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just-nc-tea · 1 month ago

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nine and three quarters pt. 2 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

⭑.ᐟ Roommate to Lovers - Park Sunghoon Recovery is never linear. You knew that. You just didn’t know what to do when all the progress you’ve made disappeared in days. So you do what you’ve always done. You pretend you're fine. And your new hot and cute roommate… pretends not to notice you're not. Only, he always notices. Sunghoon stated to take care of you in quiet ways—tea left by your side, dinner magically appearing, messes cleaned before you can see them. It isn’t until you’re back home, away from him, that it hits you: how far you’ve slipped, how much he’s held together without ever asking for thanks. And suddenly, all you want is to go back—to your couch, Sunghoons tea, the olympic figure skater who made it easier to breathe.

ᝰ genre. Figure skater!Sunghoon, college sports, angst, hurt/comfort, really SLOW burn, fluff, suggestive .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ warnings. Swearing, partying, consumption of alcohol, hospital visits, mentions of rape, mentions of date-rape-drugs, mentions of the police, panic attacks, eating disorder, psychologists PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANYTHING AND PLEASE TELL ME IN CASE I MISREPRESENTED SOMETHING .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ features. Mark, Johnny, Ten, Taeyong & Jungwoo from NCT, Woonyoung and Rei from IVE ᝰ word count. 25 k .ᐟ₊ ⊹ --⟢ PART 1 --⟢ PART 3

series masterlist ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ GET ADDED THE SERIES TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT 🏒 ⤷ GET ADDED MY PERMANENT TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT ✨

The microwave beeped, pulling you from your thoughts. The smell of Johnny’s mom’s seaweed soup wafted through the kitchen. You finally reheated it after sat in the freezer for days. You had actually taken it out of the freezer and poured a bowl this time. Small, but a bowl nonetheless. You stirred it absently, watching the steam curl upward.

The opening credits of My Demon played on the TV, casting flickering blue light across Sunghoon’s face. You carried the bowl to the living room, where Sunghoon was already sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over the back cushions. He glanced up as you approached, his gaze dropping to the bowl in your hands. A slow grin spread across his lips. "Look at you, actually eating." You rolled your eyes, perched on the far edge of the couch. "Don’t make it weird. It's not my fault my stomach is stupid." Sunghoon chuckled, shifting to make more room. The couch was still too small, forcing your knees to brush against his as you settled in. The contact sent a jolt of warmth through you, but you focused on the soup, taking a careful sip. The first sip burned your tongue, but the familiar taste of home made your shoulders relax. It was... okay. Today, it didn't feel like swallowing rocks. On screen, Guwon brooded dramatically in the rain.

"I swear she will have to die. Or he will. A hundred percent." Sunghoon said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. You scoffed. "No way. They definitely will survive. There is no way that this will have a bad ending." Sunghoon nudged your knee with his. "You’re underestimating the power of bad drama physics." You huffed a laugh, relaxing slightly. The moment Sunghoon shifted again, you became acutely aware of several problematic facts: His knee was now wedged firmly against your thigh. The arm he'd stretched across the back cushions brushed against your shoulders. You could feel every exhale he made against your hair. "Um," you said intelligently, gripping your soup bowl.

Sunghoon seemed oblivious to your internal panic as he adjusted his position, his stupidly long legs bumping into the coffee table. "Damn couch," he muttered, knees bending at an unnatural angle. "Built for gnomes."

You stiffened as his movement made his thigh press more firmly against yours. The heat of it burned through your sweatpants. "Maybe if you didn't sit like a starfish–"

"Starfish?" He turned his head to look at you, and oh god, now his face was too close. You could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "I'm sitting normally. You're the one folded up like a lawn chair."

You became hyper-aware of how you were hunched over your soup, shoulders tense. "I'm trying to eat," you lied, staring fixedly at the TV.

Sunghoon shifted again, his arm accidentally brushing the back of your neck. You jerked forward so violently that soup sloshed over the rim.

"Shit–" He grabbed a napkin, dabbing at the spill on your knee before you could react. His fingers lingered a beat too long on the fabric. "You okay? You're all..."

"All what?"

"Twitchy." His brow furrowed. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Yes. No. You didn't know. The soup suddenly felt like a lead weight in your stomach. "It's just–" You gestured vaguely between your bodies. "You're. You know."

Sunghoon blinked. "Tall?"

"Everywhere," you blurted, then immediately wanted to evaporate.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Everywhere?"

"Shut up." You shoved at his shoulder, but he didn't budge. "I meant your limbs are invasive."

"Mmhm." He deliberately stretched his arm further behind you, his fingers now playing with the ends of your hair. "You know, most people would love to have longer legs."

You were pretty sure your face could power a nuclear reactor. "Most people don't think about long legs being a constitute public hazard."

He laughed, loud and sudden, and you felt it vibrate through where your shoulders were pressed together. The sound made something flutter in your chest.

He playfully tugged at a loose strand of your hair that had escaped your braid.

"My little sister used to make me braid her hair all the time. She would beg me to braid it before she went on the ice."

"Oh really?" you said and placed the now almost empty bowl onto the sofa table, trying to adjust your body in a way that wouldn't cause you or Sunghoon to have knees or elbows in places that knees and elbows were not supposed to be.

"Yeah. I bet I could still braid a banger braid. Even if it’s been like 7 years since Yeji last asked me.", he said and twirled the strand around his finger.

"Do... do you want to try if you still can?" you asked carefully and stared at the TV, pretending that you were interested in whatever Dodohee was doing just now, instead of hyper-focusing on Sunghoon’s fingers.

"Sure. If you will let me.", he cocked his head to the side.

You hummed and moved to the floor to sit between his legs. "Go for it."

His fingers were careful as they unravelled your braid, combing through the tangles with surprising gentleness. You held your breath as they grazed the nape of your neck, the touch feather-light.

"Okay, Y/N," he murmured, dividing your hair into sections. "French or fishtail?"

"You know how to do a fishtail?"

"Y/N," he said, voice dripping with mock offense, “My sister was national junior champion three years running. My fingers have trained precision."

You snorted but stayed still as he began weaving the strands, his knuckles occasionally brushing your shoulders. The TV faded into background noise, replaced by the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional muttered curse when a strand slipped.

"My brother used to braid my hair when I was little," you admitted after a comfortable silence. "Before his military service."

Sunghoon's hands stilled for a beat before resuming. "Taeyong?"

"Yeah. He'd do it while I did homework." "That's cute," Sunghoon hummed. You sat in silence for a few minutes until Sunghoon's fingers trailed down the finished braid, smoothing the ends. "There. Not bad for a six-year hiatus, huh?"

You reached back to feel his handiwork, your fingers brushing against his. The braid was neat and tight without pulling. Better than you could do yourself.

"Showoff," you muttered, but you were smiling.

Sunghoon leaned around to see your face, his grin lopsided. "Admit it. You're impressed."

"Never."

He poked your side, making you squirm. "Liar." ──────────────────────── The drama played on, but Sunghoon hadn't processed a single word in the last twenty minutes. Not when his fingers were buried in your hair, tracing the braid he'd just finished like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever touched.

He should stop. Should pull his hand back, put some respectable distance between you. But you were leaning into his touch, your head tipping back just enough that his fingertips brushed the delicate skin behind your ear.

"Sleepy?" he asked, voice lower than he intended.

You hummed in response, the sound vibrating through where your back pressed against his knees. Something dangerously warm unfurled in Sunghoon's chest.

Before he could think better of it, he undid the braid with careful tugs, letting your hair spill loose over his hands. "Your hair's soft," he murmured, more to himself than to you. It was stupid, this compulsion to keep touching, to find excuses to let his fingers card through the strands again and again. But when you didn't pull away, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

"You're gonna put me to sleep," you mumbled, even as you nuzzled unconsciously into his palm.

"Good." His thumb traced the shell of your ear. "You look like you need it."

He had noticed, of course. How could he not? The shadows under your eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. The way your clothes hung just a little looser. The careful way you moved, like you were conserving energy. It made something primal in him ache - the need to fix, to protect, to wrap you in blankets and force-feed you until colour returned to your cheeks.

On screen, the female lead burst into dramatic tears. Sunghoon snorted. "This show is so bad."

"You picked it," you slurred, voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yeah, and I regret nothing." His fingers automatically started another braid. His little sister had made him practice for hours until he got it perfect. Back then, he'd complained. Now he was absurdly grateful for the excuse to keep his hands in your hair.

Your breathing deepened, your weight growing heavier against him. Sunghoon held himself perfectly still, terrified of disturbing you. The trust you placed in him - to touch you, to hold you up, to see you like this - was a gift he didn't know how to deserve.

When your exhales evened out into sleep, he finally allowed himself to look. Really look. At the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks, at the slight part of your lips, at the tension that had finally drained from your shoulders.

"Y/N?" he whispered, knowing you wouldn't answer.

Carefully, so carefully, he resumed braiding your hair. Then unbraided it. Then started over. Again. And again.

Outside, the rain picked up, tapping gentle rhythms against the window. The drama credits rolled, casting the room in shifting blue light. Sunghoon didn't move. Didn't dare. Not when you finally looked peaceful.

So he stayed. Counting your breaths. Memorising the weight of you against him. And when his own eyes grew heavy, he let them fall shut - just for a moment - your hair still tangled between his fingers. ──────────────────────── The apartment was quiet, save for the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the soft hum of the coffee machine. Sunghoon moved through the kitchen with practised ease, flipping an omelette onto a plate.

As he reached for the salt, his gaze wandered to the flowers by the window. The yellow chrysanthemums you’d bought the morning of the party were wilting. Their petals drooped, edges browned, stems slouching in the water.

He’d noticed them days ago but assumed you would replace them.

You always did.

But it had been over a week and a half.

Sunghoon frowned, running a finger along a brittle petal. It crumbled at his touch.

When you fell asleep after your panic attack, Sunghoon went back to the kitchen. He picked up the flowers and put them in a spare mug because the vase was in pieces. He cleaned up the water and the glass. Then he stood there in the too-quiet dark, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles ached.

He didn’t go back to his room that night. He slid under the covers beside you, listening to your breathing, counting the seconds between each inhale to make sure they didn’t stop.

Now, staring at the wilted flowers, Sunghoon felt that same helplessness claw at his ribs. The coffee machine beeped, jerking him back to the present. He poured two mugs out of habit—one black for himself, one with a splash of milk for you—before stopping short.

Right. You’d left early for your studio, muttering something about a deadline.

Sunghoon set your mug down too hard, sloshing coffee onto the counter. He wiped it up with a ragged sigh.

It had been more than two weeks since the party. Sixteen days since he caught your limp body, since he’d sat in a hospital chair waiting for you to wake up. Sixteen days of watching you pick at your food, of finding you asleep on the couch at 3 a.m.

Sunghoon grabbed his keys, shoving the dead chrysanthemums into the trash. ──────────────────────── The bell above the door chimed too loudly when Sunghoon stepped inside, the scent of earth and flowers thick in the air.

Now, standing in the middle of the shop, he froze. He really didn’t think about what to buy. Which flowers you liked. Which colors.

There were too many.

Buckets upon buckets of flowers, colours screaming at him from every direction. Vibrant reds, blinding yellows, pinks so bright they hurt his eyes. His grip tightened on his keys. You never brought back anything like this. Your flowers were quiet. Soft.

A throat cleared behind him.

The florist, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, smiled at him, her pruning shears dangling from one hand. "Lost, sweetheart?"

Sunghoon swallowed. "I need flowers."

Her lips twitched. "Well, you’re in the right place." She gestured around them. "Anything in particular?"

He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought this far.

His eyes scanned over the flowers until they stopped on a bucket full of baby blue, pale pink and white flowers. They looked like something you would pick.

He pointed. "Those."

The florist hummed, pulling the bucket forward. "Good choice. These just came in." She plucked a few stems, holding them up. "Your girlfriend will love them."

Sunghoon’s face went hot. "Oh. Yeah." He coughed. "I mean—she’s not—we’re not—"

The florist laughed, wrapping the stems in paper before he could combust. "Relax, son. I was just joking." She tied the bundle with twine, then paused. "They’ll last longer if you trim the stems underwater."

He nodded and paid for the flowers. When he left the small shop, he decided not to rush to the bus stop to catch the next bus, but rather take his time to walk through the market.

He took a wrong turn somewhere.

The alley he was in now was narrow, cramped between two buildings, the cobblestones uneven under his shoes. He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was until a glint of blue caught his eye.

There, on a rickety table outside a cramped-looking store, sat a vase next to other miscellaneous items.

It was your vase. The one you broke.

Or close enough. The same shape, the same curve at the neck. It had one deliberate gold seam running along its side.

Sunghoon reached out, fingertips hovering just above the glass.

"Kintsugi," a voice said.

He jerked back. The shopkeeper, an old man with a cane, leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Means golden repair. You break something, you fix it with gold. Makes it stronger than before." He nodded at the vase. "That one’s seen a few drops."

Sunghoon ran his thumb over the flaw. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too. How much?” ──────────────────────── The ice had never felt so unforgiving.

Sunghoon dragged a hand down his face, his breath coming in sharp, visible puffs in the cold rink air. His skates scraped against the ice as he came to a stop, his body aching from yet another failed routine. The Olympic trials were creeping closer, and every session felt like he was regressing instead of improving.

All he felt was exhaustion.

He gripped the rink’s barrier and let his head drop forward. What’s the point? The thought slithered in, unwelcome but persistent. He was skating worse than he had in months. His jumps were off, his landings shaky. Every session felt like running in place.

Maybe he should just quit.

Not skating entirely, he could never give that up, but this relentless pursuit of the Olympics? The pressure, the scrutiny, the way his stomach twisted every time he imagined failing in front of millions? Disappointed not just his coach and parents, but the whole South Korean peninsula.

Maybe he should go back to skating for fun. Like he used to. Only attend University or school competitions. Something that came with less pressure.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, pushing off the boards to attempt the jump again.

An hour later, he stepped into Jay, Heeseung and Jake’s apartment. The smell of spice and garlic hit him the moment he stepped inside. Jay was at the stove, stirring the pot with one hand and shoving Heeseung away with the other as he tried to steal a bite. Jake was setting the table, but he paused when he saw Sunghoon’s face.

“Damn,” Jake said, eyebrows rising. “You look like shit.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just collapsed into a chair, his body heavy with fatigue.

Heeseung whistled. “That bad, huh?”

Sunghoon dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m done. I’m so done.”

Jay turned off the stove. “With…?”

“Everything. The Olympics. Skating. All of it.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I’m skating like shit, and no matter what I do, it’s not getting better. I feel like I should just quit. Honestly.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jake sighed, sliding into the seat across from him. “Yeah. I get that.”

Sunghoon looked up.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “NHL draft’s coming up, and I swear to god, if I hear one more scout say ‘potential’ like it’s a consolation prize, I’m gonna lose it.”

Heeseung and Jay, who have both been successfully drafted and will play for two rather big teams, just nodded solemnly.

"Do you really want to quit the tryouts?" Jay asked from his place in the kitchen. He was frowning at Sunghoon, "Maybe just try your best there, and if you don't get in, you can still say you gave your best and tried it. Don't let an opportunity like that just go by."

Sunghoon groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, "No. I don't. I just know that I won't get in, and it's frustrating. But maybe if I do well enough they consider me for the games in 4 years or something else. Whatever."

"Well. You did have fun up to like a few weeks ago, right?" Jay turned back to the Curry and continued stirring.

"Yeah.", Sunghoon grumbled.

"Well see. Maybe if all the pressure is gone it's fun again. If you already know you won't qualify, just have fun performing. I know you love doing that.", his friend hummed.

Sunghoon just nodded and was thankful for Jake when he switched the topic to tell them about his and his girlfriend’s exes. They married last year and invited Jake and his girlfriend just to taunt them, well, at least the groom did so. Y/N reconnected with some of her friends who are still kind of friends with the bride so now she has insider information on everything that is going on.

Sunghoon’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

Y/N Thank you for the flowers And the vase

His breath caught. He hadn’t expected a response at all.

Sunghoon No worries

He paused. Then, against his better judgment typed:

Sunghoon Did you eat today?

No immediate reply.

He set his phone down, trying to ignore the twist in his gut.

Heeseung eyed him. "Y/N?"

Sunghoon nodded, stirring his curry absently. "She thanked me for the flowers."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "You bought her flowers?"

"Yeah. After—" Sunghoon hesitated. "She had a panic attack after we came home from the hospital. A Really bad one. A vase broke during it, so I… replaced it and put new flowers inside."

