vantxx95

[vantxx95]

soooooo goood !!!

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. ���One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[vantxx95]

COLLIDE l.hs

synopsis ⤑ Hockey boys were nothing but egoistic man boys who threw each other around, chasing a puck for a living. They lacked sustenance, they lived their lives like barbarians and you hated them, and everything they stand for. So being tasked to tutor the worst one of them all? An impossible task. Lee Heeseung was the poster child for a frat boy disaster and you wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. Or so you thought. Damnit. 

pairings ⤑ hockey player!heeseung x fem!reader word count ⤑ 19k

warnings ⤑ smut, loss of virginity, fingering, angst, a little bit of back and forth, frat boy activities, hockey, drinking, parties, tutoring trope, heeseung is a fuck boy and he’s kind of a dick, the reader is up tight, Ft. Yunjin (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), fictional relationships between real life idols, etc

crossing the line series.

You hated hockey. It was grueling and animalistic. Almost barbaric. It was not a hot sport and watching big hunks of men throwing each other around a big ice box was so not how you imagined your friday night would be going. But here you were, in the middle of the packed crowd of your college’s home hockey stadium. The arena is a frozen tundra of noise and chaos, packed with fans draped in red and white jerseys, faces painted and voices hoarse from shouting.

Yunjin bounces beside you, practically vibrating with excitement as she elbows your side for the tenth time in five minutes. Her eyes are fixed on the ice, where players crash into each other like it’s a battle to the death. She lives for the thrill of it. Loves coming to most of the games, i think her super hot boyfriend Choi Soobin being on the team really catapults her love for the grueling sport. And as her roommate and best friend you allow her to drag you along, sometimes. 

“You’re gonna love this, I swear,” she insists, clutching her cup of overpriced soda with both hands. “Just wait until Heeseung scores. He’s, like, magic on skates.” You force a smile, but the sound of bodies slamming into the plexiglass makes your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat. The air smells like popcorn and sweat, and the fans behind you won’t stop shrieking obscenities at the referees. You don’t get it—any of it. The violent crashes, the speed, the way grown men bark and snarl at each other over a puck. Sure, Lee Heeseung was considered a star hockey player, one of the best your school has ever seen, they say. But you were impressed, what was so hard about chasing a puck and shoving each other. The announcer’s voice crackles to life, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Goal scored by number seventeen, Lee Heeseung!”

Yunjin screams, leaping to her feet. The arena erupts, deafening, and you flinch as a pack of players smother Heeseung in a mess of helmets and gloves. They slap his back, crush him into the boards, grinning like wolves. You can barely see his face, but his name glows in bold white letters across the screen overhead, followed by a replay of the goal—a blur of motion and ice spray. It was disgusting, and you hated every second of it. You grimace, sinking lower in your seat. “Do they always act like that?” Yunjin was used to your need to abominate hockey and all it was so your question doesn't really phase her much. Yunjin laughs, eyes bright. “It’s called celebrating.” 

“It’s called animalistic,” you mutter, but she doesn’t hear you, too busy cheering with the rest of the lunatics. The game drags on, seconds bleeding into minutes, periods crawling by in a blur of shouts and whistles and obnoxious goal horns. Every time a player crashes into another, you wince. The fights are even worse, gloves dropped and fists flying, the refs standing back like it’s some kind of gladiator match. Your butt is numb from the hard plastic seat, your ears ache, and you’ve never hated anything more. By the time the buzzer finally sounds, you’re half convinced you’ll go deaf before you escape. Yunjin beams at you, cheeks flushed and hair wild from excitement. “See? Wasn’t that amazing?” she gushes, grabbing your arm. “Heeseung was insane! I told you he’s the best.” 

You manage a weak smile. “Uh-huh. Amazing.” Your sarcasm goes basically unnoticed by Yunjin, as she’s too busy celebrating the big win. The crowd around you turn to each other cheering loudly. You have to stop yourself from covering your ears with your palms to drown out the sounds. Finally, mercifully, the game is over. You shuffle out of the bleachers with Yunjin at your side, ears still ringing from the blaring horns and the relentless chants. College kids swarm the exits, jerseys half-zipped and voices hoarse, stumbling over each other as they yell about some after-party to celebrate the big win. You scuff to yourself because of course there is a party. A party you won't be going to. Instead you'll go back to the dorm and relax with a good book and a cup of tea. Lord knows you need it after spending hours in this ice box. 

The hallway is a crush of bodies and echoes, and you’re too busy trying not to get trampled to notice the way Yunjin keeps sneaking glances at you—eyes wide and hopeful, lower lip caught between her teeth. It was painfully obvious she wanted to ask you something and even more obvious that you wouldn't like her question. You sigh. “Whatever it is, no.” shutting down any ideas she had before she could utter a single word. Her face falls. “But you don’t even—” 

“No.” You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, weaving through a trio of guys who reek of beer and cheap cologne. “I did my time. I sat through three hours of hockey without complaining—much. Can we please just go home?” You craved that night in to yourself. Yunjin grabs your arm, nearly making you stumble. “Okay, but hear me out. There’s a party at the frat house. The whole team’s gonna be there! Come on, it’s not even that far from campus. We can just—”

You cut her off again, rolling your eyes and saying “Absolutely not.” She pouts, eyes big and tragically betrayed. “Please?” begging you. She was begging you. And you couldn't give in. “Nope.” 

“I’ll clean the dorm for a month,” she blurts, and you stop dead in the middle of the hallway. A guy with a blue foam finger scowls as he swerves around you, muttering something rude, but you barely notice. She puts up a tough bargain. Yunjin’s watching you like she’s just offered up her firstborn, palms pressed together in a silent plea. “I’m serious,” she says quickly, sensing you might actually be considering it. “Trash, laundry, dishes—everything. I’ll even organize your bookshelf!” Damn. She was good, she knew how to get you. Your eyes narrow. “Two months.” but you couldn't give up that easily. You had to fight at least a little bit. 

“One,” she shoots back, biting back a grin. “And I’ll buy you coffee for a week.” You groan, already regretting this. “Fine,” you grumble, and Yunjin squeals, throwing her arms around you so suddenly you almost topple over. “You’re the best!” she cries, squeezing tight. “I promise it’ll be fun, I swear! Maybe you’ll even get to talk to Heeseung!” 

​​You snort. “Not interested,” you laugh, prying her off with an eye roll. But your gaze flicks, unbidden, to the ice behind you—where number seventeen is still skating slow laps, head ducked as he talks to a teammate. His laugh is bright enough to catch even from this distance, mouth curved and eyes crinkling at the edges. You turn away with a scuff, no way you’d involve yourself with a man who plays hockey. 

-

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Yunjin squeeze through the front door of the frat house. Music thrums through the walls, loud enough to feel in your chest, and the living room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty college kids and empty red cups. Someone’s yelling something unintelligible from the kitchen, and a girl in a sparkly top rushes past, giggling as her friend tries to pull her back by the arm. It was like a playground. You had to stop yourself from cringy as you and Yunjin continued to push through the crowds of people. Your head spinning with irritation at the pure senselessness in the entire house. It was like no one here had half a brain. Yunjin, of course, lights up like a kid in a candy store. Within seconds, she’s weaving her way through the chaos, dragging you along by the wrist. You stumble after her, dodging spilled drinks and people making out against walls, and wonder for the hundredth time how you let her talk you into this. 

Yunjin chats with everyone—absolutely everyone—with a pulse. She flits from one group to another like it’s the easiest thing in the world, tossing compliments and laughter around like confetti. You trail behind her awkwardly, fingers curled around a cup of something you’re too afraid to taste, smiling and nodding when you’re supposed to. Soobin must have not arrived yet so she was filling the gap with randoms until he got here. 

You’re not sure how much time passes—long enough for your feet to start aching and for Yunjin to introduce you to at least fifteen people whose names you instantly forget—when she suddenly gasps, eyes going wide. “Oh my god, Jake!” she squeals, abandoning your arm to dart across the room. “Jay! You guys killed it out there!” You blink, half a step behind as you follow her gaze. Sure enough, Jake and Jay—both still in their team jackets, damp hair pushed back—are leaning against the staircase, laughing about something. Jake grins at Yunjin’s enthusiasm, eyes bright, while Jay salutes her with his drink. 

“Yunjin!” Jake laughs, opening his arms for a hug. “You actually made it! Didn’t think hockey was your roommate’s scene.” His eyes flick to you, warm and teasing. 

“It’s not.” You admit dryly. Jake chuckled, taking a big swig of drink before smirking at you both. “Well still, I bet you enjoyed Heeseung’s killer goal that won us the game. Pretty cool, right?” 

“Sure.” Your answers were deadpan and you could tell you were making them both moderately uncomfortable but you didn't care. You’d much rather be literally anywhere else but here. 

“Aren’t you having fun?” Jay asks, he was more nonchalant than Jake, less outgoing. He leaned against the sink with a lazy look on his face. It almost looked like he’d rather be anywhere else as well. 

