doesn’t look like it’s working.”

You chuckled softly, the sound tired, hollow. “Maybe some things take longer than others.”

The tension between maintaining professionalism and the unspoken emotions was nearly suffocating. Every glance, every shared silence was layered with history — months of shared victories, nights spent working side by side, moments that had once felt effortless now felt charged with a weight neither of you dared to acknowledge.

There were small, fleeting reminders of the confession night. A joke she made that mirrored one you had laughed at too long ago. A glance that lingered just a beat longer. Every interaction reminded you of what had been unspoken, and the sadness gnawed at the edges of your focus.

And yet, you could not abandon her. Giselle was integral to everything you had built. The company, the schedules, the chaos — none of it could function without her. So you kept showing up. Kept interacting. Kept your distance, but not so far that your absence would be felt.

“Y/N,” she asked one evening, as you reviewed a series of contracts, “do you want me to prep the Henderson presentation slides for tomorrow? Or do you want to handle it yourself?”

You paused, then shook your head. “I’ll do it. But… thanks for asking.”

“Of course,” she said softly, returning to her own work. The silence stretched, filled with all the words neither of you dared say.

Even in the distance, even in the quiet sadness, there were moments of closeness — the brief brush of hands as she passed documents, the quiet encouragement when you solved a difficult problem, the way she subtly adjusted schedules to ease your burden without drawing attention. These moments were bittersweet, reminders of what could not be, yet proof that some bonds could withstand pain and restraint.

You stayed late that night, the office bathed in the soft glow of lamps and the distant hum of the city. Giselle tidied her desk nearby, occasionally glancing at you, silent, patient, unrelenting in her support. You didn’t speak, but the weight of what had been confessed — and denied — hung in the air.

Finally, you leaned back, eyes closing for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath. She left a cup of coffee on your desk — not a note this time, not a reminder, just the quiet, steady presence you had grown to rely on. You stared at it, touched and heart-heavy, knowing that your feelings had been laid bare but unreciprocated.

“Thanks, Giselle,” you whispered, almost to yourself. She glanced up, smiled faintly, and went back to her work.

It was the slowest, quietest kind of heartbreak — existing alongside the very person who had unwittingly caused it, within the very walls of the company you had built together. Yet, despite the ache, you kept moving forward. Because this was your life. Your company. And Giselle was still your anchor, even when the heart ached.

The distance was temporary, you told yourself. You had work to do, challenges to face, and perhaps one day, the weight of your unspoken feelings would be balanced with clarity and resolution.

For now, you endured, quietly sad, distant but present, and painfully aware of the delicate line between professionalism and longing.

The week leading up to the gala feels heavier than usual, but not with heartbreak — with the weight of work you throw yourself into to distract from it. You review contracts, prepare presentations, and go over proposals with meticulous precision. The sadness that has clung to you for weeks hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened, dulled by purpose and routine. Giselle is there, quietly supportive as ever, but there’s a subtle tension now, a rhythm between you that neither of you needs to comment on.

“Are you ready for the gala tonight?” she asks, adjusting your jacket with a careful hand.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, forcing a small, polite smile. “I just hope I survive the small talk.”

“You always survive,” she teases, a light sparkle in her eyes. “Just… try not to stare at every attractive person in the room. It’s a gala, not a distraction contest.”

You laugh softly, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. “Noted.”

The gala is everything you expect: glittering chandeliers, flowing champagne, influential clients, and polite laughter echoing around the grand ballroom. Usually, the room would feel suffocating, but tonight, you move through it with practiced ease. For the first time in weeks, you feel present, engaged, and not haunted by memories of Giselle’s rejection.

Then you see her. Karina.

She moves through the crowd with effortless grace, her presence warm and magnetic. You’re drawn to her instantly — confident but approachable, bright yet understated. And when her eyes meet yours, curiosity sparks, and you feel a flutter in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time.

“Hi,” she says, her voice smooth and warm. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Karina.”

“Y/N,” you reply, extending your hand before realizing how flustered you feel. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She smiles — just the faintest curve of her lips — and the warmth it brings is immediate. “Pleasure’s mine. I hear a lot about you — your company’s work is impressive.”

You feel a flush of pride. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

The conversation flows easily, effortlessly. She asks about your role, your vision for the company, and you find yourself genuinely enjoying the curiosity and humor in her voice. For the first time since Giselle’s rejection, your chest feels lighter, your thoughts clearer, unburdened by the past.

“And what about you?” you ask, leaning slightly closer, drawn in by her presence. “What do you do?”

“Project management,” she replies, laughing lightly. “But tonight, I’m here to enjoy the gala, not spreadsheets.”

You chuckle. “Fair enough. I should take a page from your book.”

It’s easy, natural, and comforting. You almost forget the ache that has lingered these past weeks. Her laughter is genuine, her interest palpable, and every small joke makes you feel more alive than you have in a long time.

“I feel like we could talk for hours,” she admits, smiling warmly. “But I should mingle before someone notices I’ve disappeared.”

“Yes, of course,” you reply reluctantly. “But… can I see you again?”

Her smile widens, and she leans just slightly closer. “I think that can be arranged.”

Then she disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, your heart racing, a small, involuntary smile on your face. For the first time in weeks, you feel a flicker of hope.

But as you turn to move back into the crowd, you catch a glimpse of Giselle across the room. She’s watching you, her expression unreadable, calm yet assessing. Your chest tightens slightly — the past isn’t fully gone, and you know the path forward is still tangled, delicate, and uncertain.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and remind yourself that this is only the beginning. The night is far from over, and for the first time in a long while, possibilities feel real again.

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

CHAPTER 3 “Wolf in sheep’s clothing”

Synopsis: You’re just co-hosts on Inkigayo that’s what you tell yourself. But between quiet lunches, shared umbrellas, and glances that linger longer than they should, Yunjin starts to feel like more than just another idol. She’s golden retriever warmth to your black cat calm, the chaos you didn’t know your life needed. And maybe, just maybe… you’re the calm she’s been searching for too.

Word Count: 7.3k

Huh Yunjin X Male Reader.

Tags: Fluff, Angst.

The studio lights were blinding, almost theatrical in how they painted over the truth. You stood in your designated spot, mic in hand, the set alive with color and laughter. Somewhere to your left, Minjae’s voice carried through the segment, sharp and charismatic, the perfect host.

On the monitors, you looked fine. Professional. Even friendly. In reality, your jaw was tight enough to ache.

“Alright, everyone, give it up for tonight’s performers!” Minjae’s voice boomed, and the crowd roared on cue. He pivoted toward you with a grin that could sell anything. “You’ll be introducing the next act, right?”

You nodded, giving him the same fake smile you’d perfected for cameras. “That’s right.”

The moment the director yelled “Cut,” the air shifted. The warmth in Minjae’s expression drained away like someone had flipped a switch. He leaned slightly toward you, clapping a friendly hand on your back for the benefit of anyone watching.

“You look tired,” he said softly, almost pitying. “Maybe you should skip a few more rehearsals. You’re getting pretty good at disappearing.”

You kept your face still, lips still curved in a camera-ready half-smile. “Watch yourself, Minjae.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound grating. “Oh, I am watching. And so is everyone else.”

The cameras started rolling again, and you both instantly returned to your roles — smiles, easy banter, no one the wiser. But each time the director’s voice cut through with another “Reset,” Minjae found another little jab to slip in.

“You hear what people are saying online? They think you’ve been moody because of me and Yunjin. Cute, isn’t it?”

“Careful,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’m careful,” he replied, his tone dropping just enough that you had to lean in to catch it. “But you? You’re on borrowed time.”

And then, just like that, he’d flash that blinding grin again, turning to announce the next act as if nothing had happened at all

The applause from the segment rolled through the soundstage like a low tide, ebbing away into the scattered shuffle of crew members breaking down set pieces. The harsh stage lights dimmed, replaced by the cool bluish glow of the backstage fluorescents. You stepped off the platform and into the narrow hall that wound behind the set, your mind a tangle of thoughts that had nothing to do with the interview you’d just sat through.

Your heartbeat hadn’t quite settled. The entire segment, Minjae had been pushing — little digs slipped between lines, smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. He was good at hiding it in front of the cameras, masking malice in a way that only someone with practice could. But you saw it. You felt it. Every word had been deliberate, poking just enough to test the waters without giving the audience anything to latch onto.

The hum of the ventilation system filled the empty hallway. The sound was steady, almost calming, but it couldn’t drown out the echo of Minjae’s voice in your head. You kept your pace brisk, hands stuffed into your pockets, eyes on the scuffed floor tiles. Just get out of here, you told yourself. Head to the dressing room, grab your stuff, and leave before he has the chance—

“Easy there, hotshot.”

You froze mid-step. His voice carried down the hallway with a smug ease, and you knew without turning around that the smirk was there. Always the smirk.

Slowly, you pivoted. Minjae was leaning against the wall like he owned the place, his posture casual but calculated. One foot crossed over the other, head tilted, cue cards spinning lazily between his fingers as if he’d been waiting for you. The faint scent of his cologne — sharp, synthetic — reached you even from here.

“Don’t want the crew thinking you’ve got an anger problem on top of everything else,” he said, his tone dripping with mock concern.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust yourself to.

He chuckled under his breath, pushing himself off the wall with exaggerated slowness. “What? No comeback?” His shoes clicked against the tile as he closed the distance, each step measured. “Or are you too busy wondering what I’ve told Yunjin lately?”

That did it. The irritation simmering under your skin hardened into something sharper, heavier.

“Don’t,” you warned, your voice low.

But he just grinned wider. “What? That you’ve been a little… obsessive? That maybe the whole ‘bodyguard’ thing is just an excuse to stay close? You know how it sounds when I put it like that? Innocent enough to be believable, but—”

Two strides. That was all it took.

One second, he was grinning; the next, his back slammed against the wall, your fist bunching the collar of his shirt so tight the fabric creaked. His smirk faltered for a split second — just long enough for you to see the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He wanted this.

“Try me again,” you said through clenched teeth, your face inches from his. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath your knuckles. “Say one more thing about her. Go on.”

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened, like he’d just remembered an inside joke. Then his eyes flicked over your shoulder. The satisfaction returned in full force, curling at the corners of his mouth.

You didn’t have to turn to know who was standing there.

“Y/N?”

Her voice cut through you like cold water, disbelief dripping from every syllable.

Your grip didn’t loosen right away. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn, because some stubborn part of you hoped maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t her.

But Minjae seized the moment. He let out a short, breathless laugh, one that bordered on shaky. His hands rose in mock surrender, his body language flipping from smug to defensive in a heartbeat.

“Hey, hey,” he said, his voice pitched just high enough to sound vulnerable without overplaying it. “I was just trying to talk to them, and suddenly—” He let his voice crack, just enough to suggest hurt. “Guess I hit a nerve.”

The collar in your fist felt heavier. Your grip loosened, but you didn’t step back. Not yet.

Yunjin’s footsteps drew closer. You could feel her eyes on you — not warm, not trusting, but cautious. Measuring.

From her angle, the scene was perfect: you looming over him, your hand on his shirt, his shoulders pressed to the wall, looking cornered.

Minjae didn’t waste the opportunity. He lowered his eyes like he couldn’t bear to meet hers, shaking his head slightly for added effect. “Unbelievable,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. Then, looking at you again, he added, “Careful, Y/N. People might start to think you’re dangerous.”

The silence that followed was worse than anything he could’ve said. You glanced at Yunjin. Her expression was unreadable — no fire, no outright judgment, but no belief in your side either. Just a question in her gaze that you didn’t have the answer for.

You let go of his collar. The fabric slipped from your fingers, wrinkled and warm. Minjae straightened it with exaggerated slowness, his smirk returning now that the power was back in his hands.

“You should get that temper looked at,” he said lightly, brushing past you as if nothing had happened. But as he passed, his shoulder clipped yours deliberately, and his voice dropped to a murmur meant for you alone. “Thanks for proving my point.”

He was gone before you could respond.

The hallway suddenly felt colder.

When you finally turned to Yunjin, she was still watching you. There was no accusation in her eyes, but there was no trust either — just the kind of quiet doubt that made your chest ache.

“Yun—” you started, but the sound of her name felt wrong in your mouth right now.

She didn’t say anything. Just shifted her gaze toward the stage entrance like she had somewhere else to be, somewhere that wasn’t here, then walked past you. Her perfume trailed behind her, faint but cutting through the sterile backstage air.

You stood there long after she’d gone, the imprint of Minjae’s collar still in your hand and the weight of her silence pressing heavier than any punch.

The next morning, you woke up with a headache that had nothing to do with sleep. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the group chat lighting up with messages from the production team about rehearsal. You didn’t reply. Not because you were late, but because you didn’t want to see her.

Not after what happened with Minjae. Not after she saw you grab his collar like you were ready to break his jaw.

By the time you reached the building, practice had already started. You lingered outside the studio door, hearing the muffled bass of the track through the wall, her laugh threading through the sound like it always did — except now it made your stomach twist.