The table went quiet.

Jake frowned. "Shit. Is she okay?"

Sunghoon’s grip tightened on his chopsticks. "I…don’t think so? She’s not eating. She’s not sleeping. I don’t—" His voice dropped. "I don’t know how to help her. Or if she even wants my help."

Heeseung leaned forward and frowned. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Sunghoon exhaled sharply. "It's not my thing to tell."

"Fuck.", Heeseung leaned back in his seat, "I am so sorry Sunghoon. I should never have invited her."

Sunghoon's chopsticks clattered against his bowl. "It's not your fault," he said. "No one could've known that bastard would spike her drink." His knuckles went white around his spoon. "Not you. Not me. Not even Y/N knew until—"

His phone buzzed.

Y/N I did a little today I still had some of my Imus soup

My stomach handeled that very well yesterday so I ate the rest today.

Sunghoon signed. "She ate like three spoons of soup."

Jay frowned. “She is not eating? Like… at all?”

Sunghoon shook his head. “Not enough. She picks at her food or says she’s not hungry. I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

Jake hesitated. "Have you… talked to her about it?"

Sunghoon stared at him. "What, just ‘hey, are you developing an eating disorder because a dickhead drugged you?’"

"No, idiot. Just—ask her how she’s feeling."

Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it.

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N The blue ones are my favorite

Sunghoon’s throat tightened.

He typed back slowly.

Sunghoon I’ll be home soon

"I cleaned up glass for forty minutes," he heard himself say, voice hollow. "She couldn't breath. When she calmed down enough she asked me to spend the night with her. Like sleep next to each other not with each other. She slept for fourteen hours."

Jay's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "You stayed the whole time?"

"Where else would I go?" Sunghoon countered.

Sunghoon's phone lit up.

Y/N Don't rush back Have fun with the others Tell them I said hi

He stared at the message until the screen went dark.

Jake snatched the phone from his limp fingers. "Enough." His thumbs flew across the screen before Sunghoon could protest.

Sunghoon Too bad Already on my way Do you want chicken or pizza?

"You can't just—" "Watch me," Jake said, dodging Sunghoon's grab.

Y/N Oh I ate already But thank you!

A beat. Then:

Y/N Maybe we can eat it tomorrow? For lunch? Could you bring the one with the garlic powder? From Mom's Touch?

Sunghoon's breath left him in a rush.

Jay clapped him on the back hard enough to sting. "See? It's not that bad. Maybe her stomach is really just upset. Now order enough for three days worth of leftovers." ──────────────────────── The apartment was dark when Sunghoon returned, the only light coming from the muted TV casting blue shadows across your curled-up form on the couch. Your eyes were closed, but the way your fingers twitched against the throw pillow told him you weren't asleep.

"I brought the chicken," he said, toeing off his shoes by the door. The scent of garlic and fried dough lingered in the takeout bag as he set it on the counter. "With extra powder, like you asked."

You hummed without opening your eyes. "How was training?"

Sunghoon hesitated. The frustration from earlier still coiled in his muscles, but the words came out softer than expected. "Shitty. Couldn't land anything." He shrugged. "Dinner was nice, though. Jay made curry."

"That sounds good." Your voice was light, but when you finally looked at him, your gaze was clearer than it had been in days. "Did you tell them I said hi?”

The question startled a laugh out of him. "Obviously. Jake claimed he wants to come back here with his girlfriend so she can enjoy our apartment as well." He nudged the coffee table with his knee. "You sure you don't want any chicken now? It's still hot."

You shook your head, pulling the pillow closer to your chest. "Tomorrow. I’m full." Sunghoon glanced toward the kitchen and noticed the rinsed-out plates in the sink you used for rice and the soup.

He sank onto the couch beside you, careful to leave space. For a moment, there was only the sound of some variety show's laugh track and your steady breathing.

Then, almost shyly you asked: "Do you... want to watch My Demon?"

Sunghoon blinked.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Yeah, I'd love that."

Your arm brushed against his, he didn't pull away.

And when you eventually slumped sideways, your temple coming to rest against his shoulder, he didn't mention it. ──────────────────────── The knock at your door was so light you almost missed it. You paused your sketching, charcoal smudged across your fingertips. "Yes?"

Sunghoon hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched. His hands fidgeted with something behind his back. "I—I know you’re busy, but…" He held out a box of hair bleach, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "Could you… help me with this?"

You furrowed your brows: ”You want to… bleach your hair?"

He nodded, avoiding your eyes. "For the Try outs. I thought—" A pause. "I just wanted to try something different."

You wiped your hands on your jeans, hesitating. Your project wasn’t due until next week.

"Only if you have time," he added quickly, already stepping back. "It’s okay if—"

"I’ll do it," you blurted, interrupting him.

His head snapped up.

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck. "J-just let me read the instructions first."

The bathroom felt too small with both of you in it. Sunghoon sat on the edge of the tub, your oversized paint smock draped over his shoulders. It swallowed him whole, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips. You bit your lip to keep from smiling. It was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous.

You squinted at the bleach instructions. "It says to do a strand test first—"

"Skip it."

"Sunghoon. This could melt your hair off."

He met your eyes in the mirror, deadpan. "Being bald would be good for aerodynamics."

You couldn’t help laughing out loud at that. Sunghoon’s shoulders relaxed .

"Are you sure about this?" you asked, watching while he wetted his hair under the faucet. The water darkened his strands to near-black, dripping onto the smock when he sat down on the kitchen chair you covered with multiple towels.

He hummed, eyes closed. "Yeah."

You mixed the bleach with trembling hands, the chemical smell stinging your nose. During the last few weeks you had more migraines then you usually had. It was probably the stress.

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered open. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah." You hesitated, the brush hovering. "It’s just… permanent."

A beat passed. Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "I know."

Something in his voice made your chest tighten. You started applying the bleach, working in small sections like the instructions said. His hair was softer than you expected beneath your fingers. It was a shame to destroy such beautiful hair with bleach. You were hoping that it would still be soft and fluffy afterwards. Whenever Sunghoon came from a shower, with his hair unstyled it made you envy having his hair. Yours has been thin and brittle for a few years now, no matter what you did, it wouldn’t grow much past your collarbones. Right now it was the longest it has been in a long time. Thanks to various scalp treatments, biotin capsules and a lot of hair care your hair could now be considered longer mid length. You would have to cut it again soon.

Sunghoon let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing under your touch. "Feels nice," he murmured.

Your hands stilled above his head. "Does it hurt?"

"No." His voice was rough.

"You're sure about this?" you asked for the third time, carefully coating another section near his crown. The chemical smell burned your nose. "This isn't... reversible."

Sunghoon's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, his back pressed against your knees where you sat behind him on the washing machine. Standing was exhausting. "Neither is fucking up my short program at trials next week." A pause. "At least this way, people will remember me for something."

Your hands stilled. "You... don't think you'll make it?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. But Sunghoon just exhaled through his nose, tipping his head back slightly into your hands. "Not sure I want to anymore."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavier than the bleach fumes. You resumed your work, fingers moving methodically through his hair to hide their sudden tremor.

"You're good though," you murmured before you could stop yourself. "Really good."

He huffed a laugh. "At jumping. Not at..." His voice dropped. "Whatever comes after. You just saw me on a good day."

The timer beeped, startling you both. As you reached to turn it off, Sunghoon unexpectedly leaned back, the full weight of his upper body coming to rest against your legs.

This close, you could feel the heat of him through his tank top and the coat against your thigh – the solid muscle of his shoulders pressing into your too-sharp kneecaps. You'd seen him shirtless once or twice in the hallway, but feeling his body against your own bony frame made your face warm. The contrast was embarrassing.

"Sorry," he muttered, though he didn't move away. "My back’s killing me."

You swallowed. "It's... fine."

An odd silence settled as you both stared at his reflection in the mirror. His dark roots slowly lightening to orange, your hesitant fingers still tangled in the strands, playing and spreading the bleach around. The intimacy of it prickled along your skin.

"You know," you said quietly, "if you quit... you could just skate for fun."

Sunghoon's eyes met yours in the glass. "Yeah?"

The word came out softer than you intended. "Yeah. Maybe you could just go to easier competitions?"

He held your gaze for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed fully against you, his warmth seeping into your legs. "Maybe I will."

Your hands resumed their work almost unconsciously, massaging the bleach through his hair with more care than necessary. The silence now was comfortable, broken only by the drip of chemicals into the towel around his shoulders.

When the timer went off again, neither of you moved immediately.

"I should—" you started.

"Right," he said at the same time.

As you helped rinse the bleach out, his hair streaming gold between your fingers, you tried not to notice how natural it felt. His head tipped back into your hands, your knees bracketing his shoulders. He looked so beautiful even in a position and an angle that would make anyone else look ridiculous.

"Shit," Sunghoon breathed when he saw his reflection after you were done, water dripping down his neck. "I look insane."

You wrung out the towel, hiding your smile. "Kinda?"

The second round of bleach smelled even stronger than the first. You wrinkled your nose as you mixed the powder and developer in the little plastic bowl Sunghoon had scavenged from the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his hair already a brassy orange from the initial processing, strands sticking up in damp clumps where you’d rinsed it out.

"Your scalp is going to hate me," you murmured, carefully parting another section of his hair. The gloves made your fingers clumsy, but you tried to be gentle as you painted the bleach onto his roots. Paint was something you knew how to do. On paper and apparently on hair. The strands already felt a bit rougher against your fingers when you separated his hair before putting on gloves again.

Sunghoon hummed, his shoulders relaxed under your touch. "Worth it."

You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the scrape of the brush against the bowl and the occasional drip of bleach onto the towel around his shoulders. The bathroom was warm, steam still clinging to the mirror from when you’d rinsed his hair earlier.

Then your stomach growled. Loudly.

You froze, the brush hovering mid-air. Heat rushed to your face.

Sunghoon tilted his head back just enough to peer up at you. "You hungry?"

"N-no," you said automatically, even as your stomach protested again. You focused on applying more bleach, willing him to drop it. You prayed he would. You wouldn’t know how to answer if he didn’t. Technically you knew how to. You just didn’t want to.

The third round of bleach was turning Sunghoon’s hair white when your stomach betrayed you again. A loud, visceral growl that echoed in the tiled bathroom. Your hands froze mid-application, bleach dripping onto the towel around his shoulders.

Sunghoon’s reflection raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "We’re definitely getting food after this."

Heat exploded across your face. "I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "It’s just digestion. Doesn’t mean I’m hungry."

Sunghoon turned on the stool, forcing you to withdraw your bleach-stained gloves from his hair. His gaze dropped to your hands, then traveled up to the sharp angles of your wrists exposed by your rolled-up sleeves. When his eyes met yours again, something in his expression made you want to disappear.

"You’re shaking," he said quietly.

You balled your hands into fists, but the tremor persisted. "It’s the chemicals. I already had a headache–"

"Y/N." He said your name like a sigh.

Humiliation burned through you. You focused on peeling off the gloves just to avoid his gaze. "I'm fine"

He knew. He had to know. You knew that hiding it in front of Sunghoon would be hard. Mark, Jungwon, Taeyong or your parents would see it immediately. They knew the signs, knew what they would have to look for. Sunoo might also know already.

Sunghoon stood abruptly, his newly blond hair catching the light. For a terrifying moment you thought he might hug you—but he just stepped around you to rummage in his duffel bag he put into the bathroom to throw it into the wash. The crinkle of a protein bar wrapper sounded like gunfire in the tense silence.

He held it out. "Here."

You stared it. The calorie count flashed in your mind before you could stop it. 280. Your throat closed up. Why did it even remember the number? Why did it start again? You were doing so good. It was so frustrating. You felt like screaming but instead you almost whispered: "I can’t."

Sunghoon didn’t withdraw his hand. "Why?"

The question hung between you. If you said it out loud, it would make it real. Make it real that it came back. That all of the work you put into a healthy relationship with food has vanished into thin air after your panic attack. Since the party. The stay in the hospital.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply and tore the wrapper open himself. He broke the bar in half, crumbs scattering across the sink. "Just this much," he said, holding out the smaller piece. "Then I’ll shut up about it."

Your vision blurred. It wasn’t fair—how gentle he was being, how carefully he’d calculated this humiliation to be bearable. The smaller piece was maybe two bites. 70 calories.

When you took it, your fingers brushed his palm. Sunghoon didn’t smile, but something in his posture relaxed.

The first bite tasted like sawdust. The second stuck in your throat. You chased it with water while Sunghoon pretended not to watch, fussing with his hair in the mirror.

"Okay?" he asked when you’d swallowed.

You nodded, even though your stomach churned with guilt. The protein bar sat like a lead weight inside you.

Sunghoon turned back to the mirror, examining his hair. "We should do one more round. Get it properly platinum."

The casual change of topic felt like mercy. You grabbed the bleach kit with too much enthusiasm, grateful for the distraction. But as you sectioned his hair again, your reflection in the mirror caught your eye—the sharp collar bones visible under your tank top, the hollows beneath your cheeks. You looked away quickly again. For the past few days you’ve been avoiding mirrors. After you realized what was happening. After you noticed your pants slipping down more and more. After you noticed what you were eating, how much you were eating.

Sunghoon leaned back against your knees as you worked, his warmth seeping through your pants. ──────────────────────── A few days later you were sitting in the front seat of Jake's car while the boys piled into the back. In the rearview mirror, you caught glimpses of them in the dark - Heeseung already asleep against the window, Jay scrolling through his phone, and Sunghoon with his hood pulled up, staring blankly at the passing streetlights.

No one spoke much. You weren't sure if it was the hour or because Sunghoon was in a really bad mood and no one wanted to make him even angrier.

The past few days were hard on Sunghoon. He went to the rink at an ungodly hour and came back late into the night. You sometimes waited for him but most of the time you were too exhausted to do so. When he told his Coach he was thinking about his chances to get into the olympic team being so low he thought about quitting, he didn't react well at all and made Sunghoon train even harder. He claimed Sunghoon had the talent and the potential and he just had to use it.

The car hummed through the darkness, the only light coming from the dashboard and the occasional streetlamp that painted the inside in fleeting gold. In the rearview mirror, you watched Sunghoon’s reflection. His hood was shadowing his eyes, his jaw clenched tight enough that you could see the muscle twitching even in the dim light.

A pothole jolted the car, making Heeseung slump further against the window. Jay reached over to adjust the beanie slipping off his forehead. You caught Sunghoon’s eye in the mirror for half a second before he looked away, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his knee.

When you got to the arena, Sunghoon disappeared inside almost immediately. The car door slammed shut behind him before you'd even fully unbuckled your seatbelt. You watched through the windshield as he stalked toward the arena entrance, his skate bag slung over one shoulder. The boys tumbled out after him, stretching in the chilly morning air. During the past week the temperature dopped pretty suddenly and you had to start wearing jackets outside again.

"Hey! Hoon-ah!" Jay called after him, but Sunghoon either didn't hear or chose not to.

To everyone's surprise Sunghoon suddenly turned on his heel and marched back toward the car. He crushed each of the boys in quick, rough hugs. Jay first, then a sleepy Heeseung, then Jake who pretended to gag but hugged back just as hard.

Then he was standing in front of you.

The morning light caught the exhaustion under his eyes as he hesitated for half a second before pulling you in. His jacket smelled like his clean perfume he liked to use. You really liked it. "Thanks for coming," he muttered into your hair, so quiet you might have imagined it.

Before you could respond, he was gone again, the automatic doors swallowing him whole.

"Damn," Jake whistled. "He really is nervous."

You stood frozen. That was the first time he'd ever hugged you.

Jay nudged your elbow. "Come on, let's find our seats before the crowds hit. The other two are gonna get us some breakfast. Sunghoon gets some inside but we have to bring our own." ──────────────────────── The seats were better than you expected - close enough to see the skaters' expressions but high enough to view the entire rink. You had just settled in when Heeseung and Jake reappeared, their arms full with convenience food.

"Breakfast has been served," Jake announced, dropping into the seat beside you. He handed you a gimbap roll still warm from the microwave and an apple so shiny it reflected the arena lights.

Heeseung wordlessly passed you a diet banana milk, the condensation cool against your fingers. You stared at the small feast in your lap. More food than you had eaten in a single sitting in weeks.

"Thanks," you murmured, peeling back the gimbap wrapper with careful fingers. You weren’t really hungry, but you also didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

As the first skater took the ice, the others have already eaten more than half of their rolls, while you were still on your third piece. Gimbap was pretty solid against headache and wasn’t too harsh on your stomach, so you should eat some more.