“I’m suffering.” Your candor had to have been appreciated because the look Jay sent you was one that screamed ‘i agree’. He definitely wasn’t the party type either. Which was almost unheard of when it came to team captains.  Yunjin rolls her eyes fondly, but she’s already turning back to Jake, leaning in to ask about one of the plays from the game. You’re left to awkwardly clutch your drink, glancing around at the sea of strangers and trying to look less like a lost puppy and more like someone who actually belongs here. After a while of watching Yunjin converse with half the party you had to pee. Finding a bathroom in this massive house would be hard. And asking someone was out of the question, you've had enough socializing for one night. You right yourself preparing to walk among the sea of people in the way of the grand staircase. You clutched your drink in your hand weaving through the crush of bodies. 

Reaching the staircase was no easy task, people were mushed together like a mosh pit. The hallway is somehow even more crowded, people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and stumbling over each other in varying levels of drunkenness. You mutter apologies, clutching your drink to your chest and scanning the doors for a bathroom sign. There’s a line, of course, stretching halfway down the hall. You bite back a groan and resign yourself to waiting, tapping your foot impatiently and trying to ignore the obnoxious couple behind you sucking face like they might suffocate if they pull apart. You’re glancing at your phone when it happens. One second, you’re minding your own business—the next, someone slams into your side, and your drink splashes straight down your front, soaking your shirt in sticky warmth. 

You freeze, disbelief flaring into white-hot irritation as you look up, ready to rip into whoever’s responsible— only to find Lee Heeseung drunkenly staring back at you with a tight lipped fake apologetic look on his face. It angered you, damn near enraged you. His hair’s mussed, dark eyes hazy and amused, and he’s laughing—actually laughing, low and unbothered—like he didn’t just body-check you into the wall. A girl no taller than you stood beside him hung onto his arm like her life depended on it. Her lipstick slightly smudged and hair ruffled, she looked like a hot mess. 

You blink, rage sharpening like broken glass. “Are you—are you serious right now?” you snap, shoving your empty cup against his chest. “What the hell? Watch where you’re going!” Heeseung just glances down at the cup, brows raising slowly. The girl at his side huffs impatiently, tugging at his arm, but he doesn’t move—just smirks, dark eyes drifting over you in a way that makes your blood boil. “You’re kidding,” you scoff. “Is this funny to you?” 

He tilts his head, grin widening. “Kinda,” he admits, and your jaw drops at his audacity. Where does he get off thinking he's the king of the world? What just because he won himself a game tonight means he’s the hottest thing around? Fuck that. “Oh, screw you,” you snap, swiping futilely at your soaked shirt. “God, just because you’re some hotshot hockey player doesn’t mean the world revolves around you, you know?” 

Heeseung chuckles, a warm, lazy sound that makes you want to punch him right in his stupidly perfect mouth. “Actually,” he drawls, dark eyes glinting, “yeah, it does.” The audacity. Your hands clench, words stuttering uselessly on your tongue, but he’s already turning away—barely even sparing you a second glance as the girl tugs him down the hall, giggling and clinging to his arm. You stare after them, heart hammering with fury, cheeks hot and sticky drink dripping from your clothes. You hate him. You’ve never hated anyone more. 

What seemed like forever soaked in sticky gold liquid, the line to the bathroom started dwindling down until you were the last one to reach it. You storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you harder than necessary. The mirror reflects the full horror of your situation—your shirt is soaked, sticky, and clinging to your skin in the most uncomfortable way possible. The scent of whatever cheap drink was in your cup lingers in the air, and no matter how many paper towels you use, the mess refuses to come off. 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, aggressively scrubbing at the fabric of your clothing. Your mind replays the scene over and over, fueling your irritation. The smug tilt of Heeseung’s grin, the way he had the nerve to laugh in your face, to dismiss you like you were nothing. Yeah, it does. You grit your teeth so hard your jaw aches. Frustration crackles in your veins as you give up on your shirt and push out of the bathroom. The party is still going strong—music blasting, people shouting over one another, the air thick with sweat and spilled alcohol. You need to find Yunjin, tell her you’re leaving, drag her out of here if you have to. 

But as you weave through the crowd, she’s nowhere to be found. Your irritation shifts into mild concern as you make your way toward the last place you saw her—near the staircase where she’d been laughing with Jake and Jay. Jay’s still there, leaning against the railing, casually sipping his drink as he chats with someone. You march up to him, crossing your arms. “Where’s Yunjin?” 

Jay blinks, glancing over at you. His gaze flicks to your ruined shirt, and his lips twitch like he wants to ask, but wisely, he doesn’t. “Uh, last I saw, she went upstairs with Soobin.” 

Your stomach sinks. “What?” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, like ten minutes ago. Looked pretty cozy.” You inhale sharply, your irritation skyrocketing to full-blown fury. So Yunjin dragged you to this stupid party, bribed you into coming, abandoned you in a sea of sweaty hockey fans, and now she was upstairs with her boyfriend, completely forgetting you existed? Perfect. Just perfect. 

“I’m leaving,” you mutter, spinning on your heel before Jay can respond. You shove your phone out of your pocket, pulling up the Uber app as you push your way through the crowd, biting down the urge to scream. By the time you make it outside, the cold air is a welcome slap to your overheated skin. You stand on the curb, shivering slightly, arms crossed tight over your chest as you wait for your ride. Tonight was supposed to be chill instead, you’re suffering through a hockey game, putting up with Yunjin’s antics, dealing with a party full of people you didn’t know. But somehow, he had to make it worse. Lee Heeseung. You scowl at the thought of him, jaw clenching. If the universe had any mercy, you’d never have to see him again. 

-

Turns out the universe had no mercy at all. Not even an ounce. The next day, you’re still in a sour mood. You spent all night scrubbing your shirt, trying to get rid of the sticky residue and the memory of Lee Heeseung’s stupid smirk. Even after showering twice, you swear you can still smell the drink on your skin. But at least you’re back in your element now—your history class, where you TA. The classroom is empty except for Professor Kim, who looks up as you walk in, giving you a polite smile. 

“Ah, good, you’re here,” he says, flipping through some papers on his desk. “I have a favor to ask. I know you tutor in your free time, and we have a student who’s in desperate need of help.” 

You nod automatically. “Of course. You know I don’t mind tutoring.” 

“That’s great to hear,” he says, looking relieved. “Because this student is failing, and if he doesn’t get his grade up, he’ll be ineligible to play.” You barely register his words, still waiting for a name. Then he glances down at his notes and says it. 

“Lee Heeseung.” Your stomach plummets. No. No way. The universe had no mercy. “Wait—what?” You blink at him, hoping you misheard. 

Professor Kim sighs. “Heeseung’s been struggling all semester. I gave him a warning last week, but his last exam was a disaster. If he doesn’t pass the next one, he’s off the team.” You open your mouth to protest, to say literally anyone else but him, but before you can get a word out, the door swings open, and in comes the bane of your existence. 

Lee Heeseung strolls in like he owns the place, pushing his hair back as he yawns. His hoodie is wrinkled, his backpack is barely slung over one shoulder, and he looks every bit like someone who definitely did not wake up in time for his morning classes. “Sorry, sorry,” he drawls, not sounding sorry at all. “Rough night.” 

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “I’m sure it was.” At the sound of your voice, Heeseung’s gaze slides lazily to you, and then—his lips curl. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, and you immediately hate it. 

Wait.” He tilts his head. “You’re my tutor?” He says in a mocking way, he’s making fun of you. 

You cross your arms. “Unfortunately.” Heeseung clicks his tongue, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Damn. Lucky me.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes straight into another dimension. “Not so lucky for me,” you mutter. Professor Kim clears his throat. “So, you’ll meet twice a week until the next exam. I’ll leave the schedule up to you both, but I strongly recommend you start immediately.” You glare at Heeseung, who doesn’t seem remotely concerned about the fact that his academic career is hanging by a thread. Instead, he leans against the desk, watching you with amusement. 

“Well, tutor,” he says, voice dripping with mock politeness. “When do you want me?” You open your mouth, then shut it. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, clearly enjoying the way you bristle. “Tomorrow at five,” you grit out. 

“Perfect.” He pushes off the desk, stretching before making his way toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he glances over his shoulder, that irritating smirk still in place. “Try not to miss me too much until then,” he says, and then he’s gone. You stare after him, absolutely floored by his audacity. “Oh, I’m going to kill him,” you mutter under your breath. 

By the time you make it back to your dorm, you’re fuming. Your entire walk across campus had been spent replaying your conversation with Heeseung, each smug smirk and cocky remark igniting your anger all over again. Of all people, why did it have to be him? You shove open the door, throwing your bag to the floor with a little more force than necessary. "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," you mutter, running a hand through your hair in frustration.

Yunjin and Soobin are sprawled out on the futon, a half-empty bag of chips between them as some random drama plays on the screen. It’s the first time you’ve seen Yunjin since she abandoned you at the party, and the second she looks up at you, she must sense the storm brewing in your expression. “Uh…” She blinks. “What’s wrong?” 

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at her. “Oh, I don’t know, Yunjin—maybe the fact that you ditched me last night?” 