You slipped inside quietly, staying near the back, not trusting your voice. She glanced your way once, mid-dance, and you looked away so fast your neck almost snapped.

Minjae wasn’t even in the room, yet his presence clung to her. The way she kept checking her phone between breaks. The way she smiled at something on her screen, oblivious to you.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you didn’t care.

But then, halfway through the afternoon, the first whispers started.

Two backup dancers huddled over a phone, their voices low but urgent.

“Is that… from yesterday?”

“No, look — same jacket, same café. They’re totally together.”

Curiosity gnawed at you until you finally looked.

It was a photo — grainy, probably taken from across the street — of Yunjin and Minjae sitting at an outdoor café. He was leaning in, looking like he owned the world, and she was laughing with her hand over her mouth. The caption was worse: “Idol power couple? Fans spot Minjae and LE SSERAFIM’s Huh Yunjin looking cozy in Seoul.”

Your phone buzzed again, this time with a dozen more notifications. Twitter threads. Instagram reposts. Fan accounts screaming in all caps.

The room’s atmosphere shifted like someone had opened a window in winter. People tried to keep working, but their eyes kept flicking to her. The production team whispered in the corner, their expressions unreadable.

You forced yourself through the next take, but your timing was off. Every move felt wrong. The director called for another run, then another, each one worse than the last.

And every time you looked up, she wasn’t looking at you.

When rehearsal finally ended, you left without waiting. The hallway felt too long, too quiet, until you heard her voice behind you.

“Hey… wait.”

You didn’t. Not this time.

Outside, the air was sharp, the city loud, but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. The comments. The photos. The way Minjae’s smirk still burned in your head from yesterday.

Somewhere behind you, a door closed, and you knew she had gone the other way.

But it didn’t matter. Because the internet had already made up its mind. And maybe… so had she.

The days after that night slipped past without you noticing. One rehearsal bled into the next, each song a blur of half-remembered counts and muscle memory.

Your sneakers squeaked against the floor as you tried to keep pace with the others, but your body felt like it was moving underwater.

“Y/N, you’re a beat behind,” one of the choreographers called out, his tone more tired than annoyed. “Again from the top.”

You muttered, “Yeah,” without looking up.

It wasn’t just your dancing — your voice cracked during warm-ups, your timing off during harmonies. The practice room mirrors didn’t lie; even the way you stood looked smaller now, shoulders rounded, gaze fixed on the floor.

And everywhere you went, Minjae seemed to be there too.

At a variety taping, you sat in the far corner, sipping water. Across the room, Minjae leaned toward Yunjin, telling her something that made her laugh — not just a polite laugh, but one of those genuine bursts where she covered her mouth and leaned forward.

“Your chemistry is insane,” a PD gushed to them. “You two should do more paired interviews.”

Minjae smiled humbly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We just work well together, I guess.”

He glanced at you then — not for long, just enough for you to see the flicker of triumph in his eyes.

Later that day in the green room, you tried scrolling through your phone, but your feed was flooded with clips from that very interview.

#YunjinMinjae trended for hours.

Fan edits looped her laugh over and over.

Comment after comment said they were “soulmates.”

A staff member walked past and said to her friend, “They’re so cute together. The fans can tell when it’s real.”

You stared at the screen until the glow burned into your eyes.

When Minjae entered the room, his voice carried just enough to reach you.

“Yunjin, I saw your live last night,” he said warmly. “You looked so happy.”

She smiled faintly. “Yeah, it was fun.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, she glanced your way and nodded. “Hey.”

You gave a small wave. “Hey.”

Minjae followed her gaze to you, then stepped closer, leaning casually against the table where you sat.

“You’ve been quiet lately, Y/N.” His tone was friendly, but his eyes were sharp. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, lips quirking into that slow, dangerous smirk he always used when no one else was watching.

“You should be. I mean…” His voice lowered to a whisper only you could hear. “…some of us are having a great time these days.”

You clenched your jaw, but didn’t bite.

“Anyway,” he straightened, turning his back on you to face Yunjin again, “we should practice that bit for Inkigayo later.”

Your stomach twisted. Inkigayo. The very stage he swore you’d never step foot on again.

The day’s schedule dragged until you found yourself back in the green room again, this time alone with him. He lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone like you weren’t even there.

When you stood to leave, he finally looked up, his voice soft but heavy.

“Y’know,” he said, “there’s a certain peace in knowing the game’s already over. Makes it easier for everyone.”

You paused at the door. “…Game?”

He shrugged lazily. “You tried. I respect that. But…” He gave you that same tiny, satisfied smile — not gloating, just certain. “Checkmate.”

Before you could respond, the door swung open and the rest of the team piled in, chatter filling the room. You left without looking back.

The last thing you saw as the door closed was Minjae leaning back, phone in hand, his victory written plain on his face.

The Following Day.

The coffee shop was half-empty, the air thick with the scent of espresso and old gossip. Minjae sat in the corner booth, hoodie pulled over his head, a surgical mask hiding most of his face. Across from him, his “friend” — the kind of friend who never appeared in public without a camera — unzipped a battered black bag.

Without a word, the cameraman slid a phone across the table. Minjae picked it up, hit play.

There it was — the backstage hallway, dim lighting, raw and unpolished. You, fuming, fist twisted in Minjae’s collar. His face caught in the perfect moment of wide-eyed shock, like he’d just been ambushed. A freeze frame begging for a misleading caption.

Minjae smirked under his mask. “Perfect. Cropped just right so no one sees what happened before she walked in.”

The cameraman raised a brow. “She? You mean Yunjin?”

Minjae’s smirk deepened. “She saw it live. She knows what really happened. But the public? They don’t care about the truth — they care about the story. And I’m about to give them one.”

He scrolled back, tapped the screen until the frame held your hand locked in his collar. “Post it. Tag the right fan accounts, let them run wild with it. The headline writes itself: Idol Loses Temper Backstage.”

The cameraman hesitated. “It’s dirty.”

Minjae leaned forward, voice low and almost amused. “So is this industry. And I’m not here to play fair — I’m here to win.”

The cameraman didn’t reply, just took the phone back and started uploading.

Minjae leaned back, picturing the chaos. Yunjin could tell the truth if she wanted — but once the video spread, even her word wouldn’t be enough to erase the doubt.

By the time the clip hit the right hashtags, the damage would already be done. And Minjae? He’d be smiling through every interview, every pitying glance, playing the victim so well the audience wouldn’t just believe him — they’d defend him.

The dorm was quiet — the kind of heavy quiet that settles in when everyone else has gone to sleep and only the faint hum of the refrigerator keeps the night from swallowing the room whole.

You were slouched on the couch, hoodie pulled tight, phone in hand. Practice had ended hours ago, but your body still felt wired, jittery from too much adrenaline and too little closure.

Your thumb scrolled aimlessly — past fan edits, past stage photos, past mindless updates from people you barely knew. The blue light of the screen made your eyes ache, but stopping felt harder than breathing. Anything was better than lying awake in the dark with your thoughts.

Then it hit.

Not a push notification, not even a direct tag — just a thumbnail buried between posts. A blurry freeze-frame of you, jaw tight, fingers fisted in the collar of Minjae’s jacket.

For a second, your brain didn’t register what it was.

Then the title registered. Bold, all caps.

“Y/N FROM [GROUP NAME] THREATENING FELLOW IDOL?!?!”

You froze.

It was only ten seconds long, but ten seconds was all it needed.

The clip opened mid-motion — your hand already gripping Minjae’s collar, your expression caught between anger and disbelief. No audio until halfway through, when your voice cut through, low and sharp.

“You really think you can get away with this?”

The angle was bad, deliberately bad. It framed you as the aggressor, Minjae’s head tilted back just enough to make him look smaller, vulnerable. His hands stayed limp at his sides, his mouth half open like he couldn’t understand why he was being attacked.

There was no context. No before, no after. Just that one moment, looped.

And it was already spreading like wildfire.

The comments blurred together — blocks of text flashing past too fast for your mind to hold onto any one of them.

“Whoa… didn’t think Y/N was like this.”

“He’s done. This is career-ending.”

“Poor Minjae… he’s literally shaking.”

“Why’s he always got that fake nice guy image? Now we know.”

Your chest tightened, the sound of your own pulse drowning out the tiny buzz of the fridge.

It didn’t matter that you knew the truth. It didn’t matter that Minjae had started it — that he’d been needling you for weeks, pushing buttons until you finally pushed back. The camera hadn’t caught the smirk he wore just before you snapped. It hadn’t caught the words he whispered that dug deeper than any fist could.

All it caught was you.

You — angry. You — looking dangerous. You — exactly the kind of person people online loved to hate.

You put your phone down, but the image burned behind your eyelids. It felt like every inhale scraped against something jagged inside your chest.

A part of you wanted to laugh — not because it was funny, but because of how perfectly orchestrated it was. The timing. The angle. The way Minjae hadn’t fought back, hadn’t shoved you away, hadn’t done anything except play the part of the startled victim.

It was almost genius in its cruelty.

Your hands curled into fists. Not to hit — you weren’t stupid enough to give anyone more ammunition — but to keep them from trembling.

The sound of the dorm’s old air conditioner switching on made you flinch.

You forced yourself to pick the phone back up, scrolling through the reposts. The clip was already on fan forums, gossip accounts, even some low-level news outlets that fed off controversy like sharks in bloody water.

Each repost came with its own caption, its own spin. Some were pure outrage. Others… subtler.

“Idols are under so much pressure. But violence?”

“There’s always two sides to a story. But this looks bad.”

The worst ones weren’t the people screaming for your downfall.

The worst ones were the ones who used to defend you, now silent or — worse — unsure.

The people who’d written, “I used to stan him, but…”

Your stomach turned.

You tapped into one of the bigger accounts posting it, and that’s when you saw it.

The original source — the first upload.

Not a random fan, not a blurry fancam from the crowd.

It was a username you didn’t recognize, but the account was new. Just days old.

A burner.

You didn’t need proof to know who had made it.

You could practically hear Minjae’s voice in your head — calm, smug, the same tone he’d used earlier that week when he leaned in and whispered, “Careful. People are watching.”

The bastard had planned this.

You sank back into the couch, hoodie bunching at your shoulders, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

A part of you wanted to storm into his dorm right now, shove the phone in his face, demand he take it down.

Another part knew it would only give him more material.

He wanted a reaction. He always wanted a reaction.

And now he had one — not just from you, but from everyone.

You opened your messages out of instinct, thumb hovering over a few trusted names, but froze.

What would you even say? It’s fake? He set me up? You have to believe me?

They’d want proof. And proof didn’t exist.

Not in a world where the truth could be edited down to ten seconds and weaponized.

You shut your phone off completely. The room felt smaller without the light of the screen, but at least you didn’t have to watch your reputation being dismantled one repost at a time.

Still, the silence pressed in, heavier than before.

It was almost funny — you’d spent so much time building an image, practicing smiles in mirrors, perfecting interviews so not a single word could be twisted against you.

And it had taken less than a minute of footage to undo it all.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, trying to breathe through the pressure in your ribs.

Tomorrow will be hell.

Your company would call. The members would ask questions you couldn’t answer without dragging them into it. Your schedule might get “postponed” — a polite way of saying we’re putting you in the freezer until people forget.

And Minjae would smile that same easy smile in public, the kind that made people believe he couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. He’d keep playing the victim while you were painted as a red flag wrapped in stage lights.

The worst part wasn’t that you were angry.

It was that you were tired.

Tired of pretending his little digs didn’t matter. Tired of swallowing your pride just to keep the peace. Tired of knowing that the truth wasn’t going to save you.

Your phone buzzed again — not from social media this time, but from a text.

You didn’t open it.

Instead, you sat there in the dark, hoodie drawn tight, replaying the moment in your head. The way your hand had fisted in his collar. The flicker of satisfaction in his eyes before he masked it with fear.

The sound of your own voice, sharp enough to cut.

Ten seconds.

Ten seconds, and you were already bleeding.

And tomorrow, the rest of the world would smell it.

The Next Day.

The memory came back like a flashbang — that smug little smirk when you’d finally let go of his collar, the way his eyes had darted to the side, like he was checking something. Not someone. Something. A camera.

You didn’t want to believe it, but it made too much sense. This wasn’t an accident. It was crafted.

Your phone buzzed again, this time with a message from your manager:

Manager: We need to talk. Right now. No statements. No posts. Don’t do anything.

Which was exactly the problem — you couldn’t do anything. In this industry, the first person to speak always looked desperate. And desperation was guilt’s shadow. You’d seen it happen before — careers destroyed because idols defended themselves too quickly, too emotionally.

You tossed your phone onto the couch, but it didn’t stop vibrating. It just sat there, shivering against the cushions like it was mocking you.

Across the room, the TV was still on from earlier. Some late-night talk segment had picked up the story already. The host’s voice was light, almost playful, like this was just another juicy bit of celebrity gossip. The audience laughed when they played the clip. Laughed.

You sat there, watching yourself grab Minjae’s collar on loop, the low angle making you look bigger, darker, more dangerous. They’d even slowed the moment down for emphasis, the frame freezing on Minjae’s face — wide-eyed, trembling. Perfect victim. Perfect villain.