You realized pretty quickly that the others didn’t really know much more about skating than you did. Well generally skating itself they probably did, but not figure skating. They also seemed awed by the performances. You wished you brought your sketchbook to sketch some of what you were seeing.

Three or four performances in Jake nudged your shoulder with his gently.

“You should finish your roll. I don’t know when we will get the chance to get more food without missing anything.”

You smiled sheepishly and ate another piece. If you took breaks in between pieces it wasn’t as bad.

Then the announcer called Sunghoon's name for warm-ups, and your breath caught. He glided onto the ice, his dark costume contrasting with his white hair.

He was right.

He was outstandingly beautiful with the white hair, or as he phrased it he looked ‘dope’.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his frame. Maybe you could sketch this from memory later.

Sunghoon looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes were visible even from the stands. He took his starting position. The opening chords of his music filled the arena, and for the first time all morning, he looked at peace, backlit by the rink lights, all sharp angles and effortless grace. You stopped breathing when he launched into his first jump.

It was perfect. Or at least in your eyes it was and considering the crowds clapping, it was a really good jump even in the eyes of a professional viewer.

When he finished his performance you were all on the edge of your seats. Jake leaned back with a satisfied sign. “Oh man he fucking rocked that.”

Heeseung grinned from ear to ear. “Of course. Sunghoon strives for perfection. And he'll get it with whatever he does.”

Sunghoon skated past your section again and his eyes found yours. He was smiling.

It was a bright and relieved smile.

You grinned back, your cheeks aching with it. ──────────────────────── Thirty minutes after Sunghoons performance you started to get tired and cold. You had gotten four hours of sleep last night and now that the adrenaline was gone you felt the exhaustion creep in together with the coldness of the rink.

A warm weight suddenly dropped onto your shoulders. You startled, turning to find Heeseung just wearing a t-shirt. His blue hoodie being draped over your shoulders. “You’re blue,” he said simply.

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Your lips. They’re turning blue,” He nudged the hoodie closer. “Put it on.”

The fabric was still warm from his body as you pulled it on, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole.

“Thank you,” you muttered.

On the ice, the first girl of the day finished her program to polite applause. The next skater was announced—Wonnie, in a cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

She looked gorgeous in her cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

Perfect.

She looked perfect.

Every of her movement was polished to perfection.

Her first spin sent her dark hair whipping in a perfect spiral, before settling back into place as if choreographed.

Each takeoff showed the lean muscle of her thighs through her tights. When she landed, her free leg extended in a picture-perfect line, not an ounce of unnecessary flesh jiggling beneath the sheer material. The sequins on her dress scattered light with every movement, drawing attention to how the fabric clung to her narrow waist before flaring over her hips.

A strand of hair had escaped her bun during the spin, curling artfully against her flushed cheek rather than sticking awkwardly to her forehead like yours always did.

You looked down at your own legs, the sharp angles of your knees protruding through your jeans. The sleeves of Heeseung's hoodie swallowed your hands whole when you curled them into fists.

When she finished her routine to what could be considered roaring applause from this crowd you saw how she and Sunghoon hugged each other enthusiastically in the athlete tunnel. They looked perfect together.

Sunghoon and Woonie disappeared and ten minutes later both of them stood behind you. ──────────────────────── The moment his blades left the ice after his final pose, Sunghoon knew.

Not just that he had skated well but that he’d done enough. The quad Salchow had been crisp, his step sequence sharp enough to make his coach nod approvingly from the boards. For the first time in weeks, the Olympic team didn’t feel like an impossible dream.

Wonnie crashed into him the second he stepped into the athlete’s tunnel, her cobalt-blue dress fluttering around her like butterfly wings. “You bastard!” she laughed, squeezing his arms. “Saving your best for when it counts, huh?”

He grinned, breath still coming hard. “Had to remind you who taught you that toe loop combo.”

She swatted his shoulder before darting off to prepare for her own skate, leaving Sunghoon buzzing with adrenaline. The world felt brighter, sharper—the fluorescent lights less harsh, the ice smell less bitter. Even the judges’ scores (solid, not spectacular) couldn’t dampen his mood.

“Let’s go find the others,” Wonnie said when she returned after her own flawless performance, still glowing under the arena lights. Her friends were seated near his, and suddenly nothing sounded better than being surrounded by his friends.

The arena lights were blinding as Sunghoon followed Wonnie up the stairs to the spectator section, his skate guards clicking against concrete. Adrenaline still hummed in his veins from his performance, mixing with the giddy relief of having skated clean when it mattered most.

"There!" Wonnie pointed to their friends' section. Jake was already on his feet, arms raised in victory, while Heeseung and Jay flanked you—a small figure drowning in Heeseung's hoodie, offering them a tentative smile as they approached.

Jake reached him first, crushing him in a back-slapping hug. "You glorious bastard!"

Jay went next, his embrace quieter but no less firm. "Knew you had it," he murmured against Sunghoon's shoulder.

Heeseung fake-wiped tears before pulling him in. "I never doubted you for a second!"

Sunghoon laughed as the three of them immediately turned to smother Wonnie in even more enthusiastic hugs, her cobalt dress disappearing between their broad frames.

Sunghoon’s breath caught when you shyly stepped forward and kind of awkwardly, kind of endearingly wrapped him into a hug.

Your arms slid tentatively around his waist, your forehead brushing his collarbone for the briefest second before you pulled back. “You did really well,” you said, so softly only he could hear it.

Your ears were turning pink. Sunghoon's throat went dry.

"Thanks," he managed, returning the hug carefully. "Thank you for coming, Y/N."

When he handed you that ticket three days ago, he had half-expected you to decline. Who wanted to wake at 4AM to watch near-strangers compete? But you said yes and now here you were, wearing Heeseung’s hoodie and looking so so soft. He had to resist from smoothing over the few stray hair that loosened from your braid over the course of the day.

He dropped into the seat next to Heeseung as the next skater took the ice.

"She ate," Heeseung murmured under the applause.

Sunghoon blinked. "What?"

"Y/N. Half a gimbap roll. Some apple." Heeseung's voice was barely audible over the music. "Drank all her banana milk."

Something warm and fierce unfurled in Sunghoon’s chest. He chanced another glance at you. The dark circles under your eyes were more pronounced up close, your collarbones too sharp above the hoodie’s neckline. But there was color in your cheeks, and when you caught him staring, you didn’t flinch away, just tilted your head in question.

Before he could explain himself, Wonyoung draped herself over his shoulders, her chin digging into the top of his head. "I'm so fucking glad this is over. We're going clubbing on Saturday," she announced, stealing a handful of Heeseung's chips. "No excuses."

Sunghoon laughed at her, but his eyes flicked to you. You were still smiling but it looked a lot stiffer than just a few seconds ago. Fuck, he really didn't want you to go party again or anyone to be percise. No matter if it was you, Wonnie or any of the boys, he never wanted to be in the same situation he was in five weeks ago. Waiting and hoping for someone he loves platonically? likes? lives with? to be in a date rape induced coma.

He cleared his voice and interjected before Wonyoung could continue. "Yeah, but I won't drink. If this went as well as it felt like we might have individuals next week."

Wonnie rolled her eyes. "Me neither, idiot. I just wanna dance." She turned to the others. "You're all coming, right?"

Everyone responded enthusiastically. His friends never let a good party go to waste.

Jake said a exaggerated "Duh," Heeseung answered with "If Jay pays,". Jay quietly nodded. And then all eyes landed on you.

Sunghoon saw the way your fingers twisted in the hoodie strings, how your shoulders crept toward your ears. He leaned forward before you could answer. "Won, Liv is looking for you," he lied smoothly, nodding toward a few seats a few rows behind them. "She was waving like crazy when we walked up."

Wonnie sighed dramatically but untangled herself. "Fine, fine. I'll text you the details! I'm sure the others would love to join. Let's go eat out before the club!" She ruffled Sunghoon's hair before sauntering off, her skates clacking against the steps.

Sunghoon stretched his legs, the adrenaline from his performance finally ebbing away. "You guys have any food left? I'm starving."

You blinked down at the snack box in your lap. Three remaining apple slices were laying in there. "Just these," you said, holding it out. "But they're kinda sour."

He made a show of hesitating, hoping you would not insist on him eating the slices but eat them yourself instead. "I can't take your last ones, Y/N."

"My stomach hurts from the ones I already had," you admitted quietly, pressing the container into his hands before he could protest further. Sunghoons face did something he couldn't control but he didn't comment on your admission. He just nodded as he popped a slice into his mouth.

"Damn, you're right," he grimaced, chewing. "Who picked these, Heeseung?"

"Blame Jake," Heeseung said without looking up from his phone. "He chose looks over taste."

Jake gasped in mock offense, launching into a dramatic defense of his fruit-selection skills while you stifled a yawn against Heeseung's sleeve.

The last of the sour apple slices dissolved on his tongue as Sunghoon stretched his legs. "Any more food? I’m still starving," he asked, though he’d already seen the empty snack containers.

You blinked down at the few pieces of the remaining kimbap roll in your lap before offering it to him. "Just this," you murmured. "But the filling’s kinda..."

"Spicy?" Sunghoon guessed, seeing the red paste in the filling. You have been avoiding spice recently. The big containe of gochujang you bought in the first week he moved in was still half full. You haven’t touched it in weeks.

You nodded, your nose scrunching in a way that made something in his chest tighten. "Stomach’s not happy with me."

He took it anyway, your fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasted half a second, but long enough for him to notice how cold your fingertips were despite the hoodie’s warmth. ──────────────────────── The car hummed through the darkened streets, the only light coming from passing streetlamps that painted the interior in fleeting gold. You curled deeper into the backseat, sandwiched between Jay’s solid warmth on your left and Sunghoon’s frame on your right. The exhaustion of the long day had settled into your bones, the adrenaline from the competition finally ebbing away.

Jay was already asleep, his head lolled against the window, soft snores escaping every few breaths. Up front, Heeseung focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, while Jake had his headphones in, nodding along to whatever music played.

“You looked happy out there,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the others.

Sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulder shifting slightly against yours. “Relieved, more like.” He tilted his head back against the seat, the streetlights catching the sharp line of his jaw. “But yeah. It felt good.”

You hummed and nodded tiredly, "I am glad. I am happy you tried even if you thought you wouldn't get far."

"I am glad too.", he answered and it was silent for a few seconds before you spoke up again.

"That second skater—the girl with the purple dress," you murmured, low enough that only Sunghoon could hear. "I wish I had my sketchbook. She looked so pretty in that long dress, even if she feel twice."

The streetlights flickered across his face as he turned toward you, close enough that you could see the faint glitter of leftover rink spray in his white hair. "Next competition," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but earnest, "bring it. If you want to come again, I mean."

You studied his profile, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the passing lights. "Yeah," you said softly. "Sure. Of course."

A quiet understanding settled over you both as the car crossed the Han River, its dark waters shimmering with reflected city lights. Jay snorted in his sleep, jolting slightly before slumping against the window again. The movement made you aware of how stiffly you'd been holding yourself to avoid crowding Sunghoon.

"Here," he murmured suddenly, lifting his arm slightly. "Just—" He demonstrated the awkward angle of trying to sit upright while sandwiched between you and Jay. "It's worse if we all lean back."

You hesitated for only a second before letting yourself lean into him, your temple coming to rest against the curve of his shoulder.

Sunghoon exhaled, relaxing into the seat properly now, his own shoulders finally resting fully against the backrest.

“Better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble you felt more than heard.

You hummed in response. The scent of your detergent—something clean and faintly citrusy—mixed with the lingering traces of ice rink and the fabric softener from Heeseung’s hoodie still draped over you. It was comforting, familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

Sunghoon didn’t move or shift, even as the car hit a bump that jostled you slightly closer. His arm brushed against yours and his breathing slowly steadied.

You felt his head tilt slightly, resting against yours as he fell asleep. ──────────────────────── The elevator doors slid open to a wave of sound that made your skull pulse. Bass-heavy music vibrated through your apartment door before you even turned your key, mingling with overlapping voices and laughing. Your fingers trembled as you finally got the lock to turn. Whether from exhaustion or the migraine brewing behind your eyes, you couldn’t tell.

Twelve hours.

You’ve just spent twelve straight hours in the university studio, your back aching from hunching over architectural models. The coffee you’d chugged hours ago had long since worn off, leaving behind only a sour aftertaste and a stomach that rolled dangerously when you opened the front door.

You knew Sunghoon was going to have friends over. He had asked you if it was okay if he had his boys, Wonyoung and a few of her friends over to pregame. Of course he could, it was his apartment as well.

As you stepped inside you were second guessing that answer right now. Your nose was assaulted by an array of smells of food and alcohol.

Sunghoon and his friends were all sitting around the sofa, Jake, Heeseung, Jay and a girl you didn’t know were playing a seemingly intense round of Mario Kart. Sunghoon was balancing three soda cans in one hand while using the other to take a shot with who you assumed was Wonyoungs friends. So much to he wouldn’t drink. But didn’t you say the same thing last time?

His entire face lit up when he spotted you hovering in the doorway.

“Y/N!”

Sunghoon weaved his way towards you with that effortless grace he carried everywhere. Up close, you could see how excited he was. His eyes were almost sparkling.

“You look dead,” he announced, reaching for your overloaded backpack. His fingers brushed your shoulder as he slid it off, and even that slight contact sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “We saved you food! I got you some of the garlic powder chicken and the fried rice cakes from Mom’s touch! With extra powder, just how you—”

A particularly loud burst of laughter from the sofa made you flinch. The motion sent a fresh spike of pain through your temples, and suddenly the smell of the food was overwhelming and nauseating. You pressed your lips together, willing your stomach to settle.

Sunghoon’s smile faltered. He leaned in, his voice dropping below the music’s roar. “Hey. You okay?”

“Migrane,” you managed, gripping the door frame for balance. Your vision swam slightly at the edges. “Just need to… lie down.”

Behind him, Jake's girlfriend appeared, her face flushed from alcohol. “Y/N! You’re coming out with us, right? We’re going to B1!” Her pout was picture-perfect, her lip gloss catching the light as she spoke. How did Sunghoon only have pretty friends? But then at the same time, pretty people attract pretty people, right?

The thought of a crowded club, of flashing lights, pounding music and the amount of hot and sweaty bodies pressing into yours made your stomach lurch violently.

“Migraine,” you gritted out again, already edging toward the hallway. “Next time.”

Sunghoon caught your wrist in a gentle but firm grasp. His thumb brushed your pulse point, his brows drawn together. “I’ll make you tea,” he murmured. “You should eat something when your head is feeling better. I bought new ginger tea. It’s in the–”

“Cabinet above the sink.” You forced a smile, slipping free of his grip. “You don’t have to Sunghoon. Have fun and be carefull.”

Escape was all you could think about. You made it three steps down the hall before the nausea crested, sending you stumbling into the bathroom. The door swung open to reveal Wonnie mid-mascara application, her reflection flawless in the fogged mirror.

“Oh, Y/N!” She turned, her head tilting in mild confusion. “You look awful.”

The words weren’t malicious, just observant. That made it worse.

Up close, Wonnie was even more devastatingly pretty. Her skin was poreless under the harsh lights, her collarbones delicate rather than skeletal like yours. When she shifted, her cropped top rode up to reveal toned abs, the kind that came from disciplined training rather than starvation.

"Migraine," you muttered, brushing past her to grab your toothbrush.

Wonnie's perfectly shaped brows furrowed. "That's too bad." She leaned against the doorframe, watching as you fumbled with the toothpaste. "I would have loved it if you came along tonight. The others too. We wouldn’t have let anyone close to you, but I understand if you don’t want to come. "

Your hands stilled. The toothpaste tube slipped from your grip, hitting the sink with a plastic clatter. ”I-yeah,” you croaked out, “maybe next time.”

Wonnie either didn't notice or chose to ignore your reaction. "Anyway, feel better!" She flashed a smile before disappearing in a cloud of her perfume.

The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with your reflection. The girl in the mirror was a ghost—pale skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, dark circles like bruises under bloodshot eyes. The sounds of laughter from the living room seemed to grow louder as you mechanically brushed your teeth, the mint doing little to combat the taste of bile.

By the time you emerged, the group was gathering by the door. Sunghoon lingered near the back, his gaze finding yours across the chaos almost immediately.

“I made you some tea. And the rest of the chicken is in a container in the fridge. Try to eat something before you go to bed,” he said, shrugging on his jacket. The others were already spilling into the hallway, but he hesitated, one hand on the doorframe. “Text if you need anything.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“Have fun,” you whispered.