Yunjin’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh my God.” She sits up, looking genuinely guilty. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I just—Soobin showed up, and—” 

“Yeah, I know,” you snap, glaring at Soobin, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Jay told me you ran off with him ten minutes after we got there. You know, after I suffered through a hockey game for you.” Yunjin groans, dragging her hands down her face. “You’re right. That was a shitty best friend move. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.” 

You roll your eyes, collapsing onto your desk chair. “Yeah, yeah.” You wave her off, still annoyed but too exhausted to keep the argument going. “That’s not even the worst part.” 

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?” You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “I have to tutor Lee Heeseung.” 

Yunjin’s jaw drops. Soobin raises an eyebrow. “What?” she asks, sitting up straighter. 

“Yeah. Apparently, he’s failing history, and if he doesn’t pass his next exam, he’s off the team,” you huff. “Professor Kim roped me into tutoring him before I even knew who it was.” 

Yunjin snorts, clearly fighting a laugh. “Oh, that’s hilarious.” 

“It’s not!” You glare at her. “You don’t understand—he’s a dick. He’s entitled, arrogant, and walks around like the whole world revolves around him.” Soobin hums, popping a chip into his mouth. “Heeseung’s not that bad.” 

You whip your head toward him. “Are you serious?” Who asked him? He shrugs. “I mean, yeah, he can be cocky, but he’s actually pretty chill once you get to know him.” 

Yunjin nods in agreement. “Yeah, he’s nice. I’ve talked to him a few times. He’s always been cool.” 

Your mouth drops open. “Okay, no. You guys don’t get it. You didn’t see him at the party last night.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow. “What happened?” You launch into a full-blown rant, recounting every infuriating detail. “I was minding my business, just trying to use the bathroom, when he and some random girl bumped into me. I spilled my drink all over myself because they were too busy making out to notice other human beings existed. And when I called him out on it, do you know what he did?” Yunjin and Soobin both stare, waiting. 

“He laughed. He laughed in my face and said, ‘Yes, it does,’ when I told him the world doesn’t revolve around him!” You threw your hands in the air in exasperation. Yunjin lets out a low whistle. “Oof.” 

“Right?” You throw your hands up. “And now I have to spend actual time with him, tutoring him like he’s some helpless little idiot who can’t read a history book!” Soobin chuckles, shaking his head. “Sounds like he got under your skin.” 

You scoff. “No. He’s just the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.” Yunjin exchanges a look with Soobin before turning back to you with an all-too-knowing smirk. You narrow your eyes. “What?” 

“Nothing,” she singsongs. “I just think this tutoring thing is gonna be very interesting.” 

The next day, you show up at the library exactly at five. You even get there a few minutes early because, unlike some people, you actually value punctuality. You find a table in the back, away from the louder study groups, and start setting up—pulling out your notes, opening your laptop, lining up your highlighters like the responsible student you are. Then, you sit back and wait for Lee Heeseung to show up. 

And wait.

And wait.

You check the time. 5:15. You exhale sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to stay calm. Maybe he’s just running late. Maybe he got held up. Maybe— 5:30. Okay, seriously? You shoot him a quick text, nothing too aggressive. Just a simple: “Hey, you coming?” Nothing. Not a single response. 

5:45. Your patience is wearing paper-thin. You stare at your phone screen, resisting the urge to type out something way more aggressive. Maybe something like: “If you were planning on wasting my time, you could have at least had the decency to tell me instead of making me sit here like an idiot.” Or better yet: “Fuck you.” 

By now, you’re fuming. Your fingers drum aggressively against the table as you glare at the empty seat across from you, debating whether you should just leave. Clearly, he has no intention of showing up. 6:30. That’s it. You’re done. You shove your notebook into your bag, ready to storm out and text Professor Kim that you refuse to tutor an insufferable jackass, when— a voice behind you mutters a simple “Hey.” 

You slowly turn around, already brimming with rage, and there he is—Lee Heeseung, strolling in like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. He drops into the seat across from you, stretching his arms behind his head with the kind of casual arrogance that makes you want to throw something at him. "Sorry I’m late," he says. Not actually sounding sorry at all. 

You slam your laptop shut with way too much force. "You’re an hour and a half late." 

Heeseung just shrugs. "Yeah, my bad. I had practice. Then I had to change. And, y’know, eat. Then I ran into some people…" Your eye twitches at his nonchalant attitude “And at no point did it occur to you to let me know?” 

Heeseung raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t understand why you’re so worked up. "Didn’t think it was that big of a deal." You inhale so sharply your lungs burn. "Not that big of a—" You cut yourself off, pressing your hands against the table to ground yourself because if you don’t, you might actually throw your water bottle at his stupid, smug face.

Heeseung just watches you with lazy amusement, clearly not taking this seriously. “Don’t be so uptight,” he says, flipping open his empty notebook like he actually plans on doing anything. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” 

Oh. oh something inside of you snaps. You can’t help the next words that leave your mouth and to be quite honest you don’t know if you care much anyway. “Oh, fuck off Heeseung.” 

Heeseung pauses, blinks, then smirks. “What?” 

"You heard me." You stand up, grabbing your bag. "I don’t have time for your arrogant, self-important bullshit. If you actually cared about passing this class, you’d take it seriously instead of acting like you’re doing me a favor by showing up." His smirk doesn’t even falter. If anything, it deepens. “Damn,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t know you were this feisty.” 

You glare. “And I didn’t know you were this much of a dick. But here we are.” 

Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re kinda cute when you’re mad.” oh. That’s it. You’re officially done. 

You shove your notebook into your bag so aggressively you nearly rip the zipper, and without another word, you storm out of the library. You can hear him laughing behind you. Actually Laughing. And you swear—you swear—you’ve never wanted to strangle someone more in your entire life. 

The next day, you’re back at the library, sitting across from Kim Sunoo, a bright-eyed freshman who actually wants to learn. Unlike some people. You tap your highlighter against the open textbook, explaining a key point about the causes of the Industrial Revolution. Sunoo nods eagerly, his face lighting up in understanding. “Ohhh, that makes so much sense now! I swear, I was staring at this for hours last night and none of it clicked.” 

You smile despite yourself. “It’s easier when someone explains it out loud, huh?” 

Sunoo grins. “Way easier. You’re really good at this, noona.” 

You chuckle. “It’s literally just history.” 

“Yeah, but you make it less boring,” he says, scribbling notes as fast as he can. “I actually feel like I might pass this exam now.” Before you can respond, a shadow falls over your table. And suddenly, the lightheartedness of the moment is gone. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The air shifts, tension creeping in like a slow-moving storm. 

Sunoo notices before you do. His eyes flick upward, widening slightly. “Uh—” 

“Hey” 

You sigh. The last thing you need right now is him. Slowly, you look up. Lee Heeseung stands there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking at you with something that is not his usual cocky amusement. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an awkwardness to it—like he’s not used to whatever he’s about to do. 

You cross your arms over your chest. “What do you want?” 

“I want to talk.” His gaze flickers to Sunoo. “Alone.” Sunoo, to his credit, looks between the two of you and seems to decide that this is not his business. He hurriedly starts shoving his books into his bag. “Oh! Yeah, of course, I—” You shoot Heeseung an annoyed look. “We’re in the middle of something.” 

Sunoo waves a hand. “No, no, it’s fine! I was about to go anyway.” He flashes you a grateful smile. “Thanks for the help! I’ll see you next week?” You nod, still frowning as you watch him scurry off like he just escaped something dangerous. Which, honestly? Fair. Then, you turn back to Heeseung. You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, waiting. “Well?” 

Heeseung exhales, looking almost uncomfortable. He shifts his weight, raking a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. "Look… about last night…" 

Your eyebrows lift. “You mean the hour and a half I spent waiting for you? Or the part where you acted like a complete asshole?” He winces, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Yeah. That.” You don’t say anything. You let the silence stretch between you, let him sit in it. And for the first time since meeting him, Heeseung actually looks nervous. 

He exhales sharply, dropping into the seat across from you. “I was a dick,” he admits. “I know that. And I’m sorry.” You blink. Lee Heeseung, apologizing? Willingly? You half expect the ceiling to cave in. You narrow your eyes, skeptical. “Are you actually?” 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. I am.” He leans forward slightly, his voice lower now. Sincere even. “Look, I need this. I need to pass. If I don’t, I can’t play.” Something flickers across his face when he says it—something restrained. You get the feeling he’s hating admitting this to you, like asking for help isn’t something he’s ever had to do before. You study him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap against the table like he’s restless. For once, there’s no arrogance in his expression. No teasing smirk. Just… Lee Heeseung, stripped of his usual bullshit.

You hate that it actually works. That a small part of you softens. But still, you’re not letting him off that easy. “I’ll be on time,” he says, his voice firmer now. “I’ll take it seriously. Just… give me another chance.” 