You didn’t even notice your nails digging into your palms until the sting snapped you out of it.

The label would have a plan. They always did. But you knew what “plans” looked like in situations like this. They’d tell you to apologize, to take “responsibility for the misunderstanding,” to promise “growth.” Which was industry code for swallow your pride, let the lie live, and move on.

And what about Minjae?

He’d sit in interviews, all soft voice and downcast eyes, and he’d never outright accuse you. Oh no, that would be too obvious. Instead, he’d “prefer not to talk about it,” letting everyone else fill in the blanks.

Your phone lit up again — this time, a notification from Minjae’s official account. He’d posted a single picture: a selfie from his room. No caption. Just him, sitting on his bed in a hoodie, looking a little tired, a little sad. The comments section was a shrine of sympathy.

“Stay strong, Minjae oppa.”

“We’re here for you.”

“Don’t let them get away with this.”

And then, just to twist the knife, one fan account posted a side-by-side: the hoodie selfie right next to a still from the clip, where your hand was gripping his collar. The narrative was airtight now. You weren’t Y/N, the idol. You were Y/N, the aggressor.

You felt the burn in your chest before you realized you were standing. You needed air. You needed space. You needed to do something.

But outside, the city wasn’t any kinder. The billboards, the LED screens, the fan ads — they all blurred into background noise, but your eyes still caught the glow of your own face on a promo image for the group. Somewhere in the crowd, someone pointed. You couldn’t hear them over the rush of cars, but you didn’t need to. You knew what was being said.

Back inside your apartment, the silence hit harder than the noise. You slumped against the wall, staring at the ceiling, your mind replaying that moment over and over. Not the edited clip — the real one. The one with his taunting smirk, the words that had pushed you over the edge. Words that would never see daylight because they weren’t on camera.

Somewhere out there, Minjae was probably sitting with that cameraman, watching the numbers climb, the headlines spread. And he was winning.

The Next Day.

You made your way through your company’s building and the green room caught your eyes, it's always the room that is filled with peace and quiet, you made your way inside. The green room felt smaller than usual.

The overhead fluorescent lights hummed faintly, their cold glare bouncing off the pale walls, making the air itself feel sterile and suffocating. The couch in the corner was still indented from the last time you sat here — the very place where Minjae had first let his mask slip and admitted he was using Yunjin for clout.

Your bag sat untouched on the floor beside you. You weren’t scrolling your phone, weren’t sipping water, weren’t doing anything except staring at the far wall as the memories replayed over and over, like a bad rehearsal tape you couldn’t shut off.

The door creaked.

Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate, the kind that carried a smug rhythm before a single word was spoken.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t even need to look. Minjae’s voice was unmistakable — velvety smooth when he wanted it to be, but now laced with that lazy cruelty he saved for when no cameras were around.

He stepped in, closing the door behind him with an exaggerated click. He didn’t lean on the wall, didn’t take a chair. Instead, he strolled across the room like it belonged to him, eyes sweeping the space before settling on you.

“This room,” he gestured vaguely around, “really does have a way of… sealing fates, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your own voice to come out steady.

He smirked anyway, tilting his head slightly. “What’s the matter, Y/N? No clever comeback today? No dramatic hero speech about how you’re going to ‘set things right’?”

You finally looked at him — really looked. Perfectly styled hair, pristine stage jacket still crisp from rehearsal, that carefully curated smirk just shy of a laugh. He looked like someone about to go on stage and bask in applause, not the guy who had quietly cornered you weeks ago and ripped away any illusions you had about his intentions.

“You’ve been busy,” you said flatly.

“Busy?” He gave a mock gasp. “I’d say… efficient. Everything’s falling into place exactly how I planned it.”

He moved closer, footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“You know, at first, I thought maybe I’d have to work a little harder to make you slip up. But then—” he chuckled, low and slow — “you just handed me the perfect scene. That little collar grab? Chef’s kiss. Pure gold. You couldn’t have looked more like an unhinged rookie if you tried.”

Your hands tightened on your knees, knuckles whitening.

He crouched slightly, getting into your line of sight. “And the best part? I didn’t even have to spin it much. Just a little push, a little suggestion, and now people are already whispering about you. The ‘aggressive new idol.’ The ‘unstable rival.’ You’re the story now, Y/N. Not your music. Not your performances. You.”

You wanted to tell him he was wrong. That your fans knew you. That this would blow over. But the truth was, even the smallest rumor could stick in the industry — and Minjae knew it.

He straightened, walking a slow circle around the couch. “You think stages are for talent? No. They’re for images. And yours…” He tsked softly. “…is about to get dragged through the mud until even your most loyal fans start to question if they ever knew you at all.”

You turned your head to follow him, forcing your voice out. “You think this makes you look clean? People aren’t stupid. They’ll see through you eventually.”

“Oh, maybe.” He shrugged, unbothered. “But by then, the damage will be done. Labels don’t like idols with… messy reputations. And in case you haven’t noticed, mine loves me. I’m their golden boy. If it comes down to my word against yours, guess who they’ll side with?”

His words were casual, but every syllable was sharpened to a point, stabbing exactly where he wanted them to land.

He stopped walking, standing directly in front of you now. “You should’ve stayed in your lane, Y/N. You could’ve kept smiling on stage, waving to your fans, pretending to be the good guy. But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to get involved. And now?”

He leaned down, so close you could feel the faint heat of his breath. “Now you’re just a headline waiting to be written.”

You didn’t flinch — at least not where he could see.

Minjae grinned like he’d already won, straightening his jacket. “Oh, and one more thing.” He took a step toward the door, hand already on the knob, but turned back just enough to meet your eyes.

“If you think about running to Yunjin with the truth…” He let the pause hang, his smirk turning razor sharp. “…just remember, I can make sure you never set foot on an Inkigayo stage again. And they’ll believe me while you’re screaming your sorry little ass off.”

The door opened with an easy push, and he was gone.

The hum of the lights returned, the only sound left in the room.

You sat there for a long time after, staring at the empty doorway, pulse pounding in your ears. The couch beneath you felt colder now, the air heavier.

You’d lost this round — badly. But as the tension in your chest shifted, a flicker of something else replaced the fear.

Resolve.

If Minjae thought this was over, he was in for a surprise.

The door slammed shut behind Minjae, the echo ricocheting off the narrow green room walls.

His words still clung to the air like cigarette smoke.

“Your future’s over.”

“They’ll believe me.”

“You’ll never step foot in Inkigayo again.”

You were still seated in the same chair you had been since the confrontation began, elbows resting on your knees, hands slack between them. The air smelled faintly of hairspray and stage makeup, but it was laced now with something else—something rancid. Not from the room. From the weight pressing on your chest.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the ancient fluorescent light above you, its dull flicker reflecting in the dusty mirror across the wall. You looked at yourself and almost didn’t recognize the person staring back—tired eyes, clenched jaw, a heaviness in your shoulders that rehearsal hours couldn’t explain.

The muffled murmur of voices from the hallway seeped in. Whispers, some hurried footsteps. A few laughs that didn’t sound lighthearted—they sounded like they knew something you didn’t. Or worse, like they knew exactly what you feared.

Your phone buzzed against the table. Once. Twice. Then it wouldn’t stop.

You didn’t want to check it. You already knew.

But curiosity isn’t kind—it’s cruel. It makes you peel at the wound even when it’s still bleeding.

You reached for the phone. Notifications stacked endlessly. Mentions. DMs. Group chats lighting up like fireworks.

And then you saw it.

The video.

The one from earlier. You, grabbing Minjae’s collar. His fake, wide-eyed look of fear. His voice—shaky, but just loud enough for the mic to pick up. “If you ever threaten me again…”

No context. No truth. Just a perfect clip for the public to feast on.

It was already trending.

#ViolentIdol

#ScandalInInkigayo

#MinjaeVictim

You scrolled, against your better judgment. Tweets flooding in.

“Never liked his vibe, this confirms it.”

“Minjae deserves better, omg I hope he’s okay.”

“Kicked out when??”

It wasn’t just K-netz now. Dispatch had posted the clip—watermarked, headline screaming about “shocking behavior backstage.” Within minutes, the article was mirrored in English. CNN Entertainment had it under a breaking banner, the kind they usually reserved for celebrity arrests or tragedies.

You let the phone fall onto the couch beside you.

The green room suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were leaning in, the air thinning. The hum of the light above was louder now, drilling into your skull.

Somewhere in the hallway, you could hear staff shuffling, their voices dipping low when they passed your door. No one knocked. No one checked in. Not even out of courtesy.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped so tight your knuckles whitened.

In the mirror, your reflection didn’t blink. Didn’t move. It just stared back, silent. Almost accusing.

You thought about the Minjae you saw in that first rehearsal weeks ago, polite and charming under stage lights. The same Minjae who had just walked out of this room after telling you, with absolute confidence, that your career was dead.

And now… maybe he was right.

The thought clawed at your chest.

You sat there, still as stone, while the rest of the building buzzed like a hornet’s nest outside your door.

You hadn’t realized how hard you were gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles ached. Slowly, you let go, your palms slick with cold sweat. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and metal equipment, and the fluorescent lights above hummed just enough to make the silence unbearable.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, the way it does when you’ve been holding back something — rage, grief, maybe both. You leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling, anything to keep from thinking about it all. But of course, you thought about her.

Yunjin.

Not in the loud, playful way you used to, when her laughter could slice through your worst day. No — this time, she came to you like a ghost. That easy, open smile of hers, the one she gave when she thought no one was watching, flickered in your mind like an old film reel. Except now, it stung. You’d burned that bridge before you even realized it was on fire.

You let out a shaky laugh — not because it was funny, but because you didn’t know what else to do. The sound echoed back at you from the empty walls.

And then… there it was.

A faint red blink in the corner of your vision.

You blinked once, twice, before turning your head toward it. Up on a shelf, tucked between a stack of old mic cases and a box of unused cables, a camera sat quietly, its little red light winking at you in steady intervals.

For a moment, your mind didn’t connect the dots. It was just a camera. You’d been in enough green rooms to know they were sometimes installed for security, or for behind-the-scenes footage. But something about the way it stared back — unblinking, patient — sent a cold ripple down your spine.

You stood. Slowly.

Your footsteps were soft against the carpet as you approached, eyes locked on the device. The closer you got, the more obvious it was — this wasn’t some dead prop or decorative tech. The small lens reflected your face in a warped fish-eye view.

It was recording.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through you.

You reached up, grabbing it down from the shelf, your breath quickening as you cradled it in your hands like it might explode if you weren’t careful. Your thumb hesitated over the power button, then froze altogether when a thought hit you like a punch to the ribs.

If this thing had been on the whole time…

You didn’t finish the thought. You didn’t have to.

You shoved the camera into your bag and bolted from the green room, weaving through the back hallways of the building until you found the one door you needed. You didn’t even knock — you barged in.

Shinji looked up from his cluttered desk, a screwdriver dangling from his fingers. His black hair was tied back messily, his round glasses slipping halfway down his nose. He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but curious.

“Wow. Storming in like you own the place,” he muttered, tossing the screwdriver aside. “What happened, lose another fan poll?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, a little harsher than you meant. You pulled the camera from your bag and set it down in front of him with more force than necessary. “I need you to get whatever’s on here. Now.”

Shinji leaned back in his chair, squinting at the device. “You stealing set equipment now? Should I be concerned?”

“Shinji,” you said, your voice low, urgent. “Please. Just… see what’s on it.”

Something in your tone must have convinced him this wasn’t a joke. He sighed, rolling his chair forward and picking up the camera. His fingers worked quickly, flipping it over and checking the model.

“Why is it recording?” you asked, the question spilling out before you could stop it.

He glanced at you, then shrugged. “Boss orders. They want them running pretty much all the time — says it’s to test the battery capacity on different brands. Some weird R&D thing.”

You stared at him. “So… it’s always on?”

“Pretty much, unless the battery dies. But if this was in the green room, there’s a good chance—” He stopped mid-sentence, looking at the tiny display screen. His eyes widened slightly. “…Oh.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

Shinji didn’t answer right away. Instead, he plugged the camera into his computer and started the transfer. The seconds stretched unbearably long, your heartbeat syncing with the blinking cursor on his screen.

Finally, the footage began to play.

And there it was — Minjae.

In the same green room, just minutes ago. His smug face tilted toward the camera, though you could tell he didn’t even know it was there.

The audio was clear. Crystal clear.

Every word. Every sneer.

Him calling you nothing. Him saying you’d be gone in a year. Him talking about how he was only with Yunjin for “PR leverage” and “keeping the buzz alive.” Him laughing about how gullible fans were.

You swallowed hard.

It wasn’t just your vindication. It was a nuclear weapon.

Shinji glanced at you over his shoulder. “You want me to make a copy?”

You met his eyes, your voice steady for the first time that day.

“Yeah, and send it to me.”