Then they were gone, the apartment plunging into sudden silence. It still smelled like food, alcohol and a mixture of perfumes that the others had sprayed on before leaving.

You stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly on your feet. Your body felt both weightless and unbearably heavy as you trudged towards the kitchen to clean up whatever mess Sunghoon and his friends had left and to drink some of the tea Sunghoon made. Sunghoon shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning up tomorrow and should sleep in. He deserved it.

You also had to somehow eat something so you could take painkillers.

After fifteen minutes have you opened the windows, cleaned the kitchen and living room, set a trash bag with the empty containers outside for sunghoon to carry downstairs and drank almost all of the tea.

Your migraine was now a full-force storm behind your eyes so you just dropped onto the sofa after closing the windows and dimming the lights. There was a new episode of My demon today. You would just rewatch the episode with Sunghoon tomorrow. ──────────────────────── The bass thrummed through Sunghoons ribs like a second heartbeat, the sticky air thick with sweat and perfume. Neon lights pulsed in erratic bursts, casting the writhing bodies on the dance floor in garish pinks and blues. He hated it here.

He shifted against the bar, fingers drumming on the condensation-slick glass of his untouched drink. The music was too loud, the crowd too close, the laughter too sharp. Every brush of a stranger’s elbow against his back sent a prickle of irritation down his spine. He should’ve stayed home.

Sunghoons jaw tightened.

The memory of you in the doorway flashed behind his eyes. How your fingers had dug into the frame for balance, how your face had gone pale.

He had known you had a deadline. Known you have been skipping meals again, that your headaches were more intense in the last few days. But he’d let Jake talk him into hosting, let Wonnie chatter about her plans for the evening and let his friends invade the apartment.

His teeth ground together. The club’s music morphed into a distorted screech, grating against his skull. He could be on the couch right now. Could’ve dimmed the lights, pulled up My Demon, watch you curl into the armrest you the way you did when the pain got bad. Could’ve made sure you actually ate instead of leaving you to nibble at cold chicken alone in the dark.

A drunk girl stumbled into his shoulder, giggling an apology he didn’t acknowledge.

What was he even doing here? Pretending he wasn’t itching to go back to his apartment? Pretending he didn’t feel like an asshole for coming here? For inviting his friends over when he knew you would have a deadline?

He checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. No messages.

He hadn’t expected any. You wouldn’t text him. Not when you thought he was having fun.

Jake materialized beside him, shouting directly into his ear: “This place sucks! Let’s bail.”

Sunghoon didn’t need convincing. By 11:15, he’d extracted himself from the group and was striding toward the bus stop, the cool night air a relief against his overheated skin.

When he reached his apartment door an hour late, thanks to the million stops the night bus made from Hongdae to Sangdo, he was surprised to see a trash bag hanging from the apartment door handle, neatly tied, the weight of it pulling the plastic taut. Sunghoon blinked at it for a second, his brain slow to process.

He hadn’t taken the trash out.

Which meant...you did.

His fingers curled around the bag’s knot, the crinkle of plastic loud in the empty hallway.

Even though you had been pale and swaying on your feet earlier. Even though you had barely been able to keep your eyes open when he left.

His chest squeezed.

He carried it downstairs, the night air cool against his skin, and tried not to think about how you must’ve dragged yourself up to clean up his mess.

He exhaled hard through his nose and carried the bag downstairs, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been.

Sunghoon turned the key as quietly as possible, easing the door open inch by inch. The apartment was dark, the only light the faint blue flicker of the TV from the living room. He toed off his shoes, stepping carefully over the threshold.

The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner.

He crept forward, peering into the living room.

There you were. A lump of blankets on the sofa, half-buried in fabric, one arm draped over your eyes and a cooling packet on your forehead. The TV cast shifting shadows over your face, paused on the title screen of My Demon. You didn't even manage to watch longer than the intro?

Sunghoon’s throat went dry.

He should’ve been here. Should’ve stayed.

His eyes flicked to the kitchen. The counters were spotless. No trace of the takeout containers, no stray chopsticks, no sticky rings from glasses. Even the trash can had a fresh liner.

All of it—his mess—cleaned up by you, when you could barely keep your eyes open earlier.

His mug sat drying on the rack. The one he’d made your tea in.

Empty.

A stupid, warm feeling curled in his stomach.

You’d drunk all of it. Or at least he hoped you did so and didn't just toss it into the sink.

He was halfway to the couch—to wake you up, so you could go to bed and sleep in your own bed—when your voice cut through the quiet.

“Why are you home so early?”

Sunghoon nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were watching him, bleary-eyed but awake, the blanket slipping off your shoulder as you pushed yourself up on one elbow.

He swallowed. “Club was shit.”

You hummed. The TV’s glow caught the exhaustion still clinging to your face, the way you squinted at him like even the dim light hurt.

Sunghoon sank onto the couch beside you, his knee brushing yours. “You cleaned,” he said quietly.

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “I know. But you would have to do it hungover tomorrow, and that’s worse than my migrane. I am used to it.”

He huffed, but his throat felt tight. “Still. You should’ve just slept.”

“I did,” you said, nodding toward the TV. “After.”

Sunghoon followed your gaze. The screen still displayed My Demon, paused right at the beginning.

“You waited,” he realized.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket over his legs too, your fingers brushing his knee.

“Play it,” you mumbled, already settling back against the cushions. “Before I fall asleep again.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. Scoot over.”

You made a half-hearted attempt to shift, but the blankets had you trapped. Sunghoon huffed a laugh before wedging himself into the remaining space, his back pressed against the cushions, your legs now draped over his lap. It was awkward, too close and not close enough, the heat from your body seeping through the layers of fabric between you.

“Comfortable?” you teased, your voice still rough with sleep.

“Perfect,” he deadpanned, adjusting his arm to avoid elbowing you in the face.

You hit play.

Seven minutes in, you broke the silence. “How was it? The club.”

Sunghoon’s fingers drummed against your shin. “Loud. Wonnie spilled a drink on some guy’s shoes. The Dj played random european music because there were a lot of exchange students there.”

“Sounds eventful.”

“Boring,” he corrected. His thumb traced idle circles over the arch of your foot through the blanket. “I would have rather been here.”

"I don't want to be the reason why you aren't going out with your friends Sunghoon. I am an adult, I can be alone on a Friday evening. It's how its always been."

The admission hung between you. On screen, the demon said something sarcastic, but neither of you laughed.

Sunghoon’s hand stilled. “You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“You had plans.”

“I would’ve stayed.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. You blinked at him and then you just sighed, your toes curling into his thigh. “Point taken.”

Sunghoon swallowed. “Is it that bad that I would enjoy spending time with you, Guwon and Dodohee, here more than with the others in a warm, loud, stinky and sticky club?”

You snorted quietly. “You can just admit that you want to thirst over Song Kang with me. I don’t judge.”

Sunghoon slightly hit your ankle but didn’t deny what you said. He did enjoy watching Song Kang act, he was hot.

You reversed the part the two of you missed and pressed start again.

Sunghoon’s thumb paused it's absent tracing over your ankle and he broke the silence this time. "Did the tea help?"

You nodded against the cushion, the movement small. "Mm. I drank all of it. Thanks." The admission came softly. "I ate some of the chicken too."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good." A beat. Then, quieter: "You get these often? The migraines?"

The demon on screen laughed sharply, masking your hesitation. "Not as much as I used to." You picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "They’re sort of…leftover. From when I wasn’t taking care of myself properly."

Sunghoon stilled. Taking care of yourself properly? Just like you were doing right now? Not eating, sleeping, overloading your schedule? His fingers tightened imperceptibly around your foot. "When was that?"

"High school." You shrugged, like it didn’t matter. "My body’s still mad at me, I guess."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly through his nose, his thumb resuming its gentle circles - this time against the jut of your ankle bone.

"Are you taking care of it now?," he asked quietly.

Your toes curled slightly under his palm. "I’m trying to."

The TV flickered, casting shadows across his face as he studied you - the dark circles under your eyes, the way your collarbones stood out just a little too sharply. Something in his chest ached.

"Hey." He nudged your knee with his. "Next time you feel a migraine coming on–"

"I’ll tell you," you finished softly.

Sunghoon’s lips quirked. "Good."

You turned back to the drama and for a few minutes the only sounds in your apartment was the low murmuring from the TV.

The demon heroine's voice trembled through the speakers: "You call this love? Real love doesn't make you question your worth."

Sunghoon felt your ankle tense slightly beneath his fingers as you asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

For a moment, neon lights and pounding bass flashed behind his eyes. He saw a girl in front of him, so lively it might have been real right now. Her chestnut hair smelled like vanilla. She was laughing brightly as she teased him about his terrible dancing, while she was dancing even worse. Taking his hand. Pulling him in. Kissing him.

His thumb stilled against your ankle.

"There was someone," he admitted, voice softer than he intended. "Another skater. Not serious, but..." He swallowed, watching the TV's blue light play across your blanket-covered knees. "I could've loved her, I think."

He thought about how Soomin would tuck her hair behind her ears when nervous, how she'd bring him energy drinks before morning practices, how her mittened hands would brush against his when they walked home from the rink. The way his chest would tighten when she smiled at him, when they would giggle together like teenagers in love. They were teenagers in love, both of them just loving something else more than each other.

"I was seventeen," he continued, fingers tracing absent patterns on your socked foot. It were cute socks with small flowers on them. "Right before Junior Worlds. Every of my thought was about landing that damn triple axel." His mouth twisted. "By the time I was done with all that, she'd moved to Canada to train. She still lives there."

The confession tasted bittersweet. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken back then. He was somewhat glad that he couldn’t be distracted by her anymore so he could focus on school and skating. In the years after he had often asked himself what might have been if the two of them would have taken their eyes off of the ice for just a second. They would have been a nice couple.

On screen, rain streaked down windows as the male lead walked away. You studied Sunghoon's profile in the flickering light. "Do you regret it?"

He shifted. "Sometimes. Not her specifically, just..." He gestured vaguely. "Being so single-minded. What I might have missed."

The admission surprised him. He'd never voiced that particular regret aloud - how he'd let routines and rotations come in between something so much more important.

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you been in love?"

You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Not even close. I haven't even kissed someone."

"Never?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"Never." You plucked at the blanket's edge, the threadbare fabric catching on your fingernail. "I think, now and back then, that...if you can't love yourself properly, you shouldn't let someone else try. It wouldn't be fair to them."

Sunghoon's breath caught for a second as the pieces clicked together - your careful portions, the way you'd deflect compliments, the migraines born from "not taking care of yourself properly." Jake was right. Or well. Halfways? it did sound like you had an ed in highschool. Maybe the party triggered something and you were going back to that mindset? You weren’t eating like this before. He was sure of that.

His hand slid up to cradle your calf, fingers pressing gently into the muscle there. "That's..." He searched for words that wouldn't scare you off. "Really mature, actually."

You huffed a brittle laugh. "Or just really good at self-sabotage."

The joke fell flat between you. Sunghoon's grip tightened, his thumb finding the delicate hollow behind your knee. He thought of Soomin's easy confidence, the way she'd owned every inch of the ice and then of you, folding yourself smaller, quieter, as if trying to disappear into the couch cushions.

"Hey." His voice dropped, rough with unspoken emotion. "Knowing your limits isn't sabotage. It's..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of how close your faces were in the dim light, how your breath hitched when his fingers brushed that sensitive spot behind your knee.

On screen, the demon whispered something about second chances. Neither of you looked away.

Sunghoon's pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t remember what he wanted to say so instead, his thumb traced slow circles on your skin.

The episode played on. The blue glow of the TV painted the curve of your cheek, the nervous flutter of your lashes as you stared at where his hand still rested behind your knee. Sunghoon could feel the minute tremors running through you.

"You know," you said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper, "that first morning you made breakfast? When we had barely known each other for two weeks?"

Sunghoon's fingers stilled against your skin. He remembered, the burned pancakes, the way you'd hovered in the doorway like you weren't sure you were allowed to eat with him. "Yeah?"

"You put honey in my tea exactly how I like it." Your fingers twisted in the blanket. "I don't even remember telling you that."

His hand slid up to cradle your knee properly now, fingers pressing gently into the soft skin behind it. "You always put in two spoons," he murmured. "Every time you make yourself a cup. It wasn't hard to notice."

You ducked your head, but not before he saw the flush creeping up your neck. "Still. Most people don't pay attention like that."

The 'most people' lingered between you, heavy with everything it implied about what you expected from the world. Sunghoon's thumb traced idle circles on your inner thigh, the touch feather-light but deliberate.

"You're wrong, you know."

"About what?" you breathed.

"About not being loved." His fingers tightened slightly around your knee. "I think people have loved you in all the small ways you didn't let yourself see. The way the ajumma at the convenience store downstairs saves you the last vegetarian kimbap. The way Mark sends you like a million pictures a day. How Jungwoo just randomly orders stuff to our apartment because he remembers you talking about it and how Taeyong remembered to pack everything you might miss from home." He hesitated, then added softly, "How I memorized your tea preferences after seeing you make it just once."

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and unexpected in the dim room. "That's not love, Sunghoon. That's just...being decent."

"Isn't it?" His thumb brushed higher, just beneath the hem of your shorts. "What's love if not noticing? If not remembering?"

Your breath hitched. On screen, the credits began to roll, the music swelling dramatically. Neither of you moved until you shook your head and cleared your throat. “I’ll go to toilet for a second. Can you stop the episode?”

Sunghoon nodded. “Sure thing.”

He stretched out across the sofa the moment you disappeared down the hall, groaning as his spine popped. The cushions still held your warmth, the blanket carrying the faint scent of your shampoo as he flopped onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. Just for a second. Just until you came back.

The apartment was quiet save for the hum of the fridge. Sunghoon let his muscles go lax. He was exhausted from the last week and from going to class and to that shitty club. His mind replayed your conversation. Of course he’d noticed. Somehow he noticed everything about you.

He barely had time to roll onto his side before you reappeared, blinking down at him where he was sprawled out on the entire sofa.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “I go to pee for three seconds and you steal my spot on the sofa? Pardon me, take over the whole sofa?”

Sunghoon grinned, shuffling closer to the backrest in exaggerated courtesy. “Plenty of room,” he lied, patting the sliver of space left in front of him. He was joking and about to sit up to let you get into your original position when you suddenly lifted the blanket he was laying on.

And crawled in.

Every synapse in Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited as you settled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your hair tickling his nose. He froze, arm still suspended mid-air where he’d been about to “adjust” the pillows.

“This okay?” you murmured, already curling into the space he’d made.

Okay? His lungs forgot how to work. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Could he touch you? Would that be okay? Slowly, carefully, he let his arm drape over your waist.

“S’perfect,” he managed, voice rough.

You hummed reaching for the remote and starting the next episode.

The last coherent thought Sunghoon had before sleep claimed him was that he’d never moving again—not even for morning practice, not even if the rink burned down. Not when you were laying here, all soft and trusting against his heartbeat. ──────────────────────── The disinfectant smell of the cleaner burned in your nose as you scrubbed at the same spot on Counter #3 for what felt like the hundredth time. Your fingers trembled slightly against the rag—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you had to press your palm flat against the surface to steady yourself.

Sunoo's hip-check nearly sent you stumbling into the popcorn machine. "Earth to Y/N," he sang, waving a bag of sour gummies in your face. The neon lights overhead made the candy look almost fluorescent. "You've been polishing that same spot for ten minutes."

You blinked, your thoughts snapping back into focus like a rubber band. "Sorry," you muttered, snatching the gummies from him and placing them back in their exact spot on the shelf—third row from the top, between the strawberry belts and the chocolate-covered almonds. "What did you say?"

Sunoo studied you, his usual playful grin fading into something more careful. "Are you okay? If you're feeling sick, I'm sure Taemin would let you go early."

The concern in his voice made your stomach twist. You forced a smile, the expression stretching uncomfortably across your face. "No, I'm just tired."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You were tired.

Sunoo leaned against the counter, the red of his uniform vest clashing horribly with his peach-blond hair. "You sure? You've been super quiet today."

You wiped your hands on your jeans and nodded. "I promise I'm fine. Don't worry."

But Sunoo's eyes flicked to your fingers.

"Did you eat something nice on the weekend?" he asked, his voice deliberately light, like he wasn't digging for confirmation.

You blinked, your mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn't make him worry. Just the fact that you had to think about an answer worried you. "Huh? Oh—yeah. I had fried chicken with Sunghoon on Saturday."