You tilt your head, considering. “And if you don’t?” He exhales through his nose. “Then you can tell Professor Kim to find me another tutor. You’ll never have to deal with me again.” You hesitate, watching him. You want to say no. Want to tell him to find someone else, that you don’t owe him anything. But at the same time… you do love tutoring. And despite everything, you’d hate to see someone fail because of their own stupid pride. Even if that someone is Lee Heeseung. 

So, against your better judgment, you sigh. “Fine,” you say, and immediately he brightens. But you hold up a finger. “But if you pull that shit again, I’m done. No second chances.”

He nods immediately. “Got it.” 

You squint. “I mean it, Heeseung. One more time, and I’m out.” 

“I know, I know,” he says, lips curling up into something that almost looks like a real smile. “I won’t be late.” You purse your lips, still doubtful. “We’ll see.” Heeseung stands up, stretching. “Five sharp, yeah?” 

“Five sharp.” 

A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Yes, ma’am.” 

You roll your eyes and start gathering your things. “See, this is exactly what I mean.” 

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No teasing. I’ll be good.” Somehow, you highly doubt that. As he walks away, hands stuffed in his pockets, you watch him go, feeling a mixture of irritation and reluctant curiosity. Because for all his bullshit, for all his cocky, self-important assholery… A small, tiny part of you is curious to see if he’ll actually change. And you hate that. So much. 

That night, you and Yunjin fall into your usual routine—Chinese takeout, pajama shorts, and an unnecessary rewatch of Grey’s Anatomy. The apartment is warm, dimly lit by the soft glow of your laptop screen. The air smells like sweet and sour chicken, and your chopsticks lazily poke at your carton of lo mein as Yunjin lies sprawled across the couch beside you. “I still can’t believe you’re actually tutoring Heeseung,” she says around a mouthful of fried rice. 

You groan, letting your head fall back against the couch. “Don’t remind me.” 

“You hate him.” Yunjin continues. 

“Exactly! Which is why this is actual hell for me.” You huff, setting your carton down on the coffee table. “He’s such a dick. He thinks the world revolves around him just because he’s good at hockey.” 

Yunjin hums, twirling a noodle around her chopstick. “Soobin says he’s not actually that bad.” You scoff. “Oh, of course Soobin would say that. Heeseung’s his teammate.” 

Yunjin shrugs. “Yeah, but like… he really meant it. Heeseung’s just—” She pauses, pursing her lips like she’s debating whether or not to say something. You narrow your eyes. “What?” 

Yunjin sighs, setting her food down. “Soobin told me something about him. A story, actually.” You blink. “About Heeseung?” 

She nods, sitting up a little.  “Do you wanna hear it?” You hesitate, rolling your eyes. “Do I need to?” 

Yunjin grins. “Oh, absolutely.” 

You groan, but you can’t deny that you’re a little curious. You grab your drink, leaning back against the couch. “Fine. Spill.” 

Yunjin sits up even more, tucking her legs beneath her. “Soobin told me that back in high school, Heeseung wasn’t—like—this.” She gestures vaguely. “He wasn’t popular. Or cocky. Or even a star player.” 

​​You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “What do you mean? He’s insanely good.” 

“I know,” she says, eyes widening. “But apparently, his coach barely let him play. He wasn’t one of the ‘favorites,’ you know? So he rode the bench most of the time.” That… does surprise you. The Lee Heeseung you know is the player everyone talks about, the guy who steals the spotlight like it was made for him. The idea of him sitting on the sidelines, ignored, is hard to imagine. 

“One day,” Yunjin continues, “one of the team’s star players got hurt before a big game. They had to put Heeseung in, and—” she snaps her fingers “—just like that, he destroyed everyone.” You blink. Surprised, this was not what you were expecting at all. 

“He played so well that the entire crowd went nuts. Coaches were watching. He basically stole the game, and after that? He got a full-ride scholarship. Just like that.” Your brows knit together, trying to picture it. “But after that game,” Yunjin says, tilting her head, “he changed. Like, overnight.” 

You frown. “What do you mean?” She exhales, leaning against the couch. “I mean he stopped being the quiet kid. He got stronger, started training harder. And when he got to college? Boom. Whole new personality. He’s loud, cocky, untouchable.” You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, that part tracks.” 

Yunjin gives you a look. “But don’t you get it? He had to change. He was treated like nothing for years, and the second he proved himself, he made sure no one would ever look down on him again.” You chew on your lip, staring at the flickering light of the laptop screen. You don’t know what to do with that information. Because it’s easier to hate Heeseung when he’s just an arrogant, self-absorbed jock. When he’s just some guy who gets on your nerves. But now there’s a reason behind it. And you hate that it makes you see him differently. 

The next day, when you step into the library, you expect to wait. You expect to sit down, go through your notes, tap your fingers against the table while checking the time, wondering how long you should stay before giving up. But Heeseung is already there And it throws you off.

He’s slouched in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, head tilted down as he stares at his phone. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed together, his thumb hovering over the screen but never quite moving. It’s an expression you’re not used to seeing on him. Tense. Quiet. Serious. It doesn’t suit him. 

You shake it off, forcing yourself to walk over. You pull out your chair with a sharp scrape against the floor and drop your books onto the table. Loudly. Nothing. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and sit down. “Alright, we’re starting with Henry the Eighth today.” 

No reaction. You tilt your head. “You know, the king who had six wives? England’s most dramatic ruler?” Still, nothing. Your patience thins. “What’s more important than not failing?” At that, he finally looks up, but instead of the usual lazy amusement or mild irritation, his expression is sharp. 

“Mind your own business,” he snaps. It hits you like a slap. Of all the things you expected, that wasn’t one of them. 

You straighten, gripping the edge of the table, surprised by the coldness in his voice. Heeseung has been many things since you met him—cocky, arrogant, insufferable—but he’s never been cruel. You inhale sharply, already pushing back your chair. “Okay. If you don’t wanna be here, I’m not wasting my time—” 

“Wait.” The word is rushed, almost desperate, and before you can leave, Heeseung finally puts his phone down. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly through his nose. “It’s just my dad,” he mutters, like that should be enough of an explanation. You hesitate, watching the way his jaw ticks, the way his fingers tap restlessly against the table. 

“What about him?” you ask, voice softer than before. Heeseung doesn’t look at you. “He was just asking how the season’s going. That’s it.” You study him for a moment, something itching at the back of your mind. This is the first time Heeseung has ever looked like this. Quiet. Withdrawn. Like his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. And last night, you learned something about him—something you never would’ve guessed on your own. 

You shift in your seat, glancing at your open notebook before closing it. “You know…” You trail off, choosing your words carefully. “I heard a story about you.” Heeseung blinks, his gaze flicking to yours. “What?” 

“I heard that back in high school, you weren’t allowed to play much,” you say. “And that when you finally got your shot, you proved everyone wrong.” His entire body stiffens. For a second, you think he’s going to let you keep talking, but then his expression hardens. His lips press together, his fingers stop tapping, and suddenly, the coldness is back. 

“Don’t,” he says flatly. You frown. “I just—” 

He cuts you off with his stern voice. A terrify you didn't want to wander “I said don’t.” It’s sharp, cutting, final. The look in his eyes makes it clear that whatever conversation you were hoping to have? It’s not happening. Your stomach twists, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat, unsure if you should apologize or pretend like you never said anything at all. For a moment, the silence is heavy. Unbearable. 

Then Heeseung sighs, running a hand over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “Just… drop it.” You swallow hard, nodding slowly. “Right,” you murmur, flipping open your book again. “Henry the Eighth.” For a second, you think he won’t even pretend to pay attention. But then he leans forward, picking up a pencil and tapping it against the table. And this time, when you start talking, he actually listens. 

Over the next few weeks you and Heesseung began to find some kind of rhythm that worked for the both of you. And after no time Heeseung was back to usual self. Being extremely and unavoidably annoying. But it was clear to you that all your tutoring sessions were starting to pay off, he was actually learning the material and he..seemed to like it. 

The moment stretches—just a second too long. Your hand lingers against his, warmth seeping through the space between your fingers. It’s stupid. It’s just a high-five. Something you’ve done a thousand times with other people. But when you pull away, you can still feel the ghost of his touch, like it left an imprint. Heeseung’s smirk flickers, something unreadable flashing across his face. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by his usual cocky grin. 

“See? I told you I was a genius,” he says, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus. “That was one right answer out of ten, relax.” 

“An improvement, though.” He points at you like he’s proving a point. “You should be proud. I might actually be learning something.” You scoff, gathering your notes, but your stomach twists in a way you don’t quite understand. Something is different.And you’re not sure what to do about it. One Part of you is scared, another part is excited. And that fear continues to grow the more time you spend with Heeseung. 

The study room is too small. Or maybe it just feels that way because Heeseung takes up too much space—not physically, but in the way he leans back in his chair like he owns the place, the way his presence seems to stretch and fill every available inch. The air is thick with the scent of his cologne—something clean, sharp, a little woodsy—and you hate that you notice it. 

It doesn’t help that you’re sitting way too close. Your knees bump under the table every time one of you shifts. His arm brushes yours when he reaches for his pencil. The tiny room makes every movement magnified, every accidental touch unavoidable. 