The hum of the machines filled the room as Shinji began the transfer. Hours passed in the cramped editing suite — the kind of silence where every tick of the clock sounds like an accusation. You didn’t even bother with your phone. The weight of the footage sat on your chest like a stone.

Then Shinji, still hunched over the monitor, froze. “Uh… you might wanna see this.”

You leaned over his shoulder. The screen flickered to another timestamp — earlier in the day.

The same green room. The same battered couch.

Only this time, it was you in the frame. And Minjae.

Minjae walked in, shutting the door with a lazy kick of his foot. He tossed his jacket on a chair, the faint cologne mixing with the stale air.

“Well, well… if it isn’t the charity case,” he said, his smile as thin as cigarette paper.

You glanced at him, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I’m busy,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. Busy pretending you still have a shot in this industry.”

You set down the water bottle in your hand, the plastic crinkling under your grip. “What do you want, Minjae?”

He leaned against the makeup counter, eyes glinting. “Just thought you should know… all that effort you’re putting into ‘protecting’ Yunjin? Adorable. Really. But let’s be honest—she’s not my girlfriend.”

You turned fully toward him then, jaw tight. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shrugged, almost bored. “She’s a prop. A storyline. PR. My team said it’d give me an image boost — the whole ‘idol romance’ thing. And oh boy, it works.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’re saying you’re—”

“Using her? Yeah.” He smirked. “She’s pretty, she smiles on cue, and the fans eat it up. Meanwhile, you’re in the corner, glaring like some jealous extra.”

You took a step toward him, fists trembling. “Do you even care what this would do to her?”

He laughed, sharp and hollow. “Care? She signed up for the game. We all did. Only difference is, I know how to play it.”

The silence after that was heavy, your breathing the only sound.

Shinji paused the footage. “…Holy shit,” he muttered.

You didn’t say anything — you just stared at the frozen frame of Minjae’s smirk, the blood in your ears roaring like static.

“Gotcha, Wolf in sheep's clothing.”

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

would you do smut commissions now and is anything in play trope wise?

mhm! no limits 🫶🏻

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

can anyone write a superman male reader x lois lane karina or sum im too lazy to think of a plot that don’t involve fight scenes HAHAHAHAHAH

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

CHAPTER 1: “A Wreck”

Synopsis: You came to law school for outlines, cold calls, and caffeine — not to fall for Huh Yunjin, the transfer who somehow makes Marbury v. Madison sound romantic. But between late-night study sessions, stolen glances, and a meddling best friend, your defenses are crumbling fast.

Word Count: 6,245

Huh Yunjin X Male Reader

a/n: since you guys clearly want me to post my wattpad content over here, here you go…its an ongoing series ^^

The sun was at its peak, casting golden heat over the law school’s courtyard, where exhausted students shuffled like sleep-deprived zombies

You were leaned so far back in your chair, it was a miracle the thing hadn’t snapped in half. Your eyes were fixed on a water-stained ceiling tile while your professor droned on about Article 1156—the definition of an obligation.

You were halfway through your lollipop, trying to stay awake, when your friend Kai jabbed your ribs with his pen.

“Yo. Dude. You said there’d be beautiful girls in second year,” he whispered with an exaggerated scowl.

You blinked, still dazed. “Shut up, man. Just listen. You might learn how not to get sued.”

“How long ‘til lunch?”

You crunched the rest of your candy. “Fifteen more minutes. Just bear with it.”

“Will do,” he muttered, already mentally clocked out.

Your professor finally closed his binder with a sigh, like even he was tired of his own voice.

“That’ll be all, class. You may take your lunch.”

A wave of chairs screeching followed. Half the class rushed out like prisoners on parole; the smarter ones closed in on the professor like vultures, asking about case digests and recits.

“Let’s go, Y/N,” Kai said, already halfway out the door.

You grabbed your bag and trailed after him through the hallway’s soft din of footsteps and chatter.

“Remember when I paid for your coffee that one time?” Kai asked, bumping his shoulder into yours.

“No.”

“You liar. Come on—braised pork and rice. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“Get me one too. I’ll find a seat.”

You handed him a folded bill, then peeled away into the cafeteria chaos—students talking with full mouths, chairs scraping floors, trays clattering. You scanned for an empty table, barely weaving through the crowd when—

You collided with something soft. Or… someone.

“Ah! I’m so sorry!”

She was the one on the floor, kneeling to collect scattered notebooks and a pen that rolled under your shoe.

“No—no, that was me. I wasn’t looking—”

You bent down quickly and offered her your hand. She looked up, and all you could see was ginger hair, almost glowing under the harsh cafeteria light

Her skin was warm under your fingers—soft, delicate, and scented like…

Lilac?

“Really, I should’ve watched where I was going,” she said quickly, brushing nonexistent dust off her skirt. She bowed slightly and gave you a sheepish smile before turning to leave.

That’s when it hit you: her voice. Light and honey-like. Familiar, but distant.

“Yo.”

Kai appeared with two trays and iced teas, eyes wide. “Who was that?”

“I… don’t know,” you said. “She just ran off.”

“Dude, she looked familiar. Like I’ve seen her on YouTube or something.”

You sat down slowly, still dazed, still feeling the ghost of her wrist in your hand.

Her scent lingered—like sunflowers in July.

And something told you…

This wouldn’t be the last time you saw her.

You and Kai sat across from each other at a table near the window, trays still steaming from the cafeteria’s lunch rush.

“So bro,” Kai said with that look—eyebrows raised, eyes lit like he was about to sell you something illegal. “I know someone who can get us hella girls. You down? He’s from med school—and you know how smoking hot nurses get, right?”

You didn’t even look up from your plate. “Pervert.”

Kai snorted, unfazed. “Aren’t you the one always bugging me to help you find girls?”

You took another bite of the braised pork, chewing slowly before responding, “For the record, I was lonely at that time. And I thought maybe… I could do something magical.”

Kai narrowed his eyes. “Magical?”

“I’ve been watching video essays about love instead of reading assigned articles.”

He burst out laughing, nearly choking on his rice. “Bro. Loner material. Hardcore.”

You leaned your cheek into your palm, staring down at your food like it was suddenly more interesting than your dignity.

Kai pointed his chopsticks at you, trying to contain his grin. “Let me guess. You cried watching an edit of La La Land again?”

“…No comment.”

“God, you’re hopeless.”

You flicked a grain of rice at him. “What’s our next class again?”

“Homeroom.”

You frowned. “Second period is homeroom? Wha—?”

“I know, right?” Kai said, stabbing his food triumphantly. “Law school’s built different.

You and Kai made your way back to the classroom for homeroom.

“Homeroom is like a meeting you don’t even wanna attend,” Kai groaned, flopping onto his chair like a dead fish. “It’s like… a vacant period, but with rules and adult supervision. I’d honestly rather be in detention.”

“You’re blabbering again,” you muttered, sliding into the seat beside him. “That’s ‘cause you haven’t seen a pretty girl in ages. Put you in a room full of cute girls and you suddenly become more behaved than a statue.”

Kai raised a finger as if to argue—but closed his mouth, considering your point.

You ripped open another pack of lollipops, pulling one out and lazily popping it into your mouth just as the door slid open.

“Good morning, class,” your homeroom teacher announced. “It’s a free period, so feel free to do your own thing—but before that, I’d like to introduce someone.”

Kai perked up instantly. His eyes lit with curiosity and what you could only describe as dumb, desperate hope.

“Come on in, dear,” the teacher called gently.

The door creaked open again—softly this time—and a girl peeked through.

First thing you noticed was the hair. Ginger, but not dyed—it glowed, like it had stolen sunlight from the sky itself. She stepped in slowly, and the classroom shifted. You didn’t know how, but suddenly the air felt a little lighter.

Then your eyes landed on her face—defined features, warm skin, and eyes that reminded you of boba pearls in milk tea: round, dark, and inviting.

You stole a glance at Kai. He was already staring at you, his expression screaming: DUDE. WE. WON. THE. JACKPOT.

You stifled a laugh.

But when you turned your gaze back—she was already looking at you. Not scanning the class. Just you.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself, dear?” the teacher said warmly.

The girl stepped forward with perfect ease, no nerves, no hesitation.

“Hi everyone,” she said with a soft but clear voice, “my name is Huh Yunjin. You can call me Yunjin or Jennifer. I like playing the guitar and painting. It’s lovely to meet you all.”

She smiled as she finished—not a forced smile, but the kind that made you forget to blink.

Her posture? Confident.

Her voice? Smooth as sunlight.

Her eyes? Still locked on yours.

And in that moment, you felt it—your heart, in a chokehold, no warning.

““Perfect. I hope you all get along well. Yunjin, you can take that empty seat beside Y/N,” the teacher said with a kind smile.

Your brain froze for a second. Beside me?

Yunjin walked down the aisle like it was a runway. Confident, casual, no sense of pressure on her shoulders. She glanced at you, smiled warmly—almost too warm for a Tuesday morning.

Kai, being Kai, punched your shoulder like you just won the lottery.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your arm. “Stop being emotional.”

Kai ignored you, popped up from his chair, and intercepted her path.

“Hi, Yunjin was it? I’m Kai.”

She paused, surprised—but only slightly—then reached out to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kai.”

Kai leaned in a bit, grinning. “That’s Y/N. He’s kinda like my sidekick, y’know? Like, not Bonnie and Clyde stuff—but more Batman and Robin. Actually, more like R2-D2 and C-3PO—”

“Stop that, Kai,” you said, trying not to laugh as you gave him a tired glance.

Yunjin turned her gaze to you. “What’s your name again?”

Her voice was soft, but somehow direct. Her eyes—lit by the harsh classroom LEDs—seemed to glow anyway.

“Y/N,” you said, suddenly aware of every word, every move.

Yunjin smiled. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

And just like that, she took the seat beside you—crossed her legs, placed her bag down, and settled in like she’d been part of your life forever

The next period came sooner than expected.

Your homeroom teacher barely gave the class time to breathe before the heavy sound of the next professor’s heels clicked into the room. Everyone snapped into some version of sitting properly, straightening their backs with that reluctant discipline that law students were forced to master.

Professor Dela Cruz walked in with a thick pile of printed case digests, her expression as unreadable as a sealed bar exam result. She didn’t look up when she spoke.

“Take out your notebooks. We’re going through People v. Sandoval today. Prepare to write. I’ll cold-call for recitation after.”

A collective groan passed through the classroom like a wave. Some students slumped into their chairs while others instinctively opened tabs on their laptops, typing keywords with urgency. Others reached into their bags for pens and notebooks like soldiers retrieving weapons for a battle they weren’t ready for.

You took your time, flipping your notes to the right section and uncapping your pen. The tip clicked quietly against the desk. Just as you started to settle in, a whisper caught your attention from your right.

“Oh no…” It was Yunjin.

You glanced sideways and saw her anxiously rummaging through her canvas tote bag. It was the artsy kind, faded off-white and covered in colorful pin buttons—like little fragments of a life before law school. Her brows were furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes darting as she combed through her things.

“I think I left my pencil case in the other room,” she mumbled to herself, clearly distressed.

You hesitated for a second, but your hand was already halfway inside your own bag before you spoke.

“Need one?” you said, your voice low enough not to interrupt the lecture but clear enough to be heard.

Yunjin looked at you like you had just handed her a golden ticket.

“Wait, seriously?” she asked. “Can I? You’re a lifesaver.”

Without a word, you handed her your spare pen—your second-favorite, actually. Not the fancy one you used for exams, but still smooth and solid. She accepted it with both hands, holding it like it was some sacred gift.

“Wow. You’re really prepared,” she said, a soft chuckle laced into her words.

You gave a small shrug and smirked. “I pretend to have my life together sometimes.”

“Fake it till you make it,” she replied, her smile widening.

Before either of you could say more, Kai—who had been pretending to focus while sneakily watching everything unfold—let out a dramatic sigh.

You turned your head to see him slowly shaking his head, chopsticks from lunch still poking out of his pocket like some weird post-meal trophy. His eyes narrowed at you, almost glowing with judgment.

He leaned over the desk, whispering with mock malice, “You traitor.”

You grinned, then casually stuck your tongue out at him like a six-year-old.

Kai rolled his eyes, flopped back into his chair, and opened his notebook with exaggerated frustration. “Next time she asks for a pen, I’ll hand her a scented one. With glitter ink. That smells like lavender. Bet.”

You ignored him.

Yunjin had already started copying notes from the board, her handwriting clean and rounded. You stole a glance at her once more, unsure why your chest felt lighter just from seeing her scribble on the margin of the page.

She was humming softly. You couldn’t tell what the tune was, but it sounded like something you’d hear on a rainy day inside a bookstore.

Professor Dela Cruz suddenly called out a name from the class list, and a few students gasped when they realized their row was next. Yunjin kept writing, unbothered. Calm, as if she’d been here longer than any of you. You wondered what kind of student she was back in her arts school, and what brought her here. Why law? Why now?

Maybe it was just curiosity.

Or maybe it was something else.

The bell rang forty-five minutes later, signaling the end of the class. Papers rustled. People stood up. Bags zipped and chairs scraped against the floor. You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a quiet breath.