Sunoo's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Moms Touch?"

"Yeah," you said, turning back to the counter to wipe down an already-clean spot. The motion was automatic, something to keep your hands busy. "He ordered it for me when he and his friends ordered the day before because they had that 1+1 offer."

Sunoo's lips twitched.

"And then we fell asleep on the couch," you added absently.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and Sunoo's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

You froze, the rag slipping from your fingers. Shit. You hadn't meant to say that.

"It wasn't a big deal," you said quickly, your voice too high. "We were watching My Demon and I had a headache, so I kinda... leaned on him. Next thing I know, it's morning and—"

"—and you woke up in his arms," Sunoo finished, his voice pitching higher with every word. "Y/N. Y/N."

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the counter. "It's not like that."

"Oh, it's exactly like that," Sunoo said, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "But we're circling back to that in a second. First—" He nudged your foot with his. "—you actually ate the chicken? Like, properly?"

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Four pieces. Three radish slices. Two sips of yogurt drink.

"I ate," you said, the words sharper than intended. You pressed your lips together and scrubbed a bit more aggressively.

Sunoo didn't miss the way you didn't answer the question.

"Y/N," he said softly.

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a laugh. "Sunghoon even remembered to order with extra garlic powder."

Sunoo exhaled through his nose. He and Sunghoon were similar in a few aspects. They were obsessive. Insistent. Careful. And they noticed.

"You know," Sunoo said lightly, stealing a gummy worm from the display, "if you did want to talk about the whole 'waking up cuddled with Sunghoon' thing instead—"

You threw a handful of popcorn at him but took the offer for distraction. The popcorn kernels scattered across the counter, and Sunoo yelped as a few bounced off his forehead. You took a deep breath before continuing, fingers tapping nervously against the laminate.

"I came home Friday with the worst migraine," you started, keeping your voice low. "Sunghoon had friends over, and the apartment was... loud."

Sunoo nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as he listened.

You swallowed. "I barely made it to my room before almost throwing up. When they left for the club, I cleaned up. So he wouldn't have to deal with it hungover."

Sunoo's eyes softened. "Of course you did."

You ignored that. "I was on the couch watching – well i tried watching but i fell asleep – when he came back early. Said the club was 'shit.' They went to B1."

A grin tugged at Sunoo's lips. "Sounds about right."

"He sat with me," you continued, tracing a water ring on the counter. "At first it was normal—just watching the show. Then..." Your throat tightened. "I went to pee and he was sprawled out across the sofa. And I think he jokingly offered me to come lie down with him. But I was tired and…I don't know. I layed down. Like my backside to his front and shit. He put his hand around my waist. And then...I don't even remember falling asleep. Just woke up on Sunday with his arm around me."

Sunoo's eyebrows shot up. "And?"

"And nothing!" You threw your hands up. "He asked if I wanted breakfast, but it was lunchtime, so we ate the chicken. End of story."

Sunoo studied you for a long moment. "You left out the part where you told me you scarfed down the whole box alone, because you love that chicken."

Your breath caught.

"Y/N." His voice was gentle. "You're doing it again."

The concession stand suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. You focused on the popcorn machine's hum, the steady drip of the leaky soda fountain—anything but the concern in Sunoo's eyes.

"It's not like before," you whispered.

"Isn't it?"

You didn't answer. Sunoo was there when it happened the first time. He saw the signs back then. He did so now as well. This time he saw it quicker. You weren't trying to hide it, you didn’t even realize you were doing it again. You wished you could just ignore your head. Ignore the numbers, the nausea. But you couldn't and he knew.

Outside, the rain picked up, drumming against the cinema's roof.

Sunoo reached over, squeezing your hand. "He notices, you know. Sunghoon. From what you've told me he definitely did." He sighed.

You hated it. Hated how easily Sunghoon saw through you, how he'd nudged the takeout box closer when you set your chopsticks down too soon, how his eyes had lingered on your untouched plate just a second too long. You knew Sunghoon knew. He probably has for a while. Food was not in their packaging but in boxes or their packages were conveniently ripped open where the calorie label was printed on. He definitely knew after you more or less told him on Saturday. And yet, your vision blurred and the counter beneath your hands felt suddenly unsteady.

"Hey." Sunoo ducked his head to catch your gaze. "You know I'm saying this because–"

"I know," you cut him off, voice thick. "Just... not right now, okay?"

He studied you for another moment before nodding. "Okay."

The two of you kept working, you scrubbing the already clean counter and Sunoo refilling the stands for the sweets.

His silence was louder than the movie's playing quietly in the background. When you dared a glance at him, he was already looking at you. "Y/N. Sweetheart. Light of my life.", he said "do you think Sunghoon has a crush on you."

You almost choked on your own spit at the topic change. "Sunghoon has a what on whom?"

"A crush. On you.", Sunoo said, shrugging his shoulders

"What makes you think that?", you asked, trying to regain your composture.

"Well everything you've told me so far? He replaced our favourite vase? He is clearly looking out for you even if you aren’t."

"That's just—"

"Don't say 'being a good friend,' I swear to god—"

"—observant," you finished weakly, making your way over to counter 4.

"Look, even if—hypothetically—Sunghoon liked me, which he doesn't—" You ignored Sunoo's dramatic eye roll. "—we live together. It would be a disaster. I'd have to move out. Probably change my name. Flee the country—"

"Or," Sunoo interjected, following you and leaning onto the counter next to you, "you could admit you think he is cute."

"I don’t think he is cute.", you lied, shaking your head aggressively.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Don’t lie to me.”, he deadpanned. “ You do think he is cute. And I’ll tell you one thing, you beautiful disaster," he said, uncharacteristically serious. "If Park Sunghoon is out here memorizing your food preferences, you better believe he's noticed your eating behaviours too. "

Your throat tightened. “I know.” ──────────────────────── Rain drummed against Sunghoon's umbrella as he stepped into the little flower shop at the market. It smelled like damp earth and the mixture of flower scents.

The ajumma running it glanced up from trimming rose stems, her face breaking into a smile when she recognized him. "Ah! My dear boy," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "More flowers for your girlfriend?"

Sunghoon's ears burned as he ducked his head. "Ah, no—just my roommate. Y/N? She's, um. She comes here often."

The ajumma's eyebrows shot up. "Y/N?" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "I wondered where she'd gone. It's been weeks."

Something sharp twisted in Sunghoon's chest. He'd noticed too—the empty vase on your windowsill, gathering dust. The absence of your weekly ritual of trimming stems and humming to yourself as you arranged them. The apartment felt colder without your little touches of life.

He missed the flowers.

"She has been very busy recently," he said, running a finger along the edge of a daisy petal. "Do you have anything… cheery?"

The ajumma hummed, already reaching for a cluster of flowers that looked like colorful miniature sunflowers. "For Y/N?"

Sunghoon hesitated.

"These," the ajumma said, handing him a bundle of the orange mini sunflowers. Their centers were a deep, warm brown, their petals vibrant against the gray afternoon. "Like sunshine. Good for gloomy days."

Sunghoon nodded, his throat oddly tight. "She hasn’t been feeling the best lately."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The ajumma paused, her shears hovering over a bundle of eucalyptus. "Ah," she said softly. "That's so sad to hear."

The ajumma wrapped the gerberas in brown paper, her movements deliberate. "You tell her Mrs. Park says hello and that she has to come by soon, mhm." She tied the bundle with twine, then added a sprig of something purple and feathery. "For luck."

Sunghoon paid, tucking the flowers under his jacket to shield them from the rain. As he turned to leave, the ajumma called after him:

"That girl—she always picks the flowers that are about to wilt. Says they deserve to be pretty for a little longer too. Take care of these ones."

Sunghoon stood frozen in the rain, the ajumma's words echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. She always picks the ones about to wilt. You, who treated yourself like something temporary. Something only meant to be pretty in passing.

A drop of rain slid down his neck as he stared at the gerberas in his hands.

His grip tightened on the stems.

You deserve more than scraps, he thought, tucking them closer under his jacket as the rain thickened. ──────────────────────── Your phone lit up with Taeyong's caller ID - the ridiculous selca of him making fish lips flashing across the screen. A grin spread across your face as you swiped to answer.

"Oppa! I was just about to call you!" you chirped, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch. The late afternoon sun streamed through the balcony windows, warming your oversized sweater. You tugged your sleeves over your hands.

"Yah, you liar," Taeyong's voice crackled through the speaker, rich with amusement. "You haven't voluntarily called me since you stole my limited edition G-Dragon album in 2016."

You gasped dramatically. "First of all, I borrowed that. Second of all, I was fourteen!"

"And yet here we are, eight years later, and my collection is still incomplete," he fired back, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway - train tickets. Did you get the 9am or the 11am?"

Your fingers absently traced the edge of your laptop. "Eleven," you answered.

You'd actually been debating between the two all week - earlier meant more time with family, but later meant less time under scrutiny. "Less chance of me being a zombie when I arrive."

Taeyong snorted. "Please, you've been a morning person since you were in diapers. Remember when you used to wake me up at 5am to watch Saturday cartoons?"

The memory made you smile. "You always pretended to be annoyed but you'd make us those weird peanut butter and kimchi sandwiches."

"Hey! Those were gourmet!" His indignation was undercut by his own laughter. "Besides, you're one to talk - you put sugar in your jjigae until you were twelve."

You were mid-retort when the screen suddenly flickered to video call. Taeyong's face filled the display, his sharp features illuminated by the warm sun light. He blinked, then his expression softened.

"Oh." His voice went quiet. "Sorry. I didn't mean to click on FaceTime."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

For a fleeting second, you considered hanging up. The angle wasn't flattering - the sunlight catching the hollows under your eyes, the way your sweater swallowed your frame. But then Taeyong smiled, genuine and warm, and something in your chest unclenched.

"No worries, Oppa," you murmured, smiling back.

He tilted his head, studying you. "You look tired."

You shrugged. "Uni. You know how it is."

"Mm." His gaze was knowing but gentle. "Well, Mom's got three kinds of kimchi waiting for you. And Dad ordered the expensive meat. He says he's going to make you the best samgyeopsal of your life."

Your stomach growled audibly at the mention of your father's famous grilled pork belly. Taeyong's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Someone's excited," he teased.

"I haven't had real good samgyeopsal in months," you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sunghoon tried to make it last week and it was... an experience. Our fire alarms definitely work."

Taeyong threw his head back laughing. "Please tell me you didn't burn down your apartment."

"Obviously." You grinned. "The kitchen just smells a bit weird."

The conversation flowed easily after that - Taeyong updating you on Johnny and his traveling plans for later in the year, you telling him about your art project, both of you debating which Chuseok games to play this year.

"Jungwoo is bringing that new board game he's obsessed with," Taeyong said, then smirked. "Which means we can team up against him like always."

You groaned. "Last time we did that he didn't speak to us for three days."

"Worth it." Taeyong's expression softened. "It's not the same without you, you know. The summer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I know. I've missed being home too."

A voice called Taeyong's name in the background. He glanced off-screen, then back at you. "Gotta run, bug." He paused, his dark eyes serious for a moment. "One week. Don't be late."

You mock-saluted. "Yes, sir."

The call ended, leaving you smiling at your darkened screen. Excitement bubbled in your chest. You were going home. Finally. Just the thought of home made you crave eating your moms food. You realized you could actually eat some of your moms food. You still had some kolddugi muchim in your freezer. With a swift movement that made you stop and drop back down onto the sofa until your vision came back you stood up. You really had to remember to take your vitamins. ──────────────────────── The kolddugi muchim stared back at you from the plate like it had personally wronged you.

You’d cooked it perfectly—tender squid glazed in spicy-sweet sauce, the edges caramelized just enough to crunch. It smelled like home. But now that it was in front of you, your stomach twisted like you’d swallowed rocks.

Just one bite.

Your chopsticks hovered over the plate, trembling slightly. The numbers flashed in your mind unbidden. You squeezed your eyes shut.

You wanted to eat. You missed eating.

But your body recoiled like the food was poison.

The front door opened.

Sunghoon froze in the doorway, skate bag dangling from his fingers. His gaze flicked from your hunched shoulders to the untouched plate, then back to your face.

He kicked off his shoes and shuffled into the kitchen. “Did you make kolddugi muchim?” He peered over your shoulder at the food. “You gonna glare it into submission or…?”

You scowled. “I’m thinking.”

“Ah. Deep culinary meditation. Got it.” He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, his tone deliberately light.

“Need a taste tester? For scientific accuracy?”

You hesitated. Then nudged the plate toward him.

Sunghoon took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.” Another bite. “Interesting.” A third. “Yep. Definitely–”

You swatted his arm. “What?”

“–needs more.” He stole your chopsticks, splitting the squid into two uneven portions. The smaller one, he pushed toward you. The larger, he drenched in extra sauce. “There. That’s more my style.”

You stared at the modest pile–five manageable pieces. Five. You could do five.

Sunghoon didn’t watch as you picked up your chopsticks. He just launched into a story about his friend’s disastrous new haircut, waving his hands animatedly.

The fifth bite of squid sat heavy in your stomach. You pressed your palm discreetly below your ribs, willing the cramp to fade as Sunghoon rambled on. His voice was warm and slightly raspy from hours of yelling at the rink. You loved how it dipped when he was trying not to laugh, how he'd gesture wildly with his chopsticks when the story got good. Right now, though, you could barely focus past the fire spreading through your gut.

"—and then the clippers apparently just slipped and now—" Sunghoon paused mid-sentence. His chopsticks hovered over his plate. "You okay?"

You swallowed hard. "Just... stomach doing stupid stuff." The admission came out quieter than you'd intended.

Sunghoon didn't react dramatically. Just set down his chopsticks with a soft clink. "Spice too much?"

You nodded, shame heating your cheeks. Two months ago, you could've eaten this entire plate without breaking a sweat. Now your body rebelled against what should've been comfort food. You hated it so much.

Without another word, Sunghoon pushed back from the table. You watched his retreating back—the way his shoulders moved under his thin t-shirt as he filled the kettle, the practiced ease of his hands as he rummaged through the tea cabinet while he continued telling you about the class he had after his morning training session.

The kettle whistled. Steam curled around Sunghoon's face as he poured, his brow furrowed in concentration. You traced the line of his jaw with your eyes—the sharp angle you'd once drawn in your sketchbook, the faint scar near his ear from a childhood skating accident. How many times had you sat like this, watching him move through the kichen? A thousand quiet moments folded into the creases of your memory.

"Here." Sunghoon set the steaming mug in front of you, the scent of ginger and honey wrapping around you like an embrace. "Drink slow."

Your fingers brushed his as you took it.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He didn't sit back down. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip. The tea was perfect—not too sweet, not too bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

The cramp had eased slightly.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Sunghoon’s fingers tapped an absent rhythm against his mug. “We should get bingsu next week someday. That place near campus.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That sounds good.” ──────────────────────── You were sitting on top of your luggage when Mark found you, your knees pulled up to your chest and your hoodie swallowing your frame. The fabric smelled faintly of your detergent and Sunghoon's room refreshener—something crisp and clean—and you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, hiding the way your wrists had grown sharper over the past few months.

"Hey, brat," Mark called, his voice bright with excitement as he jogged toward you. "You better not have forgotten my—"

He stopped dead the moment you turned around.

You saw it happen in slow motion—the way his grin faltered, the way his eyes flickered over your face. His grip tightened on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The bus terminal buzzed around you—people talking and laughing, suitcases rolling, announcements crackling over the speakers—but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

Mark's eyes traced your face, lingering on the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the way your collarbones jutted sharply above the neckline of the oversized hoodie. His expression darkened with each second, his initial joy draining away until only something raw and wounded remained.

"You look like shit," he said finally, his voice quiet.

You forced a laugh, standing up. "Thanks. I missed you too."

Mark didn't smile. He just stared at you, his jaw working.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, abruptly, he grabbed the handle of your luggage. "Let's go," he muttered, yanking it toward the bus without waiting for you.

You scrambled to your feet, your legs wobbling slightly as you hurried after him. "Mark—"

You collapsed onto the seat next to him, folding yourself into the seat. The bus hummed to life, the engine vibrating under your feet as rain streaked the windows.

Mark didn't look at you.

Not when you adjusted your sleeves for the fifth time, not when you dug your nails into your palms to keep yourself from fidgeting. He just stared straight ahead, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.