You try to focus. You clear your throat and point to your notes. “Okay, so if you actually want to pass this test, you need to remember the causes of the French Revolution.” Heeseung hums, leaning forward. “Right. The people were pissed.” You deadpan. “And why were they pissed?” 

“Uh…” He chews the end of his pencil, eyes flicking to the page in front of you. “Something about taxes?” You exhale. “Something about taxes,” you echo, circling the words in your notes. “Yes. Specifically, the Third Estate—” Before you can finish, Heeseung shifts, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look at your writing. And that’s when it happens. His arm presses against yours. His face is too close. And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything—the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne, the way his breath fans lightly over your shoulder.

You force yourself to stay still, to not react. “You have really messy handwriting,” Heeseung murmurs, completely oblivious to the absolute chaos in your brain. You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the fact that his voice is lower, softer in the quiet of the study room. “Maybe if you actually wrote your own notes, you wouldn’t have to suffer through mine.” 

“I like yours better,” he says, smirking. You scuff, shoving your notebook toward him. “Then read them yourself, genius.” 

He laughs, finally leaning back, and you exhale—only now realizing you were holding your breath. It was nothing. Just an accidental touch. And yet your heart is pounding out of your chest. You shake it off, clearing your throat. “Okay. Back to the revolution.” Heeseung smirks like he knows something you don’t. But he doesn’t say a word. And somehow that’s worse. 

The party is loud—too loud, too chaotic, too much. You don't even know whose house this is. The bass is thumping through the floor, the air is thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and way too much cologne. Yunjin, as always, is in her element, talking to literally anyone with a pulse, dragging you around as she bounces between groups of people. You don’t even know why she drags you along to these things if she’s not even going to stay with you. 

You're scouting your surroundings when you see him. Lee Heeseung. But he’s not like he usually is, No cocky smirk, no playful teasing, no girls clinging to his arm. He looks… different. Closed off even. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a red Solo cup dangling from his fingers, but his eyes are unfocused, staring off at nothing. The usual arrogance in his posture is missing. He just looks… tired. 

You hesitate. Normally, you’d avoid him. You’re not sure why you don’t this time. Maybe it’s because he’s alone, or maybe it’s because this version of him—the one that isn’t performing, isn’t playing up his reputation—intrigues you. So you walk over, crossing your arms. “No girl hanging off you tonight?” Heeseung barely reacts at first. He blinks, like he’s just noticing you, then shrugs. “Not in the mood.” 

That’s not the response you expect. Usually, he’d fire back with something smug, something flirty, something to get a rise out of you. Instead, his voice is flat. You glance at him, studying his expression. His usual lightheartedness is gone, replaced with something heavier, something clouded. His fingers tighten around the cup, his jaw shifts slightly, and he isn’t looking at you. Something’s on his mind. And for some reason, you care. 

“…You wanna get out of here?” The words slip out before you can stop them. Heeseung finally looks at you. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—surprise, curiosity, maybe even relief. And for a second, you think he’s going to brush you off, flash you that smirk and tell you not to flatter yourself. But instead, he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

Outside, the night air is cold, but it feels… lighter. You walk side by side down the street, neither of you saying anything at first. The party fades behind you, the music growing distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the night. It’s weird. You’ve never been alone with Heeseung outside of the library. You’re used to him in controlled environments—study sessions, parties where he’s surrounded by people, the ice where he’s the star. Not like this. Not just… walking.

“You okay?” you ask eventually. Heeseung huffs a laugh, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Didn’t think you cared.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Liar.” You bump your shoulder against his without thinking. “Seriously, though. You’re acting different.” Heeseung exhales, looking up at the sky. For a second, you think he won’t answer. But then—

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just hockey stuff.”

You frown. “You’re always dealing with hockey stuff.”

“Yeah, well.” He pauses. “It’s my whole life.”

You glance at him, watching the way his features harden, his usual carefree exterior cracking just enough for you to see through. And you remember what Yunjin told you—that he wasn’t always the hotshot, that he had to claw his way to the top. You don’t push him. Instead, you say, “Wanna grab food?” He blinks. “At this hour?”

“Diner down the street’s open late,” you say. “And you look like you could use pancakes.” Heeseung huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. But then he looks at you—really looks at you. And something shifts. “…Yeah,” he says, nudging you with his elbow. “Let’s get pancakes.” And just like that, the night takes on a different shape. 

The diner is the kind of place that always smells like coffee and syrup, no matter what time of day it is. The booths are cracked with age, the neon sign outside flickers every few seconds, and there’s a quiet hum of old music playing through the speakers. It’s not fancy. But it’s warm, and right now, it’s exactly what you need. Heeseung slides into the booth across from you, stretching out his legs so they nearly brush against yours. You don’t know if he does it on purpose or if he just takes up that much space. You ignore it. 

A waitress comes by, barely looking at either of you as she takes your order—pancakes, coffee, extra whipped cream. Heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, amused. “What?” you challenge. “I told you. Pancakes fix everything.” 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. But there’s something softer about him now. Not in the way he usually teases you—this feels different. And then the moment settles into a more calm setting. You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “So,” you say, tilting your head. “Wanna talk about it?” 

You expect him to dodge the question, maybe throw out some sarcastic remark to avoid actually telling you what’s going on. But for the second time that night, Lee Heeseung surprises you. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier than before. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “My dad found out about my grades.” Your stomach twists. You already have a bad feeling about where this is going. 

Heeseung lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “He says if I’m gonna throw my entire hockey career away for some stupid class, then I don’t deserve his financial support anymore.” He pauses, staring down at the table. “Says I should ‘get my priorities straight.’” Your heart clenches. You should’ve expected something like this. It’s not uncommon—parents putting pressure on their kids, pushing them toward success, expecting perfection. But something about the way Heeseung says it, the way his voice drops just a little at the end… You know that feeling. 

“I just—” Heeseung exhales harshly, gripping his fork a little too tight. “I never feel like I’m enough for them, you know?” 

You don’t even think. You just say it. “I do.” 

Heeseung blinks, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You swallow hard, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but you push through. “My mom and I don’t talk anymore,” you admit. “She didn’t approve of me getting a history degree. She wanted me to go into the family business with them.” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “When I didn’t, she basically—shunned me. Acted like I was a disappointment. Like I wasn’t worth her time anymore.” Heeseung stares at you, expression unreadable. You feel like you should keep talking, should fill the silence, but then Heeseung leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. His gaze softens. 

“That’s fucked up,” he says, voice quieter now. 

You shrug, picking at the edge of your napkin. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.” There’s a pause. Then— “I don’t think it is,” Heeseung mutters. You look at him, and for the first time since you met him, you realize that Lee Heeseung isn’t just some cocky, aggravating hockey star. He’s a person. A person with his own struggles, his own fears, his own wounds. The realization shifts something inside you. The waitress comes by, sliding plates of pancakes in front of you, breaking the moment. Heeseung blinks, like he’s shaking himself out of whatever just passed between you, and you do the same. 

You don’t kiss. You don’t hold hands. You don’t even bring the topic up again, but the both of you feel it. Something was different. 

You glance at the time on your phone and exhale sharply, tapping your fingers against the table. Heeseung is late. Again. It’s been twenty minutes, and you’ve already convinced yourself that if he’s not here in five more, you’re leaving. To say you were disappointed would be an understatement, you were more sad than anything. You had thought that the two of you had made some much progress. You’re mid-internal rant about how utterly irresponsible he is when you hear the sound of hurried footsteps. 

“I know, I know,” Heeseung says before you can even open your mouth. He holds up both hands in mock surrender, slightly out of breath. “Before you rip my head off, I brought you something.” You narrow your eyes as he slides a coffee cup and a neatly wrapped pastry across the table. 

You hesitate, suspicious. “What is this?” 

“A peace offering,” Heeseung says with a grin. “Your favorite, by the way. Thought it might keep you from murdering me in cold blood.” Your lips part slightly, surprised. “How do you even know my order?” 

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You get it every time we go to the campus café. Not that hard to remember.” You press your lips together, trying to ignore the fact that your stomach does a weird little flip at that. Instead, you roll your eyes and mutter, “Still an asshole,” before taking the cup. 

Heeseung chuckles, sliding into the seat across from you. “Yeah, yeah. But at least I’m a thoughtful asshole.” You’re about to start the tutoring session when a static-filled announcement echoes through the library speakers. “Attention, students: The library will be closing early tonight due to a scheduled event. Please begin packing up your belongings.” 

You blink, glancing at Heeseung, who’s already stuffing his books back into his bag. He shrugs. “Guess we’re taking this somewhere else.” 

“Wait!” You call out. “Where are we going?” You ask him, beginning to pack up your own things. 

“Just come with me.” He says simply with a shrug of his shoulders. You huff but follow after him like he said, through the crowd of people also leaving the library. 

You’re not sure how it happens, but twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from Heeseung in a quiet corner of a late-night café, your books barely touched. At first, you try to focus on history. You really do. But for once, Heeseung isn’t the one slacking off—you are. The conversation drifts. It’s not about Henry VIII or the French Revolution anymore. It’s about movies. 