Yunjin stood too, but then turned to you.

“Hey,” she said, holding up the pen, “Thank you. Again.”

You nodded. “No worries. Keep it if you want.”

“No, no,” she insisted, placing it on your desk carefully, like it was made of glass. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Kai didn’t waste a second.

“So Yunjin,” he slid beside you both, one arm resting too comfortably on the edge of your desk. “Where are you heading for break? You hungry? There’s this café two buildings away. I know the barista. I can get us free pastries.”

Yunjin laughed. “That’s tempting, but I’ve got to check with the admin office. Something about transfer documents.”

Kai looked mildly defeated, but he covered it up with his usual grin. “Right, right, of course. Admin stuff. Super important.”

She turned to you one more time.

“Thanks again, Y/N. You’re nicer than you look.”

You gave her a puzzled look. “What do I look like?”

She tilted her head. “Serious. Stoic. The kind of guy who reads the full syllabus.”

You scoffed. “That’s a wild accusation.”

“See you around,” she said, walking off.

Kai watched her leave, then turned to you, mouth agape.

“You, my friend, are living a drama arc,” he said. “I hope you know that. That was a ‘meet-cute’ if I’ve ever seen one. Pencil case and everything. Next thing you know, she’s drawing doodles of you in her notebook.”

You laughed and stood up, grabbing your stuff.

“She’s just nice. Chill.”

“Nice? That girl glows, bro. She radiates. Like she left an art exhibit and walked into law school by mistake.”

As you both walked toward the hallway, Kai was still going on about the science of attraction and his conspiracy theories about fate. But your thoughts were somewhere else.

The feel of her fingers brushing yours.

That soft sunflower scent.

And how her smile stayed in your mind longer than the class discussion ever could.

The classroom was finally empty. The screech of chairs and heavy chatter had faded down the hall, leaving only the low hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional honk from traffic outside.

You were still at your seat, packing slowly, while Kai leaned back in his chair like he owned the room—arms folded, leg dangling over the desk like he was auditioning for a delinquent role in a teen drama.

He eyed you, then stared toward the door where Yunjin had left minutes earlier.

Then he turned back to you with a look so serious, you already knew it was about to be something unserious.

“Bro.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You saw it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Saw what?”

He sat up, both hands on the desk now like this was a courtroom drama.

“That girl. That wasn’t just ‘new transfer student’ energy. That was main character, music video entrance, slow-motion hair flip, drama theme song while the petals fall in spring kind of energy.”

You snorted. “Petals?”

“She literally glows. It’s giving debut stage. It’s giving ’Inkigayo ending fairy.’ Like—tell me I’m wrong.”

You just shook your head with a smile, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being observant,” he corrected, standing up dramatically. “And she—Yunjin—she’s the type of girl who walks into the room and everyone forgets what the lecture was even about. I don’t even remember what case we just studied.”

You deadpan, “People v. Sandoval.”

He waved you off. “See? That’s you. Law brain. I was too busy calculating her visuals. She’s like… like if Suzy and Jennie had a cousin who studied philosophy for fun and drinks oat milk.”

You paused mid-step. “That’s oddly specific.”

Kai pointed at you, deadly serious. “It’s a gift.”

You both reached the door, but instead of leaving, Kai stopped and leaned on the frame, glancing back at the empty room like something haunted had just happened.

“Be honest. Did your heart beat a little when she asked for your pen?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You laughed under your breath. “It’s not that deep. She just forgot her pencil case.”

Kai’s jaw dropped. “Not that deep? Bro, that was a rom-com setup. You’re living the Wattpad dream. Mysterious transfer student forgets pencil case and the grumpy-but-soft boy lends her a pen. You are the pen boy. You realize that?”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “I am not the pen boy.”

“You are,” he said, walking in circles now like some philosopher giving a lecture. “You’re the type of guy in dramas that girls fall for because you’re nice without trying. You’re not even aware you’re the male lead, and that’s what makes it worse. You’re like… the Wonwoo of our school.”

You blinked. “What does that even mean?”

Kai turned back with jazz hands. “Mysterious. Quiet. Secretly has a killer Spotify playlist and gives good advice. Girls eat that up. You’re him.”

You scoffed, swinging the door open. “You need to be banned from watching idol content.”

He followed you out, still mid-rant. “And don’t even get me started on the way she looked at you. That wasn’t ‘thank you for the pen’ energy. That was ‘maybe he’s the reason I don’t want to transfer schools again’ energy.”

You paused, spinning on your heel. “You’re actually insane.”

He just smiled. “I know.”

You both started walking down the hallway, your voices fading with each step.

“She’s not going to date me because I let her borrow a pen.”

“She might. That’s how dramas start.”

“This isn’t a drama.”

“Says you, Mr. Protagonist. Next thing you know, you’re in a library scene accidentally brushing hands while reaching for the same book.”

“…We don’t even have a library that big.”

“Fate doesn’t care.”

You groaned. “Shut up.”

Kai just cackled

The next day rolled in with the same grayish tone, like someone forgot to color in the sky properly. You walked through the school gates half-asleep, gripping your bag with one hand and a barely-sipped carton of chocolate milk in the other. The only thing you were mildly looking forward to—though you’d never admit it out loud—was maybe seeing Yunjin again.

You didn’t expect much.

But… maybe a “hi” or even a smile?

Instead, you got—

“DUDE!”

Kai exploded into view like a badly written jump scare, nearly smacking your milk carton out of your hand.

“Do you know Kkura from Class 2-B?” he asked, bouncing like he downed three energy drinks too many.

You blinked, still processing your own existence. “What about her?”

You shoved him aside as you entered the classroom, aiming for your usual seat at the back. Kai followed, practically vibrating beside you.

“She gave me a crochet hand warmer!” he said, thrusting it in your face like it was an Olympic medal.

You squinted at it. “Wow, good for you. Maybe she got rejected by her crush and you’re her emotional trash bin.”

“Hey—” he started, pouting, “that was uncalled for.”

“And stop touching me.”

“Buzzkill,” he mumbled, finally sliding into his chair like a deflated balloon.

The classroom was still relatively quiet, a slow crawl of morning energy. A few students from the serious study club—the kind that used highlighters like weapons—had already gathered on the far right. They were whispering about constitutional law and deadlines like it was gossip.

On the far left, a cluster of girls were busy blending concealer under the warm light of their phones. Kai, for reasons unknown to humanity, had ranked them as “Lower D Tier” in his own personal beauty system—something no one asked for, but he brought up weekly anyway.

And then there was you and Kai. In the back. Like two misfit characters in a slice-of-life anime.

Then—

The door clicked open, and like someone flipped a light switch, the dullness of the room was instantly shattered.

She stepped in.

Yunjin.

Somehow brighter than the fluorescent lights, wearing that same warm, camera-ready smile from yesterday.

You could practically hear the background music playing in your head.

“Hi Yunjin!”

“Good morning Yunjin!”

“Hellooo Yunjin!”

The greetings came out of nowhere, in unison—like a scripted moment in a drama. People she hadn’t even sat with were acting like she’d been in the school for months.

Black magic? Social cheat code? K-pop idol in disguise?

You didn’t know.

Kai leaned over, whispering like he just uncovered a conspiracy. “She knows them? We’ve been classmates for a year and I still haven’t talked to half these people.”

“Well,” you said, without looking up, “you did say they don’t fit your beauty standards. Or whatever that means.”

“They don’t,” he whispered back, indignant. “But that’s not the point.”

Before you could reply, a familiar voice broke through the noise.

“Hi, Y/N.”

You looked up—and there she was, already turned toward you, that same soft smile lingering on her face. Her hair caught the light just right, almost glowing. You nodded back, trying to play it cool despite the subtle, involuntary panic rising in your chest.

“Hi, Yunjin.”

Kai, who had no such emotional regulation, waved frantically from beside you like a lost puppy. “Hi, Yunjin!”

She glanced at him and gave a polite nod. “Morning, Kai.”

The moment passed, and Yunjin walked to her seat—somewhere toward the front—and just like that, the atmosphere dipped again.

Kai turned to you dramatically. “She said my name.”

“She said mine first.”

He fake-gasped, clutching his chest. “You absolute traitor.”

“She just greeted us,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’s not a declaration of love.”

“Maybe not,” he said, wiggling his brows. “But we’re in the opening arc, bro. You’re the love interest, I can feel it. The quiet, secretly kind boy with unresolved trauma. You’re basically Park Seo-joon in a legal drama.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re the protagonist.”

You sighed, shaking your head and pulling your textbook out as the teacher walked in.

Stacks of case files sat messily between you and Kai, your second-year Criminal Law module group work already draining the last ounces of energy from your brain. It was one of those slow afternoons where the teacher had assigned “independent pair work” and promptly left the room, probably to cry in the faculty lounge.

Kai, as usual, was more focused on complaining than contributing.

“This is the third hypothetical case today,” he groaned, sliding further down in his chair. “What are we, prosecutors now?”

You didn’t look up. “Yes. That’s what law school is for.”

He paused. “You really are dead inside.”

“I was reborn that way.”

“Okay, Hot Topic.”

Before he could spiral into another monologue, the door creaked open and in came Yunjin, hugging a thick binder to her chest, looking slightly frazzled but still managing to beam at whoever dared make eye contact with her.

You tried not to react. Or at least, tried not to look like you were reacting.

She approached your desk, slowing down as she reached your row. “Hey,” she said, glancing between the two of you. “Professor Shin said I could pick a pair to work with for the case study since I missed Monday.”

“Of course, of course,” Kai said instantly, scooting over and patting the seat beside him.

“Oh,” Yunjin said with a polite smile, “Actually, if it’s okay, can I sit next to Y/N instead?”

Your eyes flicked up. “Me?”

She nodded, already settling into the chair next to you and setting her binder down with a soft thud. “You take the best notes. I saw the ones you lent Seungmin… They were like, scary organized.”

You blinked. “Uh… sure. Go ahead.”

Kai, still holding the edge of the chair he had pulled out for her, stared blankly. His spirit briefly left his body.

The three of you sat quietly for a moment before diving back into the case, something about self-defense and excessive force. You were focused, jotting down relevant statutes, until you noticed her inching her chair slightly closer.

“Is this okay?” she asked, voice lower now, head tilted toward yours. You could feel the warmth of her shoulder brushing your sleeve.

“Yeah,” you muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was. “All good.”

She leaned in to read your notes more clearly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She smelled like something citrusy and clean. You pretended to reread a sentence four times.

As you both worked through the legal arguments, she tapped your notebook lightly.

“Can I copy how you broke that down?” she asked, gesturing to your outline of justifying circumstances.

“Sure. You can just take a photo if you want”

Before you could finish, she leaned forward and started writing it out by hand, with her own pen, in her own notebook.

You raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve just taken a photo.”

“I like writing it down,” she said with a sheepish grin. “Helps me remember it better. Plus…” she nudged her pen toward you, “…your handwriting’s really nice. It makes mine look like chicken scratch.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your brain was buffering.

Kai did not miss a beat.

He cleared his throat, loudly. “Right. Uh-huh. I’ve seen enough.”

Yunjin blinked innocently. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” he said, waving it off with a smile that looked like he was in physical pain. “Nothing at all.”

After another few minutes of casework, Yunjin suddenly turned to you again. “Also, I forgot to eat lunch earlier. Can I pay you back if I steal a bite from your sandwich?”

You nodded, sliding it toward her without thinking. She took a careful bite, holding it like it was fragile gold, and chewed happily. “You make this yourself?”

“Yeah. Just egg and ham.”

“It tastes better than my convenience store rice balls. I might have to ask you to make me one next time.”

You tried to play it off. “I only charge per square inch.”

She smiled, eyes crinkling. “Worth it.”

Kai turned to you once she was focused on copying notes again. He leaned close, whispering like a war general in a trench.

“Dude,” he hissed. “She likes you.”

You glanced sideways at him. “She asked for notes and half a sandwich.”

“EXACTLY. She asked you to copy your notes even though you literally said she could take a photo. That’s emotional intimacy. And the sandwich? Bro, that’s modern love.”

“She said it tasted better than a rice ball.”

“Boom. Culinary flirtation.”

You gave him a look. “You made that up just now.”

Kai clutched his head like he was in pain. “And she sat next to you. Even though I pulled the chair out like a gentleman. I, the guy who ranked her as A+ tier beauty, even before she opened her mouth.”

“You ranked her before speaking to her?”

“Don’t question my system.”

Yunjin looked up, smiling again, completely unaware. “You guys good?”

“Yeah,” you said, elbowing Kai to sit properly, “just… academic grief.”

“Totally normal,” Kai said, smiling with dead eyes.

As she leaned back toward her notes, Kai muttered under his breath.

“She clearly does not like me, and that’s fine. But she clearly likes you, and as your emotionally bruised best friend, I’m going to help you win her over.”

You paused. “You’re seriously going to wingman me?”

“I’m going to be your Cyrano de Bergerac. Your Yoda. Your Spotify ‘Flirty Study Playlist.’”