The silence was worse than the subway stairs.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly too tight. Mark had been the one who struggled most when you first developed your eating disorder as a teen. Where your parents, Taeyong and Junwoo had reacted with immediate concern and research, Mark had just looked... lost. Mark had been the one who found you purging for the first time when you were fifteen. You remembered how the bathroom door had crashed open, how he'd gone deathly pale seeing you hunched over the toilet. He hadn't yelled - his voice had been terrifyingly quiet when he asked "What are you doing?". The way his hands shook as he pulled you up, the broken "Why?" whispered against your hair as he hugged you too tight. He had never understood, not really - but his pain had been so raw it scared you more than your own illness.

But this was the first time he'd seen you since you relapsed. Really seen you.

And his face had fallen.

Not in surprise. Not in anger. Just—sadness. A deep, quiet kind of sadness that made your stomach twist.

The bus rattled over a pothole, jostling you sideways. Your shoulder bumped into Mark's, and he stiffened.

"You could've just told me," he said finally, his voice low.

You froze.

"I called you," he continued, still not looking at you. "Every damn week. 'Hey, let's get dinner.' 'Hey, come over.' 'Hey, Mom's asking about you.' And you—" His breath hitched. "You cancelled every time."

You dug your nails deeper into your palms.

You wanted to explain how you'd thought about calling him a hundred times, how you'd typed out texts only to delete them, terrified of seeing that helpless anger in his eyes again. How even now, sick all over again, your first instinct had been to protect him from it.

But the words wouldn't come.

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes red-rimmed. "Was this why?"

You couldn't answer.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Y/N. You think I wouldn't notice? You think I wouldn't care?"

The bus hissed to a stop, the doors groaning open. A family boarded, their laughter too loud in the tense silence.

You stared at your lap, at the way your jeans pooled around your knees. The memory of eighteen-year-old Mark sobbing "Please just eat something" while you stared at your untouched plate burned behind your eyes.

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You don't get to do this," he muttered. "You don't get to disappear and act like I don't fucking care Y/N."

You curled in on yourself, your knees pressing into the seat in front of you.

"Mom kept asking if you were sick," he continued, staring straight ahead. "I kept telling her you were just busy. That you'd call when you could." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Guess I wasn't wrong."

The words landed like a blow.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I'm handling it."

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes blazing. "Yeah? This is handling it?" His gaze raked over you, taking in the way your clothes hung loose, the way your hands trembled in your lap. "Jesus, Y/N. You look like a strong breeze could snap you in half."

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, willing the tears not to fall.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.

The question hung between you, heavy and unanswerable.

You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers curled into fists. "I couldn't... watch you hurt like that again," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Last time it destroyed you."

Mark exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. You destroying yourself destroys me worse."

The silence that followed was thick.

You turned away as a tear escaped the corner of your eye, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

Mark saw it.

His expression crumpled.

"Ah, shit," he whispered, reaching for you.

And then, for the first time in months, you let him pull you into a hug.

His arms were warm. Familiar.

You buried your face in his shoulder, your breath hitching.

"We're fixing this," he murmured into your hair. “You’re going to be okay.” He said more to assure himself than you.

You didn't answer, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket. ──────────────────────── The taxi ride from the bus terminal to your family’s home was silent. Mark sat beside you, his knee bouncing the entire way, fingers drumming against his thigh. You kept your gaze fixed out the window, watching the city blur into countryside, the weight of what awaited you settling heavy in your gut.

The moment the car pulled into the driveway, the front door flew open.

Your mother stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, hands pressed to her mouth. Even from the car, you saw the way her eyes immediately welled up.

Jungwoo appeared behind her, his usual grin faltering for just a second before he recovered, waving exaggeratedly. “Finally! We were about to send a search party.”

Your stomach twisted—not from his words, but from the way his voice hitched ever so slightly when he saw you.

Mark yanked the car door open with more force than necessary. “Yeah, yeah, missed you too,” he muttered, already rounding the car to grab your luggage.

You stepped out slowly, legs unsteady. The scent of grilled meat and garlic hit you like a wave, thick, heavy, greasy. Your stomach recoiled.

Your mother was on you before you could take a second breath. Her hands fluttered over your face, your shoulders, your arms, like she was afraid you might dissolve under her touch. “My baby,” she kept whispering, her voice breaking. “My baby, my baby–”

You stood stiffly, letting her hold you, arms limp at your sides. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. Taeyong stood just behind him, arms crossed, but his usual sharp gaze softened when it landed on you.

Jungwoo was already talking, filling the silence before it could settle. “Okay, but seriously, did you walk here? Traffic wasn’t that bad.” He reached out like he was going to ruffle your hair, hesitated, then settled for poking your shoulder instead. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Jungwoo,” Taeyong sighed, but there was no real scolding in it.“What? I’m just saying!” Jungwoo threw his hands up, grinning, but his eyes flickered over you too quickly, too carefully. ──────────────────────── Dinner was loud.

It was always loud.

Your father had grilled samgyeopsal. Thick slices of pork belly, the fat sizzling on the pan in the center of the table. The smell alone made your stomach turn, but you forced yourself to sit, to pick up your chopsticks, to pretend.

Jungwoo was mid-story from one of their evenings during the summer break, gesturing wildly with his utensils. “–so then the manager actually tried to kick us out, but Taeyong just–”

“You’re exaggerating,” Taeyong cut in, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Am not! Tell him, Dad!”

Your father chuckled, flipping another piece of meat. “I wasn’t there, but knowing you? Probably true.”

Your mother laughed, passing you a plate of ssam vegetables without comment. “Here, Y/N. The lettuce is fresh.”

You nodded, wrapping a small piece of meat, chewing slowly.

No one stared. No one pointed out how your hands shook.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Jungwoo’s jokes came just a little too fast, the way Taeyong’s usual teasing had an edge of something softer. You noticed the way your father slid the leanest cuts of meat toward you without a word, the way your mother “accidentally” nudged the banchan dishes you used to love closer to your side of the table.

Mark’s knee pressed against yours under the table.

“–and then Mark actually tripped over his own feet–” Jungwoo continued, grinning.

Mark groaned. “We agreed never to talk about that.”

“No, you agreed. I just nodded and lied.”

Laughter filled the room. You let it wash over you, let their voices drown out the static in your head.

You made it through half your plate before your stomach cramped violently. You set your chopsticks down carefully.

No one paused. No one looked.

Your mother reached for the kimchi, chatting about the neighbor’s new dog.

Jungwoo stole a piece of meat off Taeyong’s plate, yelping when Taeyong smacked his hand.

Your father hummed, flipping the last slice of pork belly.

"Okay, dessert time!" your mother announced suddenly, standing up.

Jungwoo perked up. "Finally. I’ve been waiting for this."

Taeyong smirked. "You’ve been waiting? You ate half the meat."

"And I’ll eat half the cake too."

Your mother returned from the kitchen with a small, simple vanilla cake, no frosting, just a light dusting of powdered sugar.

It was your cake. The one you used to love when you were younger, before things got complicated. Light, airy, easy to eat even when your stomach rebelled against everything else.

You looked around the table.

Jungwoo was watching you, his usual grin softer now. Taeyong took a sip of water, pretending not to notice your reaction. Your father busied himself with clearing the grill.

Your mother set the cake in front of you, her voice deliberately casual. "I thought you might like something sweet."

And that’s when it hit you.

The meal. The banchan. The way they’d all avoided commenting on how little you ate. The cake.

They’d planned this.

Not just dinner–all of it.

Every dish, every joke, every distraction. They’d orchestrated the entire evening so you wouldn’t feel pressured, so you wouldn’t feel watched.

So you’d feel safe. ──────────────────────── The house was quiet when you crept through the apartment, the wooden floors cold beneath your bare feet. You had only meant to grab water but the hushed voices from the kitchen stopped you in the hallway.

"I just don’t get it." Jungwoo’s voice was thick, barely above a whisper. "Why wouldn’t she say anything?"

A chair creaked. "You think I know?" Mark shot back, but there was no real bite to it. Just exhaustion. "She didn’t tell me either."

"She didn’t tell anyone," Taeyong said quietly.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, your breath shallow.

"It’s happening so much faster this time," Jungwoo muttered. "Last time it took months before she looked like—" He cut himself off, but you knew. Like this.

A heavy silence settled. Then Mark, his voice cracking: "I should’ve noticed."

"None of us did," Taeyong said.

"You knew," Jungwoo accused, though it lacked heat. "You saw her a week ago. You had to have—"

"And what was I supposed to do?" Taeyong’s chair scraped. "Force her? Yell at her? You think that fucking helps?"

Another pause. Then, softer: "No. But... fuck. I just thought we were past this."

Your chest caved in.

You didn’t hear the rest. You couldn’t.

You waited until you heard the soft snores from your parents’ room, until your brothers went to their rooms, until the glow under their door went dark. Then you slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a quiet click.

For the first time in five years, you knelt on the cold tiles, trembling fingers shoved down your throat.

The relief was instant followed immediately by a wave of crushing shame.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you gagged, your body revolting against itself. Between heaves, you thought of Jungwoo’s broken "I just thought we were past this." Of Mark’s guilt. Of Taeyong’s quiet helplessness.

You were doing this to them again.

The vomit burned coming up. It tasted a bit like the strawberry cake from dinner, which made you gag even harder.

You were failing them again, you were hurting them again. No matter how much they loved you, you would always end up here, on your knees, betraying them in the worst way.

When it was over, you slumped against the bathtub, your forehead pressed to the cool porcelain. Your stomach ached. Your throat was raw. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You weren’t sure which was worse—the purging, or the realization that after everything, you didn’t change after all.

You were still breaking their hearts.

You were still unable to stop.

Outside, the house was silent.

You wondered if they could hear you crying. ──────────────────────── The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft pinks and golds as you slipped out of the house, the screen door clicking shut behind you. The air was already warm, thick with the salt-scent of the sea, and the streets were quiet except for the occasional scooter rumbling past.

You walked the familiar path to your favorite beach. The sand was cool under your bare feet, the tide rolling in with a steady, soothing rhythm. You settled onto your usual bench—the one slightly hidden by a curve in the shoreline, where the tourists never wandered—and let the sun warm your skin.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls.

"Y/N?"

You turned, startled. Johnny stood a few feet away, Dukoo’s leash in hand. He looked older, the lines around his eyes deeper, but his smile was the same as when yu first met him. His golden retriever wagged his tail furiously at the sight of you, straining against his harness.

Johnny looked just as surprised as you felt. "I didn’t expect to see you here," he admitted, letting Dukoo drag him closer. The dog immediately shoved his head into your lap, his wet nose bumping your hand until you scratched behind his ears.

You managed a weak smile. "I could say the same."

Johnny sat beside you, stretching his legs out in front of him. He didn’t ask why you were here at sunrise. Didn’t comment on the way your clothes hung off you or the shadows under your eyes. He just let the silence settle between you, the kind of quiet that had always made Johnny easy to be around.

Dukoo flopped onto your feet with a contented sigh.

After a while, Johnny spoke. "How are you doing?"

You stared at the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a blur of blue. You captured this view well when you painted it a bit ago. It was Sunghoons favourite painting in the flat.

"I think you know how I’m doing," you said finally, your voice bitter.

Johnny didn’t flinch. "Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

Another stretch of silence. The waves lapped at the shore. Dukoo snored lightly against your ankles.

"You seeing anyone?" Johnny asked.

You stiffened. "What?"

"Therapy," he clarified. "Are you in therapy?"

You let out a humorless laugh. "Oh. No."

Johnny nodded, like he’d expected that answer. "You remember Dr. Lee?"

Dr. Lee was your old therapist. You remembered sitting in that sterile office, kicking your feet too hard against the chair while Johnny waited outside. How always stoped for ice cream after, even when you refused to eat it.

"He’s still practicing?" you asked, voice thick.

"Has his own clinic now." Johnny's thumb rubbed over his promise ring. "He asks about you sometimes."

You'd been one of Dr. Lee's first patients, back when he was just starting out. Back when Johnny just finished his PhD and believed he could fix you through sheer willpower alone.

You picked at a loose thread on your skirt.

Johnny glanced at you. "He’s good. You liked him, didn’t you?"

You shrugged. "He was nice."

Which, in therapy terms, was practically a glowing review.

"You should call him, when it gets bad." Johnny leaned back on the bench, letting the sun warm his face.

You didn’t answer.

Dukoo rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. You obliged, your fingers sinking into his soft fur.

"Taeyong’s worried," Johnny said after a while.

Your hand stilled. "I know."

"He’s not the only one."

You swallowed hard. The guilt sat heavy in your stomach, worse than any food ever could.

"I hated you," you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "When you'd make me get on the scale. When you'd watch me eat."

Johnny smiled a bitter smile. "I know."

A wave crashed against the shore, the sound loud in the silence between you.

"I hated it too," he admitted after a moment, his voice softer now. "Standing there, writing down numbers like they meant something. Watching you pick at food like it was poison." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I used to wish I could just—magic it away. Like if I studied hard enough, if I became a good enough doctor, I could fix it. Cure you."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening in Dukoo’s fur.

"I know relapsing is part of it," he continued, staring at the horizon. "Logically, I get that. But fuck, Y/N—I still wish it wasn’t happening." His voice cracked just slightly. "I wish you didn’t have to fight this again."

The honesty in his words made your chest ache. Taeyong sitting on the bathroom floor with you at 3 AM, holding back your hair, helping you up when you were too weak to stand. Johnny bringing home nutrition textbooks, highlighting passages, determined to understand. The way they’d take turns sleeping in your room during the worst of it, just in case.

You had to look away.

Dukoo whined, pressing his warm weight against your legs.

"I purged last night," you whispered. "First time in five years."

Johnny went very still beside you.

"I don’t even know why it came back. I just started again," you continued, staring at the ocean. "Just… skipping meals. Then weighing myself more. Then–" Your throat closed. "Sunghoon noticed before I did. Started ripping calorie labels off everything." A wet laugh escaped you. "He thinks he’s subtle."

Johnny didn’t say anything. Just waited.

"I’m trying," you said finally, your voice breaking. "I really am."

Dukoo licked your wrist, his tail thumping softly against the sand.

You stared at the ocean, the waves rolling in and out. "That's the worst part," you admitted. "I know what to do. I know the meal plans, the coping strategies, all of it. But this time—" Your throat tightened. "This time is different."

Johnny turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "How?"

"Last time," you continued, "I just wanted to be skinny. I thought if I was thin enough, I'd finally be pretty. Happy. Enough." You dug your fingers into Dukoo's fur. "But now? I don't want this. I don't want to be a skeleton. I miss having curves. I miss not being freezing all the time. I miss my hair not falling out in clumps when I shower. I miss being able to think."

The words tumbled out now, raw and unfiltered. "I can't concentrate in lectures. I almost missed two deadlines last week because my brain just—shuts off. The migraines are constant. And I hate it. I hate all of it."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "But I still can't stop."

Johnny was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. "You know what I remember most from back then?" He didn't wait for you to answer. "The day you ate half a bowl of kimchi jjigae without crying afterwards. You were so proud of yourself. And then you looked at me—really looked at me—and said, 'I think I forgot what hungry felt like.'"

Your breath hitched.

"That's what this illness does," he continued. "It doesn't just take your body. It takes your hunger, your joy, your ability to recognize what you need. And the worst part? It convinces you that you're doing it to yourself."

You wiped at your face roughly. "But I am. I'm the one who—"

"No." Johnny's voice was firm. "You're not. Just like you weren't the one who chose to get sick the first time. It's not a fucking choice, Y/N. It's an illness. And it lies to you."

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

"I feel so guilty," you whispered. "For worrying you all. For disappointing you. For making you go through this again."

Johnny exhaled sharply. "You think we're disappointed in you?" He shook his head. "We're scared. We're heartbroken. But not for us–for you. Because we love you, and watching someone you love suffer and not being able to fix it?" His voice cracked. "That's the worst feeling in the world."

You curled in on yourself, your arms wrapping around your middle. "I don't know how to stop," you admitted, so quiet it was almost lost to the sound of the waves.

"You don't have to know," Johnny said gently. "You just have to keep trying. And let us help you."

Dukoo whined, nudging your hand with his nose and you resumed petting him.

"I'm tired," you said after a while.

Johnny nodded. "I know."

"And scared."

"I know."

The sun climbed higher, painting the water gold. Somewhere down the beach, a child laughed.

"You're not alone in this," Johnny said quietly. "You never were."