“What do you mean you’ve never seen Interstellar?” Heeseung looks genuinely offended. You roll your eyes. “Sorry, I just never got around to it.” 

He lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Unbelievable. You call yourself educated?” You nudge his foot under the table. “Pretty sure history knowledge is more important than knowing a random space movie.” 

“First of all,” he says, holding up a finger, “it’s not just a ‘random space movie.’ It’s a cinematic masterpiece.” 

You snort. “Didn’t take you for the type to get passionate over movies.” Heeseung sends you a smirk, one that you had to admit made you feel mushy inside. What was happening to you? “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” And for some reason, you find yourself wanting to change that. Then the conversation shifts again. This time, it’s about childhood. 

You tell him about how you used to sneak into your grandfather’s study to read history books that were way too advanced for you, even though you were explicitly told not to. Heeseung tells you about how he used to skate on a frozen pond near his childhood home, even when it wasn’t completely frozen over. “Nearly drowned once,” he admits with a laugh. “Didn’t stop me from going back the next week.” 

You shake your head. “That explains so much about you.” The conversation flows too easily. The barriers that were once so firm between you are now… blurred. It scares yet excites you at the same time. At some point, you notice Heeseung looking at you for a little too long. His eyes flicker over your face, his smirk settling into something softer. Something unreadable. It has your heart pounding and your palms sweaty. You felt like one of those rom com heroines that were head over heels in love with the witty Jock. What were you doing? Lee Heeseung was so not your type. Hockey players were so not your type. 

“You know,” he muses, tilting his head, “this kinda feels like a date.” Your breath catches in your throat. 

You scoff, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in your face. “In what world?” 

Heeseung grins, leaning forward slightly. “Come on. Late-night café, deep conversation, stolen glances.” He raises a brow. “You sure you don’t feel it?” Your heart stumbles. You don’t know what to say. So you shift the topic into something more casual but still you don’t miss the knowing smirk on Heeseung’s face, like he knew the effect he had on you and he liked it. And a part of you liked it too.. 

The next day, you and Heeseung are back at the library, tucked into your usual corner. The energy between you is… normal. The way it always is. You tell yourself that last night at the café meant nothing. That Heeseung’s words—this kinda feels like a date—were just him messing with you, the way he always does. So you push it away, bury yourself in your notes, and act like everything is the same. 

And for the most part, it is. Heeseung slouches in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table in boredom while you attempt to drill historical facts into his thick skull. He groans dramatically when you ask him a question. He teases you when you sigh in exasperation. Everything is normal. Until— 

“What’s this?” Heeseung suddenly reaches into your bag and pulls out a slightly worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. You blink. “Uh, my book?” 

Heeseung raises a brow. “You’re one of those people?” 

You cross your arms. “What does that mean? A person who reads?” 

He grins, flipping through the pages. “Y’know. The ones who are obsessed with Mr. Darcy.” 

You roll your eyes. “I like the book because it’s well-written. Not because I’m obsessed with some brooding 19th-century man.” Heeseung hums, still turning the pages. “Mm. I liked it, too.” 

You stare at him. “What?” No way a guy like Lee Heeseung read and liked Pride and prejudice. 

He looks up, amused. “What?” 

“You read it?” 

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. Had to for a class in high school.” 

You’re genuinely shocked. You don’t know why—Heeseung surprises you more often than you’d like to admit. But for some reason, the image of him reading Pride and Prejudice is not one you ever expected. “What did you think?” you ask, genuinely curious. 

He leans back in his chair, tapping the book against his thigh. “I liked the way Mr. Darcy felt about Elizabeth. That whole ‘I tried not to love you, but I did anyway’ thing? Kinda hits, y’know?” 

Your breath catches. Because the way he says it..It’s not teasing, it’s not sarcastic, it's not a joke. The air shifts between you and for a minute you just stare at each other, saying nothing but so many things all at once. Something pulses in the space between you—something unfamiliar, something dangerous, something you don’t quite know how to name. Then, before you can react— Heeseung laughs, then he leans forward and kisses you. 

It’s quick. Just a press of his lips against yours. Light, fleeting. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke. Something so trivial you do with the everyday person, something with no meaning. And it takes you a second to process what just happened before the reality of it slams into you like a freight train. You shove him back. Hard. “What the hell, Heeseung?” Your voice shakes with anger. 

He just grins, laughing. “Relax. I just wanted to see you flustered.” Your stomach sinks. To him it was a joke, kissing me was a joke to see me– Flustered? That was funny to him? You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until you grab your things and shove them into your bag. Your chest feels tight. Your vision blurs. Because it wasn't a joke to you. You didn't enjoy being the punchline to someone's entertainment. “Hey, where are you—” But you don’t let him finish. You walk out. 

You make it all the way out of the library before the first tear falls. You hate yourself for it. Hate that you’re crying. Hate that you’re letting Heeseung get to you. But you can't help it. That was your first kiss. And he stole it from you. It wasn't special, it wasn't meaningful if anything it was the opposite. It was just a joke. A way for Heeseung to entertain himself. You wipe your face harshly, forcing yourself to breathe. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s not a big deal. That it’s fine. But it’s not. 

You’re halfway across campus when you hear footsteps behind you. “Wait—wait,” Heeseung calls. You don’t stop. If anything you walk quicker trying your hardest to get away from him. “Hey—seriously—” He jogs up beside you, still laughing. Like it’s funny. Like it’s just another thing for him to tease you about. And that’s when you’ve had enough. That’s when you break. 

You whirl around, eyes blazing. “You think this is funny?” Heeseung falters, caught off guard by the sharpness in your voice. You scoff, shaking your head. “You don’t get it.” 

Heeseung frowns, finally realizing that you’re actually mad. “I mean, come on. It was just a kiss—” 

“No, it wasn’t!” The words come out louder than you intend. Heeseung blinks. Your throat tightens. You stare at the ground, voice quieter now. “That was…my first kiss.” The words feel like ash on your tongue, burning your inside out. Embarrassment flooding your senses. 

And silence followed, dead silence. Heeseung said nothing at your confession. When you finally look up, Heeseung’s expression has completely changed. He doesn’t look smug anymore. He doesn’t look amused. He looks like he just got punched in the stomach. “Shit,” he breathes. 

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “Forget it.” You turn to leave again, but this time, he grabs your wrist. Stopping you from moving away from him. You want to rip your wrist from his hands, it feels like fire on your skin. You just wanted to get away from him even for just a few minutes to collect yourself, so you could calm down. 

Heeseung, although unintentionally, took something from you. And for some people your first kiss would mean nothing but not to you. You had been waiting for the right time, a first kiss, in your mind, was supposed to be romantic. It was supposed to mean something. Even if you didn't end up with that person in the end. Even if you had the messiest break up it didn't matter because in that moment they were the right person and the feeling was there. 

It was the reason you read romance novels like pride and prejudice. You were a foolish, foolish hopeless romantic and you didn't care. You embraced it but now stuck in front of someone like Lee Heeseung who kissed girls like he changed his clothes you were embarrassed. Because it meant nothing to him, it was a joke to see you red, to see you stutter. You couldn't help but be angry about that and you weren't going to let him downplay it. You had more dignity than that. 

“I—” He hesitates, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t know.” 

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. No shit.” because of course he didn't. Because in his world silly little romantic gestures and the innocence of waiting for the right time to have your first kiss didn’t exist. Kissing was something you just did for him. 

Heeseung runs a hand over his face, looking genuinely guilty. His usual cockiness is gone, replaced by something that almost looks like… regret. “I—fuck. I’m an asshole,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah. You are.” 

He looks at you, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have done that if I knew.” And you believe him. You can see it in the way his lips are pressed into a thin line, the way his jaw clenches like he’s punishing himself for something he can’t take back. A long silence stretches between you. Were you really about to forgive him? 

Then, you exhale, your voice small. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” 

Heeseung swallows hard. “I know.” Your throat tightens as you look away, the ache in your chest still present but no longer suffocating. “It was stupid, and it—it wasn’t supposed to be a joke.” 

“I know,” he repeats. And this time, his voice is laced with something heavier. Something genuine. You hate that you can’t hate him for it. You chew on your lip, staring at the ground. A part of you wants to stay mad. Wants to tell him to leave you alone, to let you hold on to your anger because that would be easier. But another part of you—one you’re not sure you like—wants to believe him. 

Because Heeseung might be an arrogant hockey player with a flirty smirk and a ridiculous ego, but… he isn’t cruel. You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t believe my first kiss was with you.” 

Heeseung huffs out a laugh, though there’s no amusement in it. “Yeah. And I can’t believe I ruined it for you.” You look up at him then, surprised by the way his gaze is so… serious. He was being sincere. “I’m really sorry,” he says quietly. “I was just being an idiot. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “I swear, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face for any trace of insincerity. But there’s nothing. You could tell with utmost certainty that he was sorry, that he regretted it. And against all odds, you sigh, your shoulders dropping just a little. “I forgive you,” you murmur. 