“You’re mentally ill.”

He nodded. “And you’re welcome.”

Later that day.

It was the kind of lunch break where everyone seemed too tired to care what they were eating. Plastic trays scraped against tables, midterm stress buzzed through the air, and over in one corner of the cafeteria, Yunjin was laughing.

You were watching her.

She sat with a group of girls from your Statutory Construction class. You’d never see them together before, but somehow they looked like they’d known each other since orientation. Yunjin laughed at something, head tossed slightly back, and the girls leaned in like they couldn’t get enough of her. A few of them were ones Kai had once jokingly ranked D tier, with comments like “too intense” or “terrifying eye contact.”

Yet there they were, giggling and hanging on to Yunjin’s every word.

“You’re staring,” Kai said beside you, chewing through a chicken sandwich with way too much mayo.

You blinked and looked back down at your food.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said through a mouthful. “If your eyes had a volume knob, they’d be screaming. Honestly, it’s getting embarrassing.”

You sighed and nudged a carrot slice around your tray. “She’s just… really good with people.”

“And you’re really bad with people. Which is why I’m stepping in.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

Kai dropped his sandwich like this was a briefing.

“So here’s the deal, dude,” he said, pointing at you with his straw. “She clearly likes you. And you? You’re all talk. You keep saying you want to go on blind dates but you never actually go. You’ve passed every B-tier girl to me like I’m your sloppy seconds disposal unit. And then, with A-tiers like her? You just—barely flirt and pray to God something happens by magic.”

“I don’t flirt,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Kai said, slapping the table for emphasis. “It’s a waste, man. A waste.”

You glanced back at Yunjin. She was covering her mouth while laughing, like she didn’t want to be rude. One of the girls poked her shoulder and said something, and Yunjin shook her head shyly.

“She probably doesn’t even see me that way,” you said.

“Bull. She borrowed your sandwich. Ate half of it. That’s basically a vow of loyalty. And she always comes to our table for notes or study guides. I give out fake outlines on purpose to see if she’ll bite. She never does. She always asks you.”

You tried not to smile, but your mouth betrayed you.

Kai narrowed his eyes. “See? That’s the face of a man who’s whipped but in denial. You like her. She likes you. So go ask her for coffee or something.”

Your stomach turned a little. “Now?”

“Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not after finals. Now. While she’s surrounded by my lowest-ranked picks. Which, by the way, she’s somehow making look like Vogue models with the power of her presence alone.”

You exhaled.

“You really want me to go over there and say what? ‘Hey, coffee?’ What if she’s not into it?”

“Then you go back to being sad and celibate. But if she is into it? You win. And I’ll be proud of you. Not emotionally proud. Like, proud in a ‘bro fistbump’ kind of way.”

You stood slowly, ignoring the pulse in your ears. Your feet suddenly felt heavier.

Kai looked up at you like you were going off to war.

“Godspeed, soldier.”

You took a breath.

“Should I bring my tray? I feel like bringing the tray makes me look like a lost toddler.”

“Ditch the tray. Keep the confidence.”

You nodded, heart beating way faster than it should be.

Kai leaned back with a grin. “If you fumble this, I’m asking her out next semester just to prove a point.”

That was all it took..But you chickened out and labeled it as “too early for a date.”

And constant “shut up’s” in every counter argument Kai was throwing at you.

The sun had already begun to set, casting long amber streaks across the school’s hallways as you and Kai walked side by side toward the gate.

“Finally,” Kai groaned, arms stretched high over his head. “This day drained every last brain cell I had. And for what? I got a quiz back with a smiley face sticker like I’m a preschooler.”

You chuckled as you adjusted your hoodie. “Well, that’s what you get for submitting your test with an actual drawing of Naruto fighting mitochondria.”

“I was expressing my knowledge creatively,” he replied, smug. “Also, Sakura was mitochondria. That’s peak science.”

Just as you both neared the exit gate, a sharp bolt of panic ran through you.

“Shit,” you muttered, coming to a full stop. “I left my bag in the classroom.”

Kai stared at you, betrayed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I’ll be quick.”

“I swear, if you make me wait like a wet dog outside the gate—”

“You’ll survive,” you said, already turning back.

“Barely!” Kai shouted after you, dramatically holding his chest.

The school building had gone eerily quiet by the time you jogged back toward the lecture hall — fluorescent lights overhead flickering as if the day itself was winding down. Your footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, bouncing off rows of empty lockers. You pushed the classroom door open and stepped inside, ready to grab your bag and go.

Then you saw her.

Yunjin sat at the far end of the room, half-buried under a fortress of books and case files, her laptop dimly aglow. She looked up, startled — a highlighter cap between her lips, and a yellow legal pad scribbled full of frantic thoughts. Her blazer had been abandoned on the chair behind her, sleeves of her blouse rolled haphazardly to the elbows.

She blinked a few times as if snapping out of a trance. “Oh. Forgot something?”

“Yeah,” you said, crossing the room quietly, “my bag. Didn’t think anyone would still be here.”

She gestured at the chaos on her desk. “Midterm outline is chewing me alive.”

You reached your desk and grabbed your bag, but something about the sight of her—tired but determined, hair pulled into a messy half-bun with a pencil shoved through it, brows slightly furrowed—made you hesitate.

You glanced down as she was underlining a particularly dense quote from Marbury v. Madison. You knew that one. Hell, you’d argued it in class.

“You’re re-outlining ConLaw?”

She exhaled through her nose, her shoulders sagging. “Yeah. Professor Jung said we need to treat it like scripture. And I’ve officially lost all faith in my class notes.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. There was a beat of silence, the kind that hovered, expectant and undecided. You could just go. Head home, pretend you didn’t see how tired she looked. But—

“Want company?” you asked. “I was gonna start my outline tonight anyway.”

She blinked, visibly surprised. Her gaze lingered on you for a second longer than necessary, then she gave a soft shrug, lips curling at the corners. “Sure. I could use the moral support.”

You dropped your bag beside hers and slid into the seat, the legs scraping gently against the linoleum floor. Your knees nearly brushed under the desk—close enough to notice, not close enough to retreat from.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers and the soft hum of her laptop fan filled the space. The light from the window was warmer now, painting long, golden shadows across the desks.

“Okay,” she muttered finally, chewing her pen cap like it had offended her. “Can we talk about how Marshall wrote this opinion like he was trying to get into heaven by confusing everyone first?”

You chuckled, opening your own casebook. “It’s like he knew future law students would suffer, and was weirdly proud of it.”

She nodded vigorously. “I feel like I need a Rosetta Stone to decode half of this paragraph.”

You leaned slightly over, pointing at the page. “That one’s just his fancy way of saying the Constitution is the supreme law of the land. Period.”

Yunjin laughed under her breath, her voice a little raspy from hours of silence. “Why didn’t he just say that?”

You smirked. “Because judges have egos. And an unhealthy addiction to obscure Latin.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was trying to memorize your face more than your words. “You know… you’re kind of easier to follow than half our professors.”

“That’s a low bar,” you said, but a flicker of pride ran through you anyway.

Time folded in on itself after that. You both drifted into the rhythm of studying—her highlighting with manic precision, you typing in bursts, sharing outlines, comparing notes. You caught her biting her lip when thinking, humming under her breath when rereading her own sentences.

Your knees brushed under the desk. Neither of you moved.

Outside, Kai was practically pacing a trench into the pavement near the school gate.

“Where the hell is this dumbass?” he muttered, staring at his phone screen like it owed him money.

“YO. Did you fall into a lawsuit?”

“Are you DEAD or just in love???”

Inside, your phone buzzed silently in your bag, completely ignored.

Yunjin groaned softly beside you. “God, I miss when dissents were short and spicy.”

You glanced over her shoulder at the opinion she was reading. “That one’s not that bad. At least he used a semicolon.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. Her fingers brushed yours when she reached for a sticky note. Neither of you flinched.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching, eyes fixed on the dimming sky outside.

“You know…” you started, voice low, “if we survive midterms—coffee’s on me.”

She paused, pen in mid-air. Then slowly, she looked over at you. There was a faint pink tinge to her cheeks, but her expression didn’t falter.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

PART 2 will be posted sooner or later, but it is posted on my wattpad ^^

here.

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also, would you like it if I post my wattpad stories here or make it exclusive?

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Synopsis: You and Sakura set out on a Summer’s bucket list just friends, or maybe something more. But when jealousy stirs and feelings spill over, you’re forced to face what you really want before the list is complete.

Word Count: 5,959

Sakura Miyawaki X Male Reader

Tags: Fluff, Angst

A/n: Been wanting to do another Sakura one shot, hope you enjoy this one guys! Sorry if the phasing feels rushed.

They say a room full of people can’t be happy and sad at the same time.

A successful business pitch? All smiles — but somewhere in another room, someone’s pitch just got rejected.

A funeral? Somber faces everywhere — but maybe one heart is secretly grateful the deceased is finally free from pain.

And then there’s graduation.

The happiness that squeezes you so tightly you exhale, Finally. All my hard work paid off.

The shaky laugh of, Phew, I made it somehow.

The quiet sob into a friend’s shoulder, I’ll miss you guys.

The air at the venue was thick with all of it — smiles, tears, relief, nostalgia. Caps clutched in sweaty hands, parents fussing over photo angles, teachers trying not to look sentimental.

You sat at the entrance steps of the venue, gown bunched at your waist, watching the sun dip lower over the school field. Beside you, Sakura Miyawaki — somewhat tall, beautiful (not that you’d ever say it out loud) — plopped down with a sigh.

“Hey, Y/N,” she murmured, voice low but carrying that genuine warmth she kept hidden from most people. “Congrats.”

You turned to her with a crooked grin. “Why are you like that?”

Before you could chuckle again, she smacked your shoulder. “I was trying to act like a proud friend!”

“Proud friend my ass. You’d bicker with me every time I failed an exam.”

“That’s my love language,” she said matter-of-factly, scooching closer until your knees bumped.

The two of you stared out at the stream of graduates hugging, laughing, posing for group photos. You could hear the low hum of conversations behind your backs — harmless gossip about you two, half-joking whispers of “I’m surprised they’re still not dating.”

First to confess will lose, someone once said about you two.

You never cared enough to clarify. You always brushed it off with a laugh — a friend is always a friend — and Sakura would toss back, as if I’d ever like that dweeb.

But neither of you really knew the truth.

Graduation officially ended — the kind of “you can leave now” ending that left the campus slowly emptying. You and Sakura wandered off to get food, though calling it a date would earn twin protests from you both (and knowing smirks from everyone else).

You ended up outside a small café, flickering streetlights above you already struggling through their night shift.

The conversation slipped easily into nostalgia — the dumb jokes from first year, the time you got lost on a field trip, how one teacher always smelled faintly of coffee and chalk dust. Summer had only just begun, but you spoke as if decades had passed.

When the sun finally dipped below the rooftops, Sakura leaned back in her chair, resting her elbows on the armrests. “Hey, Y/N… remember that bucket list you made in elementary school?”

“Yeah.” You smirked. “I lost it.”

“Figured.”

“Hey, it was written on… an ice cream wrapper? Or maybe a receipt. I can’t remember.”

“Wanna do one over the summer?”

“Like a bucket list? Sure. Climb a mountain — that’s one cliché down.”

She gave you an unimpressed look. “So cliché for someone as boring as you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Haha, you wish,” she said with a smug grin.

“Ewwww.” You shoved her shoulder playfully.

She leaned in again, eyes glinting. “Speaking of middle school, remember that crush you had for a whole semester?”

You groaned. “Yeah. I’d pick flowers in the yard for them… Ahh, I miss being in love.” You leaned back in your chair, letting the warm evening air wash over you.

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again — slower this time.

“Hey, Y/N. What if we made a bucket list, but… couple-themed?”

You turned your head toward her. “…Couple-themed?”

She grinned like she already knew your answer. “Yeah. Just as friends. You know, for science.”

“I mean… depends on what’s on it.”

You and Sakura fell into step the second you left the café, the warm hum of summer settling over the streets like a blanket. Your caps and gowns were long tucked away, replaced with rolled-up sleeves and the smell of fried food lingering in the air from the market down the block.

“Wanna list it down at my house?” Sakura asked, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Sure,” you said, sidestepping a crack in the sidewalk. “Is your mom making those bomb sweet potato pancakes?”

She shot you a side-eye. “It’s nine at night.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” you replied, bending to scoop up the mess of empty blue lemonade cups and instant ramen bowls you’d left stacked on the café table earlier. You crumpled the ramen receipt into a ball and made a perfect three-pointer into the trash bin.

The walk home was lazy, the kind that didn’t need words to fill the space. Streetlights blinked awake one by one, casting golden halos on the concrete. Somewhere, a cicada screamed its heart out.

“Man,” you said eventually, rubbing your stomach like you’d just had a feast, “that ramen was hella worth it. 7/11 ramen will be with me all the way.”

Sakura tilted her head at you. “You’re getting sentimental over ramen. You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Next thing I know, you’re gonna tell me you miss our old crush. What was her name again?” She smirked. “Yu Jimin, right?”