After a long silence, Johnny checked his watch and sighed. "It's too early to call Ten now. But I will later–today." He met your eyes, his gaze firm.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Johnny shook his head. "Ten never really celebrates Korean holidays anyway. You know how he is—he'll probably be grateful for the excuse to get out of his apartment." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Last Chuseok, he texted me complaining about how bored he was. He'll come."

You swallowed hard, staring down at Dukoo’s golden fur between your fingers. The thought of seeing Ten, of sitting in his office with the ugly abstract paintings he refused to replace, made your chest tighten. But beneath the dread, there was something else. Something like relief.

"Okay," you whispered.

Johnny exhaled, his shoulder pressing against yours. "We’ll figure this out."

Dukoo rolled onto his back, paws in the air, demanding belly rubs again. The sky lightened slowly, the pale gold of dawn bleeding into blue. Somewhere down the beach, the first early risers were beginning to appear—fishermen checking their nets, an elderly couple walking hand in hand. ──────────────────────── The leather of Johnny’s desk chair was cool against your arms as you curled into yourself, knees pulled to your chest. Outside the window, the last streaks of sunset bled into dusk, painting the walls of his home office in watery gold. The room smelled like him. Like cedar and the faintest hint of coffee grounds.

A soft knock at the door.

You didn’t turn. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Ten stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. He was wearing one of his old college hoodies, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming take out cup in each hand.

“Brought you tea,” he said, setting one on the desk near you. “Ginger-lemon. ”

You hummed but didn’t reach for it. The paper was probably warm under your fingertips, but the thought of lifting it made your arms feel heavy.

Ten settled into the armchair across from you, stretching his legs out. He didn’t speak right away. He just let the silence settle between you, the way he always did. The clock on the wall ticked.

“Johnny said you wanted to talk,” Ten said finally.

You stiffened. “He made it sound like I asked you to be here.”

Ten raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

The question hung in the air.

You looked away.

Silence stretched. Ten waited. He’d always been good at that. Letting the quiet press until you cracked open just to fill it.

“I relapsed,” you said finally.

Ten didn’t react. Just nodded. “Tell me about it.”

So you did.

You told him about how you starte to skip meals. How food made you nauseus, the smell of it, sometimes even the thought of it. How your head still remembered the numbers so well and wouldn't shut up. How you purged yesterday.

Ten listened, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he leaned forward slightly. “What do you think triggered it?”

You laughed bitterly. “If I knew that, would you be here?”

Ten didn’t smile. “Try.”

You stared at the bookshelf behind him—at the framed photo Taeyong took of you and Johnny at the beach last summer, both of you sunburnt and grinning. “I don’t know. Stress, maybe. School. Life.”

“Mm.” Ten tapped his fingers against his knee. “When did it start?”

You hesitated. “A few months ago.”

“Anything special that happened a few months ago?”

Your chest tightened. “Nothing. Just-just normal stuff.”

Ten’s gaze sharpened. “Y/N.”

You exhaled sharply. “Fine. There was…an incident.”

Incident. Such a clean word for it.

Ten waited.

You swallowed. “I was at a party. Some guy…put drugs in my drink…” Your voice cracked. “I...Sunghoon and Sunoo called an ambulance after I fainted in the kitchen. Noting bad happened.”

Ten’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his mug tightened. “And after?”

“I went home. It's not like something bad happened, right? People get blackout drunk often, right? I mean he didn't...touch me.” You picked at your sleeve. You actually couldn't remember if he touched you. “Then the skipping meals started. Then the scale. Then—”

Your fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. "But that's the thing - nothing even happened. Not really. I just overreacted. Sunghoon and Sunoo got there in time, I went to the hospital, end of story." You shook your head, frustration creeping into your voice. "The next day I had this stupid panic attack in the kitchen and Sunghoon had to talk me down for twenty minutes. That's it. That's all that happened."

Ten's gaze remained steady. "And how did that feel?"

"Embarrassing," you admitted immediately. "Sunghoon had to bring me to practice because he was scared of me being alone. I wasted hospital resources over..." You waved your hand vaguely. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Ten echoed.

"Well, nothing compared to what could have—" You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.

Ten leaned forward slightly. "What could have happened?"

You exhaled sharply. "That's not the point. The point is, nothing did happen. So why am I..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Why is this happening now?"

The room felt too quiet suddenly. The ticking clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator - everything seemed amplified.

Ten studied you for a long moment before speaking. "Tell me about the panic attack with Sunghoon."

You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "It was dumb. I just... couldn't breathe all of a sudden. Sunghoon made me breath with him."

"And since then?"

"I don't know," you admitted, frustration creeping back in. "I just started noticing food differently. Like... if I could just control this one thing, then..." Your voice trailed off as the realization hit you mid-sentence.

Ten waited, letting the silence stretch.

You swallowed hard. "Oh." The word came out small.

The pieces were falling into place, and you didn't like the picture they formed. Your hands started trembling slightly. "But that doesn't make sense. Nothing bad actually happened to me."

Ten's voice was gentle but firm. "Your body doesn't know that."

"What?"

"When you were drugged, your nervous system went into survival mode. It doesn't care that Sunghoon intervened. It only knows that for those moments, you were in danger." He tapped his temple. "Up here, you knoiw you're safe. But in here—" He placed a hand over his chest. "Your body's still trying to protect you from what might have been."

You stared at your hands, the knuckles too prominent. "That's... not fair."

"No," Ten agreed softly. "It's not."

The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Somewhere downstairs, Dukoo barked once, his nails clicking against hardwood as he ran to greet someone, probably Taeyong, at the door.

You pressed your palms against your eyes. "So what? My brain just... made up this eating thing to cope with something that didn't even happen?"

"Not made up," Ten corrected. "Adapted. It's grabbing onto what it can control because that night, control was taken from you." He paused. "Doesn't matter that it stopped before the worst could happen. The threat was real enough."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. "Some protection system. Starving myself over a maybe."

Ten didn't smile. "It's the only language your survival brain knows."

You let out a shaky breath, the truth settling heavily in your chest. This wasn't comforting. It wasn't reassuring.

It was terrifying.

The paper cup of tea had gone cold, the lemon scent fading into the evening air. You stared at the condensation rings it left on Johnny's desk, tracing them with your finger. Circles within circles. Like how one bad night kept rippling outward, touching everything.

"I keep thinking," you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight. "If I had just been more careful—"

Ten shook his head before you could finish. "This isn't about what you should have done differently. This is about what was done to you. Someone did something horrible to you Y/N. Getting drugged is horrible. It’s scary. Just hearing about this makes me scared for you. Anyone would have a hard time dealing with this. I am so glad Sunghoon and Sunoo found you before it was too late."

The words landed strangely. You'd spent months minimizing it—it wasn't a big deal, nothing really happened, other people have it worse.

"But I—" Your voice cracked. "I don't even remember most of it. Just... waking up in the hospital with Sunoo crying over me." You swallowed hard. "Shouldn't I be over it by now?"

Ten set his own cup aside. "Trauma isn't about what you remember consciously. It's about what your body remembers." He tapped his chest again. "The panic attacks, the food stuff—that's your body's way of saying it's still working through what happened."

Downstairs, the faint sound of Johnny laughing at something drifted up.

"So what do I do?" you whispered.

Ten leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "First, we stop comparing your pain to some imaginary threshold of 'bad enough.' What happened to you was violating. Full stop."

You blinked rapidly, surprised by the sudden burn in your eyes.

"Second," Ten continued gently, "we start helping your body feel safe again. That means regular meals, yes, but also..." He paused. "Have you told anyone? Besides Sunghoon and Sunoo?"

You shook your head, picking at the edge of the paper cup. "Mark was there. In the hospital. He called mom and dad and they told Yongie and Woo. But i didn’t tell him about the panic attack. Or that it came back. I didn't want to worry them. And like... what would I even say? 'Hey, remember that time nothing happened to me? I think its fucking me over.'"

Ten's expression softened. "Nothing didn't happen, Y/N. Someone drugged you. That's not nothing."

You realized you'd been holding your breath.

"Think about this," Ten said. "If it had been Sunoo, if someone had slipped something in his drink, would you tell him he was overreacting?"

The immediate "no" caught in your throat. You wouldn't. You'd be furious. You'd—

Oh.

Ten saw the realization dawn on your face. He nodded slowly. "Sometimes we need to imagine it happening to someone we love to understand how bad it really was."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. You swiped at them angrily, but they kept coming.

Ten waited, giving you space. The clock ticked. Dukoo barked again downstairs. Finally, you took a shaky breath. "So where do we start?" Ten smiled—small, but genuine. "Where ever you need to. Maybe with telling Johnny and Taeyong everything. Maybe with just getting through tonight." He nodded to the cold tea. "Want me to get you a fresh cup? I am sure Johnny has some good teas." It was such a simple offer. Such a normal thing. For some reason, that made your chest ache and remind you of Sunghoon. You wished you could go home and curl onto the sofa watching My demon with him.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That'd be... yeah." "I'll be right back.” As Ten stood, the door creaked open slightly. Dukoo's golden head poked through, his tail thumping cautiously against the doorframe. You let out a wet laugh. "Oh, come here." The dog bounded over immediately, shoving his head into your lap with a whine. Ten paused at the door. “Y/N?" He waited until you looked up. "This is already progress."

As his footsteps faded down the stairs, you buried your hands in Dukoo's warm fur, breathing in his familiar dog smell. Outside, the last light of sunset had faded, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights through the window. ──────────────────────── Your apartment was quiet, but your pulse roared in your ears. You stood in front of the stove, hands steady despite the tremor in your breath. Ten’s voice played in your head—"Small, frequent meals. Balanced. No extremes."—but you ignored it. The nutrition plan Johnny had printed for you sat untouched on the fridge. They’d run tests, checked your levels, gave you meal plans and recipes. This much protein. This many carbs. This often. The butter sizzled violently when it hit the pan. You added twice the oil the recipe called for, watching it pool golden and thick. The scent of garlic should’ve made your mouth water. Instead, your throat tightened reflexively. No. You clenched your jaw. Not this time.

The noodles were a normal portion, more than Johnny recommended you to eat at the beginning and probably with too much seasoning for your stomach. You drowned them in sauce until they shone. A sprinkle of cheese melted instantly on contact. A norma portion. Normal. You just wanted to be normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. You chewed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe through your nose.

Halfway through, your stomach cramped—not from hunger, but from the sheer volume of food it hadn’t had to handle in so long. You set your fork down, pressing a hand to your ribs. The urge to stop, to push the plate away, surged up like a reflex. But then you thought of Johnny’s face when he’d seen your bloodwork. The way Ten had said, "Your body doesn’t trust you right now. You have to show it you’re safe." You picked up the fork again. This is what normal people do, you told yourself. They eat until they’re full. They don’t measure every gram. The ice cream you ate afterwards was even worse. Your stomach cramped violently but you gripped the counter and breathed through it, finishing the whole bowl.

Then your body betrayed you. One second you were standing in the kitchen, the next you were on your knees, heaving into the toilet. The noodles came up still whole, the ice cream sour with bile. Tears streamed down your face as you gagged, your body rejecting what your mind had forced into it. When it was over, you slumped against the washing machine, trembling. The bathroom smelled like vomit and that stupid air freshener Sunghoon insisted on buying. But as you wiped your face with a shaking hand, something unexpected bubbled up—not guilt, not shame, but anger. This isn’t fair.

You’d done everything right. You’d eaten like a normal person. You hadn’t purge but just vomited. Why can't you just eat. You wanted to eat that stupid ice cream. Those three spoons of chocolate.

You dragged yourself to your feet, flushed the toilet, and watched the evidence swirl away. Tomorrow, you’d try again. ──────────────────────── You woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains, your skull throbbing in time with your pulse. The clock read 2:37 PM. Shit. You’d meant to wake up early. To clean, to air out the apartment, to erase any trace of last night’s failure before Sunghoon came home. Three meals yesterday. Three. The number echoed in your aching head. You'd done everything right—ate the portions Ten recommended after you failed with noodles two days ago, kept it down even when your stomach rebelled—and now your body was punishing you for it anyway. Your stomach lurched as you sat up, a sour taste flooding your mouth. You pressed a hand to your mouth, breathing hard through your nose. Don't. You know better. But your body didn't care. A dry heave wracked through you, your stomach contracting violently. Nothing came up—just bile, bitter at the back of your tongue.

The migraine pulsed behind your eyes as you stumbled to the bathroom. You splashed water on your face, the cold shock making you gasp. Your reflection looked haunted—dark circles, pale lips, hair sticking up in every direction. All you could think about was how you’d lost control. Three meals. Three full meals. You stumbled to the bathroom, knees hitting the tiles hard. The urge to purge rose like a tide, your throat tightening reflexively. But nothing came up—just dry heaves, your body straining against nothing. You'd been so excited for Sunghoon to come home. Had carefully packed containers of your mom's kimchi, bought that stupid squid magnet from the Busan aquarium you went to with Johnny. You planned to stick it on the fridge with a silly doodle you drew on the bus ride back onto a random piece of paper. Now all you could think about was how you had finally done things right yesterday, and your body was still treating food like the enemy.

You slumped against the toilet, pressing your forehead to the cool porcelain. You wanted to throw up. Needed it, almost. But you couldn’t. You knew better. The front door open. "Y/N? I'm home!" Sunghoon's voice rang through the apartment. The familiar thud of his duffel bag hitting the floor. "Brought you mochi from that place you like—" The bathroom door was slightly ajar. One deep breath and he would smell the bile. One glance and he would see the way your hands braced against the toilet. Another dry heave threatened. You swallowed hard, tasting metal. Not now. Please not now. Sunghoon’s smiling face appeared in the crack of the doorway—sun-kissed from his trip to hawaii with his family, his stupidly perfect white hair slightly messy. His grin faltered the second he saw you.

"Whoa—" His hand shot out to steady himself against the doorframe. "Shit, are you sick?" You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand too fast. "No. Just—" Another dry heave threatened, your throat convulsing. You turned back to the toilet, gripping the edges until your knuckles turned white. "I’m just having a bad migrane." The lie hung pathetic between you. Sunghoon didn’t move. You could feel his eyes on the back of your neck, tracing the tense line of your shoulders. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of the faucet and your own ragged breathing. You heaved again. Sunghoon’s palms settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots of tension there. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe, yeah?" You wanted to shake him off. Wanted to snap that you were breathing, that you didn’t need coddling, that he should just go unpack his stupid bag and leave you alone. But then his fingers slid up to cradle the base of your skull, his touch feather-light as he massaged the spot where your migraine pulsed the hardest. A broken noise escaped you before you could stop it.

"Hey." His breath stirred your hair as he leaned closer. "I got your text about the kimchi. You didn’t have to—" Another heave cut him off. This time, when you gagged, Sunghoon’s hands moved and he brushed your hair out of your face, gently holding it in a ponytail. "It’s okay," he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear. "Just let it out." You shook your head violently, tears pricking at your eyes. "Don’t say that. I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "I’m not doing that anymore." Sunghoon went still behind you. For one horrible second, you thought you’d said too much. Then his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder, his exhale warm through your shirt. "Okay," he said simply. "Okay." His hands slid down to wrap around your wrists, his thumbs stroking over your racing pulse. "Then let’s get you some water. And maybe that mochi I brought. It’s the strawberry kind you like."

You closed your eyes. Sunghoon pulled you away from the toilet and made you sit on the cold floor. You leaned back against the washing machine while Sunghoon went to the kitchen to get you some water. He came back carrying a bottle of water and sat down next to you. Sunghoon opened the bottle and offered it to you. You took a sip and quietly thanked him before the two sat in silence for a few minutes. "It started when I was fourteen.", the words tumbled from your mouth.

Sunghoon stayed quiet, but you felt him shift slightly. "I was...chubby." You swallowed hard, picking at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "Not even really fat, just—soft. I had round cheeks. Thighs that rubbed together when I walked. My skin was always dark from being outside too much." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "There was this girl in my class. Park Soomin. She was pretty. And petite. A nationally ranked figure skater, actually." Sunghoon went very still. You picked at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "We were partners for a science project. One day she grabbed my wrist and said—" The words stuck in your throat. "Wow, your arms are so thick. Do you even fit into normal uniforms?" A beat. Then Sunghoon made a wounded noise low in his throat.