Heeseung blinks. “You do?” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make me change my mind.” 

A slow, relieved smile tugs at his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

You shake your head, still feeling a little raw, but… better. Heeseung watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he hesitates before saying, “You know… if you wanted, I could—” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost shy. “I mean, I could give you a proper first kiss.” You freeze, your heart stuttering in your chest. 

Heeseung seems to immediately regret saying it, his eyes widening. “Only if you wanted—and not now! I mean—just, like, someday. If you ever wanted to, uh—” You stare at him. Then, despite everything, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. Heeseung let out a groan, running a hand over his face in embarrassment “Just, forget i said anything.”  

But you’re grinning now. It was your turn to tease him and man it felt good. 

The arena is alive with energy, the kind that shakes the walls and hums beneath your skin. You’re here. At a hockey game. Voluntarily. Yunjin nearly fell off the bleachers when you agreed without your usual dramatic sigh and drawn-out complaints. She had pestered you the entire way here, elbowing you in the ribs, wiggling her eyebrows, making heart gestures with her hands. 

“I know why you suddenly want to come,” she had sing-songed, a smug grin plastered on her face. You had simply rolled your eyes, refusing to entertain her antics. But now, sitting in the middle of the buzzing crowd, you feel… different. 

For the first time, you’re actually watching the game. Not just tolerating it, not just suffering through it for Yunjin’s sake—you’re watching, eyes trained on one player in particular. Lee Heeseung. 

You’ve never really paid attention before, never really noticed the way he moves across the ice like he was born on it. He’s fast, insanely fast, weaving through players with a sharp focus you’ve never seen from him anywhere else. The same guy who saunters into tutoring sessions late, who smirks and teases and never takes anything seriously—here, he’s different. He’s serious. Disciplined. And you suddenly understand why people look at him the way they do. Why he’s not just good—but great. 

Your chest tightens as you watch him skate down the ice, stick-handling the puck with effortless precision before passing it off to a teammate. A minute later, the puck is passed back to him, and in one smooth motion, he winds up his shot. The slapshot is powerful, cutting through the air before slamming into the back of the net. The entire arena erupts. Heeseung’s teammates swarm him, cheering, helmets knocking against each other as they embrace. The student section roars, chants of his name ringing out through the stands. 

And you— You cheer. For the first time ever a hockey game has actually excited you. You let the fact that it was a grueling, animalistic sport slip away from you and you allowed yourself to have fun. To watch the people around you at the edge of their seats and you be a part of it. You weren't sulking in your seat wishing you were anywhere but here, no you were having fun. It was liberating. Why hadn;t you allowed such a simple pleasure before. 

You don’t even realize it at first. It’s small, just a quiet “yes!” under your breath, but Yunjin hears it. Her head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t get whiplash. “Oh. My. God.” 

You blink, startled. “What?” 

Her jaw drops, hands gripping your arm in a death hold. “You just cheered.” You open your mouth to protest, but she’s already gasping dramatically. “I can’t believe it. You—you like hockey. You like hockey.” 

You shove her off, cheeks burning. “I do not.” 

“You do! You just cheered! You’ve been watching the game, and not in a ‘God, this is so stupid’ kind of way, but like a real fan.” She gasps again. “Oh my God, do you have a jersey under your coat? Are you secretly a hardcore Lee Heeseung fangirl?” 

You glare at her. “I swear to God, Yunjin—” 

But she just grins, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “You like him.” 

Your stomach flips. “I do not.” 

“You do!” She wiggles her brows, giddy like she’s just discovered the best gossip of the century. “You’re watching him like he hung the moon, and you cheered, and you didn’t even complain when I dragged you here!”  

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “I just—” You hesitate, glancing back toward the ice where Heeseung is still grinning, fist-bumping his teammates. And for the first time, you admit it to yourself. You like him. You really like him. Even if he stole your first kiss like it was a joke, even if he’s late sometimes, even if he never takes anything seriously with that stupid little smirk on his face. You like him. Lee Heeseung had surprised you. He was nothing you had thought him to be. He was funny, he was kind, he was smart even if he thought otherwise. 

The realization settles over you like a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to carry. Because no way does Heeseung feel the same way about you. Does he? He called your little cafe hang out a date. He’s told you things about himself that i’m sure only his closest friends would know. He kissed you for god sake. Maybe he does like you back? 

“Even if i do like him..” You mutter finding it hard to get the words out. “It’s not like he would like me back?” 

“It doesn’t hurt to find out right?” Yunjin asks with a big dopey grin on her face. 

“That’s the thing..” You trail off “It does hurt to ask, because if he doesn't like me back then it will be awkward, it will ruin everything we've done so far.” 

“Sure.” Yunjin nods “But you can’t walk around with this crush looming over you. Things like this can’t go unsaid..” 

You just nod at her not really wanting to further conversation here of all places. The game was over and everyone was starting to leave, it would be humiliating if someone were to hear the two of yours conversation. 

“Come on.” Yunjin grabbed your arm “We have to wait for Soobin..” 

You stand outside the rink with Yunjin, your arms crossed over your chest as she bounces on the balls of her feet, clearly eager to see Soobin. The energy is still electric from the game, students lingering in groups, buzzing about the win. You’re pretending to listen to Yunjin ramble about some play that Soobin made, but your eyes keep flickering toward the players filtering out of the locker room. Looking for him. But Heeseung’s nowhere to be found. 

You’re not sure why you care. Not sure why your stomach twists in disappointment every time another player walks past and it’s not him. You were sure you looked like a little lost puppy, how pathetic of you really. 

“Looking for someone?” Yunjin cooes, a grin on her face. You shake your head at her relentlessness. She never gives up does she. 

“No.” You deadpan “I’m not.” 

“Sure.” she giggles. But she didn't believe you. And truthfully you didn't believe yourself. 

Luckily, Soobin finally emerges, and Yunjin squeals, launching herself at him. He laughs, catching her with ease, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Did you see my goal?” he teases. 

“I saw everything,” Yunjin gushes. You roll your eyes, but there’s a small, unbidden smile playing on your lips as you watch them. You always admired their relationship and the way Soobin takes such good care of Yunjin. Sure, you weren't the biggest fan of hockey players but Soobin was one of the good ones. Yunjin loved him, so in turn you loved him too. Unless he hurt her. Then he’d had hell to pay. But, they've been going strong for two years now so the chance of that happening was slim to none it seemed. 

The moment is cut short when a group of guys from the opposing team walks past, their presence immediately shifting the air. “Nice win,” one of them says, voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes land on Soobin. “Lucky, huh?” 

Soobin tenses beside Yunjin, but his expression remains neutral. “Just played our game, man.” 

One of the guys scoffs. “Right. Guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Jake and Jay join the group just in time to hear that, their easygoing post-game demeanor sharpening. 

“Problem?” Jake asks, his usual grin gone. It was so unlike Jake to not have a beaming smile on his face. He was almost never this serious from what you’ve seen of him. 

The guy just smirks. “Not at all. Just wondering what your team is gonna do when Lee Heeseung finally crashes and burns.” Something in your chest tightens. 

Jake’s jaw ticks. “Excuse me?” 

“Oh, come on. You know it as well as we do. Without hockey, Heeseung is nothing. Just another dude who peaked in college and has nothing to fall back on.” The guy laughs, shaking his head. “Damn shame, really.” You see red. 

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you step forward. “Excuse you?” The guy turns to you, clearly amused. “Oh? And who are you?” 

“I’m the person telling you to shut the hell up,” you snap, surprising everyone—including yourself. Heeseung might drive you insane. He might be arrogant and cocky and an infuriating flirt. But the way they’re talking about him—like he’s disposable, like he doesn’t matter beyond what he can do on the ice—it bothers you. It bothers you a lot. More than it should maybe. But at this moment you didn’t care. You sure as hell were not going to let sore losers talk down on him when he wasn’t even here to defend himself. 

You keep going, anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know how hard he works, how much pressure he’s under. He’s one of the best players in the league, and that’s why you’re all so bitter.” You let out a scoff. “And if he did quit hockey tomorrow? He’d still be ten times the person any of you are.” The group goes silent for a beat. Then the guy just laughs. He actually laughs. You tense up, readying yourself to really have at them. 

“Damn,” he snickers, looking at his teammates. “She’s got it bad.” Heat rises to your face. Was it really that obvious? Were you just humiliating yourself? You cursed yourself for opening your mouth in the first place. For allowing these assholes to get under your skin. 

You open your mouth to argue, but he just shakes his head, still chuckling. “Good luck with that, sweetheart.” Then they walk off, leaving you standing there, seething and embarrassed for making a scene. 

“Damn.” 

You turn to find all eyes on you. It made you want to sink into yourself and put yourself away for the next year. A closed off hole in the dirt would be a better place for you right now then where you were currently. Jake raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Didn’t know you had that in you.” 

“Neither did I,” Jay adds, smirking. 

Even Soobin is looking at you like he’s seeing you in a new light. Everyone was looking at you like you were a totally different person than who you were. And you didn't know if you liked it. 