“Shut up!” you groaned, shoving her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble a step.

The two of you turned into the familiar street lined with houses whose porch lights glowed like warm invitations. You didn’t even think about where your feet were going — you’d been making this same route since you were kids.

When you reached her gate, you didn’t bother with ‘sorry for the intrusion’ or ‘thanks for having me.’ You’d spent more time in the Miyawaki household than in your own bedroom.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of miso soup and laundry detergent. Mrs. Miyawaki poked her head out from the kitchen, smiling. “Oh, Y/N, have some dinner.”

“No thank you, Mrs. Miyawaki. Kkura and I already ate.”

“Let me guess… convenience store ramen?” She sighed and shook her head. “You two need to start eating healthy, young man.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her, Mom!” you said instantly, pointing an accusing finger at Sakura.

Sakura rolled her eyes and grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you toward her room before her mom could scold you both further.

Her bedroom door shut with a click, and you were greeted by the same scene you’d known for years — the poster you gave her in middle school still tacked to the wall, a collection of “too girly” trinkets shoved on a shelf, the faint smell of her floral shampoo lingering in the air.

She plopped her bag beside the bed and rummaged through a drawer until she found a crumpled scratch paper. Without ceremony, she tossed it and a handful of colored pens onto the bed in front of you.

“Alright,” she said, climbing onto the mattress and sitting cross-legged, “Couple Bucket List. Let’s go.”

You raised an eyebrow as you sat beside her. “I’m still not convinced about this whole couple angle.”

“Too late. I’ve committed.” She clicked a pen like it was a starter pistol. “First item: go on a date with matching clothes.”

You made a face. “Uhh… what?”

She grinned. “You heard me. Matching hoodies, matching sneakers, maybe even those cringey shirts with half a heart on each.”

“That’s a war crime.”

“It’s science.” She scribbled it down anyway, her handwriting looping across the paper. “Next: hold hands in public for an entire day.”

“That’s two PDA items in a row—”

“Shhh. You’re ruining the creative flow.”

You groaned and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “If we’re doing this, we need something less… sappy. Like… beat a high score together at the arcade.”

She tilted her head. “Fine. But we’re still holding hands while we do it.”

You sat back up. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

The pen scratched across the paper as she continued jotting ideas:

Share an ice cream (one cup, two spoons).

Take a cheesy couple selfie in a photo booth.

Cook a meal together without burning the kitchen down.

You leaned over her shoulder to peek at the list, your hair brushing her cheek. “Cook together? Have you seen us try to make pancakes?”

“I have. And I survived.”

You reached for a pen of your own and added one in your messier handwriting:

Go to the beach before sunrise.

“Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “That’s actually cute. Who knew you had it in you?”

“I contain multitudes.”

She kept going, her voice soft but quick with ideas:

Get matching keychains.

Watch a scary movie and pretend to be scared.

Slow dance under the stars.

You blinked at that last one. “…Slow dance?”

She shrugged, suddenly avoiding your eyes. “Just for the list.”

“Uh-huh.”

By the time you were done, the scratch paper was covered top to bottom in both your handwriting, doodles filling the empty spaces — little ramen bowls, cartoon suns, stick figures holding hands.

Sakura leaned back against the headboard, twirling the pen between her fingers. “There. Our official Couple Bucket List. No take-backs.”

You stretched your arms above your head. “And what happens if we actually finish all of these?”

She smirked. “Then we’ll… make another one.”

You didn’t know if she was joking.

The night had ended, and you went home with a head full of leftover summer anticipation. You brushed your teeth, changed, and slipped into bed, letting the comfort of the sheets lull you to sleep. You slept like a rock—deep, warm, and undisturbed. Nothing could have woken you up.

Nothing… except Sakura Miyawaki at exactly 7:00 A.M.

Now, who in their right mind wakes up at 7 A.M. in the middle of summer?

Sakura Miyawaki, that’s who.

Your door burst open like she was kicking it down in a drama. She stormed inside and launched herself onto your bed, landing squarely on top of you.

In your dream, it felt like being crushed by a dump truck—if dump trucks smelled like fresh cherry blossoms.

“Wake up, Y/N!!!” she squealed, bouncing slightly before rolling off you and standing at the foot of your bed with her hands on her hips.

You groaned into your pillow.

“It’s too early, Kura…”

“Too early my ass! Let’s go!”

“Where?” you mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Night market!”

You blinked at her. “Night market. At 7 A.M.? I question every day how you graduated top of the class.”

“Hmph, mean…” she pouted, then paused, tapping her chin in exaggerated thought. “Oh! Yeah—café date. Let’s go get coffee!”

And in the back of her mind?

I’ll hold his hand today.

In yours?

Perfect time to hold her hand.

With that unspoken agreement neither of you would admit to, you sat up and started getting ready. Meanwhile, Sakura made herself at home—by sprawling across your bed and grabbing your console.

“You still stuck on this level?” you asked, slipping on your jacket.

“Yeah. That boss is kinda hard. Also, can you please not die? There’s no checkp—”

“YOU DIED” flashed across the screen.

“Oh,” she said simply, then smiled like she was amused at your pain.

“Whatever,” you sighed. “Let’s go?”

You stepped outside into a soft summer morning—the air still cool but the sunlight already warm. The neighborhood looked like it could sprout flowers anywhere it pleased, and for the first day of summer, it felt almost unreal.

Sakura walked unusually close beside you, her arm brushing yours every so often. You noticed her hand swinging subtly toward yours before retreating at the last second. Moments later, you tried your own hand at the same tactic—striking up some casual conversation as cover—only for her to suddenly grab her phone.

Missed.

By the time you reached the café, the bell above the door jingled a warm welcome.

“Good morning, welcome to our café,” the waiter said, smiling politely.

You and Sakura greeted him with your own smiles—though his expression faltered for half a second, caught in a silent awe. What a beautiful lady… he thought, only to feel his heart sink at the sight of you standing so close to her, laughing.

“What can I get you two today?” he asked, trying to mask the shift in his tone.

“What are you getting?” you asked Sakura.

“I’ll get what you get so we can post it on Instagram. That’ll check the ‘matching drinks’ box off the list.”

You chuckled. “So now I have the obligation to pick something pretty instead of something I actually like?”

“Good you noticed,” she teased.

You ordered, catching the waiter’s distant gaze on Sakura’s spaced-out look.

“We’ll get… a strawberry frappe with a cherry on top and extra foam, please.”

“Wow. Impressive choice,” Sakura said, nudging your arm.

That’s when the waiter made his move. “Oh, we have a couple’s promo today—National Girlfriends Day. If you take a picture together, we’ll print it for the wall and give you 15% off.”

Your mouth opened. “Oh, we aren’t—”

“Sure, we’ll do it,” Sakura cut in smoothly, grabbing your arm.

The waiter’s forced smile broke into something hollow as Sakura intertwined her arm with yours, lifted her phone, and snapped a selfie.

“Where do I send it?” she asked.

“Uh… the email here,” he replied, voice nearly lifeless.

You sat outside afterward, the barista watching from behind the counter like a man who had just witnessed the end of his favorite drama.

“Place your cup here,” Sakura instructed, lining it up perfectly for a photo.

“How are you so good at that?” you asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, I just am.”

She posted the photo—no tags, no soft launch. Just two strawberry frappes under a snippet of cute song lyrics.

Hours slipped by in a collage of street food stands and small boutique shops. Sakura stopped often to take pictures, not just for Instagram but to keep the memories for herself.

“Okay! Cute shops—check!” she said, holding up her phone. “That’s four so far, right?”

You ticked them off with her. “Café date, matching drinks, street food, cute shop date… and finally—”

She glanced at the list and hovered over “holding hands,” her finger stalling before skipping it entirely. “…night market date.”

By the time you reached the night market entrance, the place was packed—summer crowds buzzing with chatter, neon lights washing over everyone in warm colors.

“Hey Kura, want this?” you asked, holding up a small cat keychain.

“Sure!”

“Great. Go pay for it yourself.”

She laughed, shoving your shoulder. “Damn you, Y/N. That was mean.”

You both kept weaving through the crowd, each silently repeating the same thought. I’ll hold their hand. Your hands would hover close but never quite touch.

Then—

“Oi, Y/N! Over here!”

You turned to see one of your classmates waving. You went over, greeting him with a quick dap. Sakura offered a polite nod and smile.

“Here with Sakura… as always,” he said, nudging you in the ribs.

“She wanted to come to the night market,” you explained.

He pulled you aside, lowering his voice. “Hey, man… do you like Sakura?”

You scoffed. “No? We’re just good friends.”

“Yeah, right. Night markets are relationship rituals, dude.”

“…What am I supposed to do with that information?”

“I’m saying, you brought her here for a reason.”

You rolled your eyes and walked back toward Sakura, who was laughing with his girlfriend.

“Kura, let’s go,” you called, waving goodbye to them.

You continued to wander the market, but your classmate’s words kept replaying in your head. Relationship rituals…

And then, without really deciding to, you acted.

Your hand found hers. Fingers slid between hers, and just like that, they were intertwined.

The sensation was… soft. Warmer than the summer air. Like holding something fragile but impossible to let go of.

Sakura’s cheeks bloomed into a pink blush, while your own ears flushed a deep red. Neither of you said a word. You just kept walking under the strings of lights, the noise of the crowd fading into a background hum.

When you finally left the night market and began the walk home, your hands were still locked together. The night air was cool, the street lamps soft.

“Who gave you so much courage?” she finally asked, smacking her bag lightly against yours. Her lip caught between her teeth—not in anger, but to hide the fact that she was flustered.

Still, her fingers never slipped from yours.

By the time you reached your street, the hardest part wasn’t the crowd or the heat—it was letting go. Neither of you wanted to.

“Hey, Sakura—here,” you said, pulling the cat keychain from your pocket.

She blinked. “Wha—? You kept this? …Thank you.”

Her voice was soft, but the way she looked at you made the summer night feel warmer than it already was

The next day came too quickly.

You were still in bed, propped up against the wall with your console in hand, the morning light spilling lazily through the blinds. The faint sound of footsteps padded down the hallway. Without looking up, you assumed it was your mom.

“I’ll eat later, Mom!” you shouted before the door creaked open.

“I’m not your mom.”

You glanced up — and instantly regretted it. Sakura stood there in the doorway like she was about to star in a summer rom-com: a soft strawberry-patterned dress that cinched at the waist, a thin white cardigan draped casually over her shoulders, and a pastel headband that somehow made her already delicate features more unfair.

“…What’s with the dress?” you asked, trying to sound unimpressed while avoiding direct eye contact.

“What? Can’t I dress how I want?” she said, stepping in without hesitation like she owned the place. Which, in some way, she kind of did.

She gave your room a quick scan — a scan you recognized. Sixteen years of friendship, and you’d seen her do this every single time she visited. Her gaze always landed on the same spot.

Your mini fridge.

She made a beeline for it, yanking it open like she’d just found a buried treasure. Her expression soured almost instantly.

“What the hell, Y/N? You live off these?” She held up a pack of instant noodles in one hand and a suspiciously old pudding cup in the other.

“Uh, yeah? Want some? I can heat it up—”

“That’s not what I mean!” she cut in, slamming the fridge shut with a dramatic sigh.

You didn’t reply. Your brain had chosen this exact moment to notice how the hem of her dress brushed against her thighs — thighs that, for some reason, your tired brain decided looked like clouds if clouds had legs. You, thankfully, kept that thought to yourself.

Her eyes suddenly lit up. “Perfect!”

“…Perfect for what?”

“Let’s go!” she said, grabbing your wrist.

“To where?”

“Grocery shopping!” she declared, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “It’s on the list, remember? Grocery date!” She whipped her phone out and scrolled through the shared notes app. “Aaand… ooh, look at this — ‘Cooking together.’ That’s two in one. Let’s go.”

You hesitated, mostly because you were still in pajama shorts and an old shirt with a questionable stain. “…Fine. Give me five minutes.”

At the grocery store

The automatic doors slid open, and the cool wave of AC hit you in the face. Sakura, armed with a shopping cart, was already halfway to the produce section before you even grabbed a basket.

“Do we… actually have a plan?” you asked, catching up.

“Yes. We’re making pasta.”

“You don’t even like pasta that much.”

“Correction — I don’t like your instant cup pasta that much. I like real pasta,” she said, tossing a bundle of fresh basil into the cart without hesitation.

The grocery trip was, in hindsight, less about buying food and more about her dragging you through every aisle, tossing in things you didn’t need just because “they looked cute.”

At the fruit display, she picked up a tomato and squinted at it like she was trying to read its life story.

“You know you can just pick one, right? It’s not a wine tasting.”

“Hush. I’m looking for the juiciest one. This is an art.”

You rolled your eyes, but when she turned to put it in the cart, her hand brushed yours. Neither of you said anything, but you both lingered in that awkward silence for a second too long.

In the snacks aisle, she tossed in a bag of strawberry gummies.

“You’re buying those for yourself,” you said.

“Nope. For us. Because we’re sharing.”