"It wasn't even true." Your laugh came out broken. "Then a few days later my PE teacher made us all weigh ourselves in front of the class." Your throat tightened. "My number was higher than everyone else’s. The girl and her friends laughed. Someone called me whale." You could still hear it—the giggling, the way your face had burned as you’d stepped off the scale. "That night, I skipped dinner. Then breakfast. Then—" You shrugged, your knees pulling tighter to your chest. "It felt good, at first. Like I was finally in control. Like I was winning. If I was skinny they couldn't say shit about me anymore, right?" Sunghoon made a quiet, wounded noise in the back of his throat. His hands flexed like he wanted to reach for you, but he kept them pressed to his own knees. Your fingers drifted to your throat unconsciously. "I found forums. Learned how to make it look like I'd eaten. How to hide the throwing up." The admission hung between you. Sunghoon's breathing had gone shallow. "Mark walked in on me when I was fifteen." You stared at the toothpaste splatter on the baseboard. "He came home early from soccer practice and heard me in the bathroom. He–" A wet laugh escaped you. "He didn't even yell. Just stood there crying, asking why I was hurting myself." A tear plopped onto your knee.

"My parents were clueless until then." You wiped your nose with your sleeve. "They sent me to therapy. Put me on meal plans." The overhead light buzzed. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hummed to life. "Johnny and Ten turned into my personal doctors overnight. Both of them were fresh out of school." You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. "Meal plans, weigh-ins, fucking nutritional supplements. I hated it. Hated how they watched every bite, how they celebrated when I finished a whole bowl of rice like it was some fucking achievement." Sunghoon stayed silent, but his shoulder pressed more firmly against yours. "This time isn't even about being thin." You dug your nails into your palms. "It's about—" Your voice broke. "It's about subconscious control or something. After the party, after that guy—I couldn't control anything. Not my body, not what happened, nothing. But food? That was something I could fucking decide about." A sob clawed its way up your throat.

You finally risked a glance at Sunghoon. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. "And you—" Your voice broke. "You've known me three months and you're already stuck dealing with this mess. I am so sorry for—" Sunghoon moved suddenly, cupping your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his grip firm but gentle. "Look at me." When you didn't, he ducked his head to catch your gaze. "I don't care if it's been three months or three minutes," he said, voice rough. "You think I'd walk away from someone I—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "From someone important to me because things got hard?" You started shaking your head, but he held you steady. "That night at the party?" Sunghoon's thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "When I carried you to the ambulance, you know what I kept thinking? Thank god I was there. Not why me, not what a burden—just that I could be the one to keep you safe." A sob ripped from your throat. Sunghoon pulled you against his chest, tucking your face into his shoulder as you finally, finally broke. "I don't care if it's about weight or control or the fucking weather." His thumbs traced your shoulder blades. "You're not a burden. You're not weak. You're just—" His breath shuddered. "You're just someone who's been fighting for too long."

Sunghoon leaned his head against yours. "Let me help," he whispered. "Please." ──────────────────────── His heartbeat was steady under your ear. His arms tightened around you when you weakly nodded against his chest. Sunghoon listened to your soft breathing as it filled the dim bedroom, your body curled into his. You felt so small like that. Fragile in a way that made his stomach knot. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, one hand moving absently through your hair, gentle and rhythmic. His throat tightened. Park Soomin. He knew that name. Knew the precise curve of her smile, the confident flick of her hair behind her ears before she stepped onto the ice. He could still hear the echo of her laugh at 5 AM across the rink, still feel the icy jolt of her hands pressed to his neck after practice. She used to do it just to make him yell. He'd kissed Soomin for the first time behind the equipment room when they were sixteen. Defended her when people whispered behind her back. Let her sharpness slide because her jumps were perfect and her fire made his heart race. He told himself that was just how brilliance came–razor-edged. Beautiful and cruel. Sunghoon adjusted his hold on you carefully, his palms grazing the angles of your shoulders.

Purging. The word echoed in his head. He hadn’t realized you were doing this. He was pretty sure you hadn’t been like this before… right? He would have seen it. The image of a younger you, kneeling on bathroom tiles just like you did when he came home, your brother's horrified face in the doorway. If it had been Yeji he would’ve burned the whole world down. He still had Soomin’s number in his phone. He wanted to hit something. Scream. Fly to Soomin’s apartment and— A soft whimper from you snapped him back. You twitched in his arms, fingers brushing lightly against his chest. His breath caught. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, thumb pausing on the pronounced ridge of your cheekbone. His exhale was long. Anger wouldn’t help you now. All those little moments where he thought you were getting better—when you finished half a bowl of rice, when you ate that soup from Johnnys mom—did you…did you keep it in? He tightened his arms around you instinctively.

Three months ago, he thought you were just shy. A bit quiet. A little too thin, maybe, but nothing alarming. Now he could trace every rib through your shirt. Three months of watching you paint, listening to you rant about brutal professors and architecture deadlines, catching you hum off-key to your favorite songs. Somewhere in all of that, you stopped being just a roommate. You became you. The person whose laugh made his chest ache, whose sleepy grumbles made him smile, whose stubborn "I’m fine"s made him want to shake you and hold you in the same breath. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. You stirred, your nose nudging the base of his throat. Sunghoon froze, barely breathing. Then, your fingers curled into his shirt. “S’ghoon…?” Your voice was heavy with sleep, slurred at the edges. “Shh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he could second-guess it. “I’m here.” A broken little sound slipped from you as you burrowed closer. He closed his eyes, heart aching in places he didn’t know could hurt.

He shifted gently, sliding one arm under your knees, the other behind your back. You didn’t stir as he picked you up, head falling against his shoulder. You weighed almost nothing. His grip tightened without thinking. Your bedroom door creaked open at his push. Streetlight spilled across your sheets. A half-finished architectural sketch sat on your desk. He set you down as if you might break, hands lingering longer than necessary to make sure you were okay. But when he started to pull away— “No.” Your voice was a rasp now, but urgent. Your hand fisted in his shirt. “Stay.” He froze.

He should go. You were roommates. This wasn’t his place. It wasn’t right. “Please,” you whispered. He caved. “Okay.” The bed dipped as he laid beside you, leaving space. You moved toward him instantly, pressing your face into the curve of his shoulder with a sigh. Your knee moved over his thigh. Sunghoon stared at the ceiling, your scent curling in his nose, your breath warm on his neck. And for a second, a stupid, fleeting second, he felt happy. That you trusted him enough to tell him what was going on. That you wanted him to be close. Then he remembered the retching. He clenched the sheets in his fist. Soomin had been his first love. Or whatever sixteen-year-old heartbreaks were. He cheered for her. Believed in her. Watched her fly to Canada with a lump in his throat. And she’d been the one to make you feel ugly. She and her little minions. He bent toward you, barely brushing his lips against your hair. Outside, the city hummed. The clock ticked on. Your fingers slowly loosened their grip in sleep. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon’s heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek. You lay curled into his chest, your hand resting lightly against his ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. You thought he’d fallen asleep. You almost hoped he was. He hadn’t spoken in a while, hadn’t moved. The room had gone still except for the hum of the city through your half-open window and the occasional creak of your bed frame as one of you adjusted. You shifted. His arm was around you, heavy and unmoving.

You stayed in this position for a long moment. Just breathing. You should’ve been spiraling. Should’ve been replaying every raw word, every breath of last night with shame crawling over your skin. But you were too tired for shame. Too tired for fear. And too… glad. Glad he was still here. Glad he knew. Really knew now. He probably did know before too. But telling him made you feel... better. Relived. So instead of panicking, you just listened to the soft thud of his heartbeat, felt the quiet hush of his breath under your palm “You know,” he said quietly, startling you, “when I was twelve, I broke my ankle two weeks before Nationals.” You didn’t lift your head. Just listened. “I couldn’t eat for days,” he continued, voice low and steady. “Thought if I just—” He made a small, sharp movement you could feel more than see, his muscles tensing under your palm. “If I controlled that, it would make up for everything else I couldn’t control.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. A slow, painful ache bloomed in your chest. “What changed?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. There was a beat of silence. “My coach force-fed me kimchi jjigae,” he said. You felt a quiet huff of air from his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And my mom cried. That sucked worse than the hunger.” You wanted to cry too. Sunghoon wasn’t supposed to understand this kind of thing. Not the gnawing emptiness. Not the counting. Not the bargaining, the guilt, the endless loop of maybe if I were smaller, quieter, prettier, then— Your heart cracked open in places you didn’t expect.

You hated that he had to feel that. That someone like him, someone so pretty and good, eve had to think that. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Tomorrow,” he said softly, “let’s get fried chicken. From Mom’s Touch. Let’s try the new flavor.” Your throat tightened. The tears stung again, hot and unspilled. You whispered, “Okay.” And when his pinky found yours beneath the blanket—light, tentative, warm—you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

You were so grateful that he stayed. Even after knowing the ugliest parts of you. A while later he shifted slightly, his voice even quieter than before. “Are you hungry?” You froze. You didn’t know how to answer. Not immediately. You turned your head into his chest, let the quiet settle for a few seconds. Let yourself think.

Were you hungry? You weren’t sure. You know you should be hungry, you haven't eaten since yesterday evening, but that didn’t stay down. So technically your yogurt and banana you had for breakfast yesterday was the last “meal” you had. And after a long moment, you gave the smallest nod against his chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think… I am.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he said softly. “Do you know what you feel like eating? Something you think you can keep down?” You hesitated, then pulled back just enough to look at him. “I have a list,” you said, your voice scratchy but steady. “Ten, my psychiatrist helped me put it together. And Johnny, too.” Sunghoon’s brows lifted slightly as he watched you.

“They talked to my doctors from when I was a teen. Helped me figure out meals that weren’t too much,” you continued. “ Like… one egg, some toast. Or rice with soft veggies. Fruit I like. They even made a stupid little calendar and color-coded it. Like back when I was a child. I even have little monkey stickers that I am supposed to put onto it.” Sunghoon smiled, so soft it barely touched his lips but warmed his entire face. “That sounds like they really care a lot. Those monkey stickers would be a great addition to our kitchen.” You huffed a tiny laugh. “I was supposed to try one of them yesterday but I… I threw up.I tried to eat a normal sized portion. But just felt like too much and i think it just was. My stomach was so upset. I know Johnny said to start small. Half-portions, even less if I need to. I know it’s not about doing it perfectly. Just… trying.” He nodded, brushing his thumb against your pinky, still tangled with his. “Then we’ll try,” he said gently. “Just a little. Whatever you can do today. And if it’s too much, we stop..”

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat and nodded again. ──────────────────────── The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clatter of plates and the low hum of the fridge. The sky outside had gone dusky. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting golden lines across the countertop. Sunghoon stood at the stove, watching the water boil. He had rinsed the egg twice already. Peeled the cucumber slowly. Checked the cream cheese twice for mold. Behind him, you moved like a ghost. It made his chest ache. You didn’t say much. Just pressed the lever on the toaster and waited. Your hoodie sleeves were pulled over your hands, fingers curling in and out of the fabric like you didn’t quite know what to do with them. Sunghoon turned down the burner.

“One egg for you,” he said quietly, “and three for me.” You glanced at him, a flicker of something close to amusement in your eyes. “Greedy.” “Hungry,” he corrected, giving you a small smile as he sliced through the cucumber. “Greedy would be me eating the rest of the egg, too.” He saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of your mouth. That was something. The toast popped, and you startled a little. Sunghoon slid the peeled egg, the cucumber slices, and the toast onto a plate and set it down in front of you. “Voilà,” he said softly. “Culinary masterpiece.”

You hesitated. Just for a second. Then you sat down. Sunghoon tried not to stare at you. He just took the seat across from you and started peeling his own eggs, letting the quiet settle between you. Every few seconds, he looked up. Not to check. Just to witness. You took a bite of toast. He didn’t let himself react. Then the egg. And finally, the cucumber, one thin slice at a time.

You didn’t talk. Neither did he. But when you pushed the plate away, eyes soft and shoulders just a little less tense, he felt something bloom in his chest that he didn’t have a name for. “You ate everything,” he said, voice low. You nodded. “Yeah.” His smiled, gentle and quiet “I’m really proud of you.” You blinked down at the table, lashes casting shadows against your cheeks. “Thanks.” Sunghoon picked at a bit of shell stuck to his second egg, heart thudding a little too hard for how calm everything looked. You had eaten. You were trying.

And God, he’d never wanted to hold someone so carefully in his life for eating a toast. ──────────────────────── After dinner, the apartment settled into a quiet lull. You padded to the couch while Sunghoon rinsed the plates. The finale of “My Demon” had dropped a new episode just the day before, and he didn’t even have to ask. You were already pulling up the streaming site by the time he sat down. You curled up in the corner of the couch like you always did, legs folded up against you, sleeves covering your hands again. But five minutes into the episode, you stretched your legs out slowly… and draped them over his. Sunghoon didn’t move or say a thing. Just shifted slightly to give you more space and let one hand drift to your shin, his fingers tracing idle, feather-light patterns into your skin the way he always did. Somehow him sitting somewhere on the sofa and you laying down had become your usual position for watching TV.

He felt your breath stutter just a little the first time his thumb grazed over your ankle. But you didn’t pull away. The episode played on. After a good chunk of the first episode you asked, so quietly he almost missed it, “Do you… wanna lie down again? Like last time?” Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited for exactly one second. Lie down again. Like last time. With you in his arms and his heart threatening to break through his ribs. He kept his face neutral and just shrugged lightly. “Sure. If you want.”

You nodded and shuffled down, adjusting until you were stretched out on your side with your back pressed against his front, the two of you folded together like puzzle pieces. His arm slid naturally beneath your head, his other resting lightly at your waist. You didn’t say anything else. Just exhaled, soft and shaky, and settled. Sunghoon stared at the screen, but he wasn’t really watching anymore. He could feel the shape of you against him. The weight of your trust. The rhythm of your breath slowing as you got comfortable. By the time the episode ended you were still there, unmoving, tucked under his chin. Sunghoon didn’t care about who of the two protagonists will die. He didn’t care about the other guy.

All he cared about was the girl in his arms. ──────────────────────── The episode rolled into its credits, soft music drifting through the room, and neither of you moved to reach for the remote. Your body was still nestled against his, back to chest, your fingers now loosely tangled with his where they rested against your stomach beneath the blanket. The glow from the TV painted your skin in flickering hues—blue, then gold, then back again. You were quiet for a long moment. You weren’t asleep. He could feel the way your breathing shifted. “Would you… would it be okay if we slept together tonight?” You hurried to add, “Not—not like that. Just. Sleeping. I don’t want to be alone. I just… I don’t think I can be.” His heart broke a little at the way your voice shook at the end. He leaned in, just slightly, his chin brushing the top of your head as he spoke.

“Of course,” he said gently. “You don’t even have to ask." You let out a breath then. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. Relief, he thought. Like maybe you’d been holding that question in for hours. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Hey.” He gave your hand a tiny squeeze. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” You nodded. He felt it against his chest. “I sleep better when someone is there,” you murmured. Sunghoon closed his eyes, just for a second.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said. “Every night you want me to.” You were quiet again. Eventually, you moved. Stood slowly, blanket still wrapped around you like armor, and waited while he turned off the TV and followed you back toward your room. He didn’t say anything when you crawled into bed and left a space for him. Didn’t say anything when you curled instinctively into his side, your cheek finding the same spot over his heart where you'd rested before. But when your fingers brushed against his shirt and curled there—quiet and anchoring—he murmured, “Night, Y/N.” You whispered it back. And when your breathing evened out, Sunghoon stayed awake just a little longer. Not to watch you. Just to make sure the calm stayed, at least for tonight.

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty CONTINUE ON READING --⟢ PART 3 COMING SOON all feedback and reblogs is welcome ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ if you liked this you might also like the rest of this series ⭑.ᐟ

ᝰ taglist. @firstclassjaylee @enhaprettystars @vantxx95 @stormy1408 @fancypeacepersona @jaylvrsworld @xylatox @bluxjun @sumzysworld @outroherrr @50-husbands @ikeumina @softchannie @sirens-dreams @schmocolateschmchip @vviolynn @nishiimuraka @enhalxvr @ijustreallylike2read @enhastolemyheart @wintereals @planetmarlowe @baeeeeah @wonzzziezzzz @mochamvgz @lovtaesunu @makeme1cream @stars4jo @vviolynn @lylaloopsie @meimeiyh @motherscrustytoenailclippings @haerni

ᝰ an. AGAIN! A special mention and thanks to @xylatox for dealing with me and giving me advice! I am kinda sorry that this is split in three parts, but I wanted to adress Y/Ns ED properly. Recovery is never linear and it's okay to relapse and getting help is an important but very very hard step. If you are sturggling with an ED please know that you are perfect the way you are. Life is to precious to worry about number sall the time. Please take care yourself, Love Patty ₊ ⊹

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