“That’s not—”

“Yes it is. Grocery date rule: snacks are shared property.”

By the time you got to the checkout, the cart was a chaotic mix of actual ingredients and impulse buys — half of which you were pretty sure she only added to mess with you.

Back at your kitchen

You dumped the grocery bags on the counter, but Sakura had already pulled her hair into a messy ponytail and tied an apron around her waist.

“You… brought your own apron?”

“Nope. Found it in your drawer. It’s mine now.”

“You can’t just—”

“Yes I can. Now wash your hands, chef.”

What followed could only be described as “organized chaos.” She chopped vegetables with alarming precision while you were in charge of boiling the pasta — a task she supervised like you were defusing a bomb.

“Don’t stir it like that! You’re going to break them!”

“It’s pasta, not glass!”

“Still, you have to be gentle.”

At one point, she reached over to grab the salt, and your hands bumped. Just like in the store, neither of you moved away immediately. You glanced at her, but she was focused — maybe too focused — on the pan.

Then at one point, Sakura was stirring the marinara sauce with a wooden spoon, her brows furrowed in concentration. You stood close behind her, trying not to invade her space but failing slightly.

Suddenly, a little splatter of bright red sauce jumped from the pan and landed smack on her cheek.

You froze, blinking.

Sakura didn’t notice at first, but then she touched her face and looked down, seeing the bright smear.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, reaching up to wipe it off — but her hand trembled a little.

Before she could, you gently took a clean cloth from the counter, leaned in, and softly dabbed the sauce from her cheek.

Your fingers brushed lightly against her skin. The scent of tomatoes and a hint of her subtle floral shampoo filled the air.

Curious, and maybe a bit impulsive, you let your fingertip linger and then — almost without thinking — flicked the sauce into your mouth.

“Hey!” Sakura’s eyes widened, cheeks instantly flushing a deep rose.

You grinned, teasing, “Tastes like you. Sweet and a little spicy.”

Her eyes darted away, voice barely above a whisper: “Stop it, Y/N…” smacking your shoulder with a dirty spoon.

”Hey watch out!” You exclaimed while holding her wrist.

You laughed softly, the moment hanging between you like warm summer air. Neither of you wanted to break the closeness, so you just smiled, feeling like this — this easy, tender teasing — was exactly where you were supposed to be.

The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow through the window as you and Sakura finished cleaning up the last of your cooking mess. The scent of tomato sauce and garlic still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the promise of a chill night ahead.

“So,” Sakura began, stretching and flashing that mischievous grin that always managed to get under your skin, “I think it’s time to build the ultimate blanket fort.”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary. “Ultimate blanket fort? Since when did we become five-year-olds?”

“Since forever,” she replied, grabbing a pile of blankets off your bed. “And since it’s on the bucket list, we gotta check it off.”

You sighed, but the playful sparkle in her eyes made it impossible to say no. “Fine. But I’m warning you, my engineering skills might just bring the whole thing down.”

“Oh, please. Like your cooking skills didn’t almost set the kitchen on fire,” she teased, throwing a cushion at you.

“Hey! That marinara sauce incident was a fluke,” you defended, cheeks burning at the memory of wiping sauce off her cheek and accidentally tasting it. She had turned an even deeper shade of pink that night.

Blankets and pillows quickly became weapons in your playful war. “More blankets!” she demanded, piling them up enthusiastically.

“No, no! It’s gonna collapse if you put all that weight on one side.”

“You’re just jealous mine looks better.”

“Your blanket is hideous.”

“Well, your taste is terrible.”

The fort took shape — a messy, lopsided masterpiece that somehow felt perfect. You crawled inside together, the soft fabric enclosing you like a warm hug. Sakura flopped down beside you, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“Movie time,” she announced, brandishing the remote like a trophy.

You grinned. “Alright, what’s the pick?”

“Rom-com. Obviously.”

You groaned dramatically. “You’re trying to make me suffer. Action movie, my turn after.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Deal. But no falling asleep halfway through.”

You snorted. “No promises.”

The movie started, the flickering light casting shadows on the blanket walls. You leaned back against the pillows, eyes flicking between the screen and Sakura. She was so engrossed, biting her lip to hold back giggles at the cheesy lines.

Halfway through, she shifted and accidentally rested her head on your shoulder.

Your heart skipped. You pretended not to notice, but you were definitely checking off the “falling asleep on the shoulder of partner” box in your head.

Her breathing slowed; her eyelashes fluttered. You could feel her warmth against you and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo.

“She’s out,” you whispered to yourself, smiling softly.

Your hand found hers in the dim light, fingers intertwining naturally.

You felt a gentle poke on your ribs.

“Hey, no cheating by checking off the list silently,” Sakura mumbled, eyes still closed but smiling.

You chuckled. “What? I’m just making mental notes.”

She yawned, nestling closer.

You wrapped an arm around her, whispering, “Movie night, blanket fort, falling asleep on me — all checked.”

She mumbled a sleepy, “Best day ever,” before drifting fully to sleep.

You sighed contentedly, watching the screen but really just savoring the moment.

The summer days blurred by like a sweet dream. You and Sakura checked off your bucket list one by one, laughter filling every moment like a favorite song stuck on repeat.

You danced barefoot in a sudden downpour, splashing water and spinning with reckless joy. “You’re terrible at this!” Sakura teased, trying to keep up with your clumsy moves.

“I’m terrible? You just stepped in a puddle and screamed!” you shot back, both of you collapsing onto the wet grass, breathless and soaked through.

Another afternoon, you sat on a rooftop watching the sun dip low, sharing a giant, melting ice cream cone. Sakura’s head rested lightly on your shoulder, and you snapped a goofy selfie, grinning like kids who’d found the perfect secret.

You scribbled silly notes and slipped them to each other in class, hiding smiles behind your hands.

Each day was a little universe of your own making — safe, bright, and just a little bit magical.

Then one morning, everything shifted.

The familiar creak of the front gate made your heart skip — Sakura’s older childhood friend, Hayato, was back from studying abroad. Tall, easy-going, with a grin that seemed to belong only to Sakura, he bounced up the steps like he owned the place.

“Kura! You haven’t changed a bit!” Hayato laughed, pulling Sakura into a tight, brotherly hug.

Sakura beamed. “Hayato! You’re finally here!”

They fell into easy chatter, reminiscing like no time had passed. You hung back, trying to join in but always just a beat too late.

Over the next few days, Sakura and Hayato were inseparable. They wandered through the city, shared inside jokes, and planned outings you weren’t invited to.

You noticed the way Sakura’s eyes lit up differently around him, the way her phone buzzed with his name far more than yours.

One evening, you sat on the porch, watching them from a distance — Sakura laughing with Hayato over some old memory. Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t want to admit.

“Hey,” Sakura’s voice pulled you back. She sat beside you, a little sheepish.

“I’m sorry I’ve been all over the place,” she said softly. “Hayato’s only here for a little while, but you’re my priority, okay?”

You managed a small smile, but the ache lingered.

Because the bucket list — the one you thought was only for the two of you — suddenly felt a little more complicated.

The days with Hayato around felt like a storm swirling through your quiet summer. Every time Sakura’s phone buzzed, your heart sank a little. You’d catch her smiling at his texts, and the warmth that once felt just for you now seemed shared — or maybe even taken.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the couch, the bucket list clutched in your hand. It had been tucked safely in your notebook, a symbol of all the moments you and Sakura promised to share. But lately, it felt heavier — like it belonged to a different story now.

You flipped through the pages, rereading each item: “Grocery date,” “Night market,” “Cooking together,” “Movie night and blanket fort,” and the one you both teased about but never said aloud: “Hold hands in public.”

Your eyes burned as a mix of frustration and sadness boiled up inside. How could she laugh so easily with him? How could she forget the plans you made together?

You slammed the notebook shut. The paper crinkled beneath your grip. Your fingers tightened until the edges tore.

“No,” you whispered, tearing the paper more, “not like this.”

At that moment, Sakura walked in, her eyes wide, catching sight of the ripped pages.

“Y/N? What happened?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Nothing. Just… feeling stupid, I guess.”

Sakura sat beside you, her voice gentle but worried. “Hey, talk to me. You’re not ‘stupid.’ What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, trying to pull the torn pieces together. “It’s just… you and Hayato. It’s like you forgot we had plans. Like I’m not even in your summer anymore.”

Her gaze softened, guilt flickering behind her eyes. “Y/N, that’s not true. Hayato’s been around, yeah. But you’re still my best friend. My favorite person.”

You wanted to believe her, but your heart felt bruised. The torn bucket list on your lap was a quiet testament to how tangled everything had become.

For a moment, you just sat there — two friends caught between what was and what might never be again.

The tension between you and Sakura had been simmering for days, boiling just beneath the surface, but now it was about to explode. You sat on the edge of your bed, the crumpled bucket list in your hands, fingers gripping it so tightly it almost tore. Your chest tightened as you watched Sakura laugh at some story Hayato was telling her over the phone, her eyes lighting up in a way they hadn’t when she looked at you lately.

A pang of jealousy twisted inside you. You had tried to push it down, tell yourself it was just a friend, that you had nothing to worry about. But it was a lie. The cold ache of being pushed aside was growing unbearable.

You stood abruptly, your voice trembling as you spoke. “Sakura, we need to talk.”

She looked up, surprised but nodded, setting her phone aside.

You paced, trying to catch your breath. “I can’t do this anymore. I feel like… like I’m losing you. Every time Hayato’s around, you’re somewhere else—laughing, talking, hanging out. And I’m here, waiting.”

Her brows furrowed. “Y/N, it’s not like that. You know he’s been gone for years. I want to spend time with him because he’s family. But that doesn’t mean I care about you any less.”

You swallowed hard, your throat closing with a lump. “But that’s just it, Sakura. It feels like I’m just a placeholder until he’s gone again. Like I’m not enough. You don’t text me as much, you cancel plans, you don’t even look at me the same way anymore.”

Her eyes softened, but there was hurt there too. “You think I want this? I didn’t ask for him to come back now. I’m just… overwhelmed.”

You laughed bitterly, voice cracking. “Overwhelmed? You think I’m not? I’m sitting here, watching you drift away. Watching you prioritize him over me. And it’s killing me.”

Sakura took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but you could see the tremble in her hands. “Y/N, please don’t make this harder than it is.”

But your frustration boiled over. You ripped the bucket list in two, letting the pieces flutter to the floor like broken promises. “What about the bucket list? So much for that….”

She opened her mouth, but you cut her off, voice rising. “I’m sick of pretending I’m okay with this! Sick of pretending I don’t care! Because the truth is…”

You screamed, your voice raw and cracking through the room, “I’m sorry if I’m making a scene over this but…but……I’m jealous of him okay?!”

“Why?, you don’t have to be, I promise.” She said hands on her chest.

“Because I like you Sakura, for all these years, all the time I questioned myself if its just a hunch because I’m lonely or My heart just truly wants you, and I think I have my answer, I lik- hell, I love you Sakura, I really do.

The silence that followed was deafening. Sakura blinked, wide-eyed, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Her defenses crumbled, and tears pooled in her eyes.

She stepped forward slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Y/N… I love you. Only you.”

Her words hit you like a wave, washing over the ache in your chest. You reached out hesitantly, trembling fingers brushing her cheek. She leaned into your touch, the warmth between you igniting the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t losing her after all.

You both stood there, breath mingling, hearts pounding — finally allowing yourselves to be vulnerable, raw, and honest. The fight had torn something open, but maybe it had also made room for something deeper.

The moment stretched out between you, thick with unspoken words and raw vulnerability. Sakura’s arms tightened around you as if trying to keep you close forever, her breath warm against your skin.

You lifted a trembling hand to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing softly over the curve of her jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed at your touch, and your heart hammered louder in your chest.

With nothing left to hold back, you leaned in slowly — the world narrowing to just the two of you. Your lips met hers, gentle at first, soft as a whisper. The kiss deepened naturally, full of everything you’d both been feeling but couldn’t say aloud.

It was messy and perfect all at once — a promise and a confession, a relief and a new beginning. When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

“I love you,” you murmured, voice low and sincere.

Sakura smiled against your lips, eyes sparkling. “I love you too. And no one will ever change that.”

THE END (no plotwist this time!)

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POSTING IN 30 MIN!

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Posting a one shot!! Hint on my twitter ^^

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NEW WATTPAD SERIES UP NOW ^^

here!

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are the stories that you’ll post on wattpad will also be posted here sa tumblr?

I’m afraid not, there will be wattpad exclusive contents!!

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Might post on wattpad hehehehehhe

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WATTPAD

I made a wattpad and will be posting more series themed rather than one shots there! please do follow me if you have the time! I’d appreciate it ^^

HERE 🫶

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do u only do paid comissions now or do you still take requests?

I always take requests dw!! but of course i’ll be focusing more on paid ones but of course I’ll still take free requests ^^

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enjoy guys im gonna go sleep, i had to post this! we had just celebrated my mom’s birthday goodnight everyone or goodmorning!

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“CAMERA SHY” chapter 2 posted !!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