But it’s Yunjin who nudges your side, grinning knowingly. “Interesting.” You groan, rubbing your temples. Because, yeah. It is interesting. Because for all the times you’ve denied it, all the times you’ve tried to pretend you don’t care about Heeseung— You just proved, in front of everyone, that you do. 

The next day, you wait for Heeseung at the library, tapping your pen impatiently against your notebook. Five minutes turn into fifteen. Fifteen into thirty. But he never shows. Annoyance bubbles inside you. Typical. Still, something feels different this time. After the kiss, after everything that happened, you expected—no, hoped—things would shift between you. Instead, he’s just… disappeared. And you hate that you care. Everything was ok. He was flirty, so why was he ignoring you? Why was he flaking? 

So, against your better judgment, you find yourself heading toward the frat house. The music is low, a few guys lounging around, but it’s nothing like the parties you’ve been dragged to before. When you ask where Heeseung is, they just gesture upstairs, some of them giving you looks you pointedly ignore. You don’t even knock. You push open his door to find him sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. 

He barely spares you a glance. “What do you want?” 

You scoff. “Seriously? You skip tutoring and act like I’m the one bothering you?” Heeseung tosses his phone aside, finally looking at you—but there’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no smirk. Just something unreadable, something guarded. “I didn’t ask you to come here.” 

You frown. “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask for you to ignore me, either.” 

Silence. Heeseung rubs the back of his neck, exhaling harshly. “Look, just forget it.” 

You shake your head, frustration growing. “Why are you being like this?” 

“Like what?” He quips with a sarcastic laugh. It makes your blood boil. 

“Like this. Distant. Rude. A total asshole.” 

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. I thought that’s how you always saw me.” 

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, clenching your fists. “What’s your problem?” 

Heeseung stands, suddenly in your space, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “My problem?” His voice is sharp now. “My problem is you making me look like an idiot.” 

You blink, taken aback. “What?” The confusion coursing through you was palpable. You couldn’t remember a time you had made him look like an idiot. The two of you hardly interacted outside of the library and you certainly hadn’t been around each other when your friends were near. So what the hell was he talking about? 

“Last night,” he mutters, his jaw clenched. “You stood there, in front of everyone, and defended me like I’m some kind of fucking charity case.”  Oh. Oh. 

Your breath catches in your throat. “That’s not what I was doing—” 

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” he interrupts. “I don’t need you to tell people I’m more than hockey. I am hockey.” His eyes darken. “And just because we kissed doesn’t mean you’re my fucking girlfriend.” 

The words hit you like a slap. You open your mouth, then close it. You don’t even know what to say. The silence stretches between you like a canyon. 

“I wasn’t trying to-” 

“I didn’t ask for you to do that,” he cuts you off. “I don’t need saving.” You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t trying to save you, Heeseung. I was just—” 

He laughs, but it’s anything but amused. “You were just what?” 

“Caring,” you snap. “I was caring, okay? God forbid someone actually gives a shit about you.” Something flashes across his face—something raw, something almost vulnerable—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. A beat of silence. Then, softer: “I don't need you to care.” 

And that, somehow, it hurts more than anything else he’s said. You nod, pressing your lips together. “Just drop it.” He says with finality. But you weren't done. No, you were fired up. 

You should. You should just let it go. But instead, you shove his shoulder. “No.” 

He looks at you, startled. “Did you just—” You shove him again. 

He catches your wrist. “You’ve got some nerve.” You glare up at him. “And you’re a coward.”

His grip tightens slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You take a shaky breath. “You push people away because it’s easier than letting them in. It’s easier than admitting that you actually give a shit.” Heeseung’s eyes flicker with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?” You swallow. “Then prove it.” His grip on your wrist tightens. And then, suddenly— His lips are on yours. 

This time you don’t push him away, this time you welcome him. Because you wanted this, more than you’ve wanted anything else before. It’s rough, heated, and you should push him away. You should be furious. But instead, you find yourself kissing him back. You barely register him walking you backward until your back hits the wall, his hands gripping your waist, his lips trailing along your jaw, your neck. The argument, the hurt, the frustration—it all melts into something else entirely. Something that has been building since the first moment you met. And you don’t stop him. How could you when this was all you’ve wanted. All you’ve been thinking of. The kiss is hard, almost punishing, like he’s trying to prove a point. But you don’t pull away. You kiss him back, fisting the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. 

It’s heated, desperate, fueled by something neither of you want to name. His hands find your waist, and before you know it, you’re stumbling back onto the bed. Your heart is racing. This is a bad idea. This is reckless and impulsive and everything you swore you wouldn’t do. But when Heeseung hovers over you, his lips brushing against yours— you don’t want him to stop. And you beg him not to. 

“Don’t stop.” You breathe pulling away an inch to whisper the words. “Please.”

“But-” He stutters his own breathing labored “You’ve never..” 

“I want to.” You nod at him, giving him all the reassurance he needs. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you, his lips leaving a small trail on your neck down to your collarbone. “Tell me you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure heeseung.” You grabbed his face, so his eyes were leveled with yours. “I want you.” 

Heeseung’s hands continued down the expanse of your body. Running his palms up and down your sides until they reached your waist. He pulled at your body until you’re forced down onto your back with a huff. 

“You’re so beautiful” Heeseung mumbles from above you. “I’m so lucky to be the only man to see you like this…” He coos as his hands made quick work of sliding your yoga pants down your legs revealing your white cotton panties to his eyes. “Right baby?” He hummed “I’m lucky right?” 

You could barely form words as you watched drink in the sight of you. You nod at him that being the only form of communication you could offer him. His hands run up your body again, slowly caressing you. Until he reached your tank top covered breasts. His hands squeezed at them causing a broken gasp to leave your lips. 

You had never been touched by a man like this. So sensually, so erotic. Your body felt ablaze with need for him; you didn't know how to contain yourself. “Please.” You whispered, lifting your hips off the bed, showcasing your ever growing need for him. 

“Be patient baby, I want to take my time with you.” Heeseung pulled at the top of your tank top, yanking it down to expose your breasts to him. He smiled at you, a smile that had made you feel warm inside, safe. His hands kneaded the skin of your breasts. Breathy moans left your lips as you watched Heeseung in fascination. He was beautiful like this. You had never seen a more beautiful man before. 

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” Heeseung asked, and for a second you were confused until you felt his nimble fingers on your most sensitive area. An area that had not yet been explored. It had your breath stuttering, your nerves alight. 

Heeseung’s finger circled your clit, his eyes watching your for any signs of discomfort. “This might feel a little uncomfortable, just tell me if you want me to stop and I will okay?” 

“Okay.” You sigh. Heeseung’s finger dips inside of you and at first the stretch is uncomfortable but not painful and soon..it starts to feel good. A moan leaves your lips before you could stop it. 

“Fuck.” Heeseung hisses eyes trained on your pussy and how well you were taking his finger. “I’m going to add another one..you’re so tight.” 

“Oh my god.” You whispered as the feeling of his fingers going in and out of you became almost too much to bear. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” Heeseung whispered eyes still trained downwards, watching himself fuck you with his fingers. 

“Yes, fuck yes.” Your moans were loudly and could probably be heard throughout the entire house but you didn’t care. It felt too good. 

Suddenly, the feeling was yanked from you when Heeseung pulled his fingers out. His hands immediately traveled to his pants, yanking them down in one fell swoop. “You’re ready for me.” He said, pulling your hips to the end of the bed. 

“Heeseung…” You trailed off “Is it going to hurt?” You asked him. Heeseung looked at you with a softness you had rarely ever seen from him before. 

“It will sting a little..” He admits “But tell me if it's too much and I'll stop right away.” 

“Okay, i’m ready” You give him a little smile and a nod, mentally preparing yourself. You were about to lose your virginity to a guy that wasn’t even your boyfriend. And you wanted to, you were excited to. 

Heeseung lined himself at your entrance watching your face to gauge your reaction, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. You felt him run the tip of his cock up and down your folds, collecting your wetness. And finally after what felt like forever he slid in. slowly, inch by inch. The stretch was far more uncomfortable than his fingers. And he was right to say it would sting. But it was not unbearable. And finally when he was fully inside, hips flush against yours you had felt so close to him, more close than you had ever felt to anyone. It was almost romantic. Not almost, it was. 

Heeseung slowly moved himself in and out of you allowing you to get used to his size. 

“God.” He hissed out, his fingers making dents in your thighs as he tried his best to contain himself. “So…fucking…tight.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, your voice light and airy. Your hands reached for his shoulders digging your fingertips into his skin. “Does it feel good?” 

Heeseung groaned at your words pistoning his hips harder inside of you. “Y-yes” He stuttered. “Best pussy i’ve ever felt.” 

You smiled at his crude words but you would be lying if you didn't think his words to be oddly…sweet. 

“Faster.” You moaned, moving your hands down to circle at your clit. “You can go faster.” 

Heeseung let out another deep girdled groan lifting your knees to your chest allowing himself to hit a deeper spot inside of you. It had you gasping for breath. The new angle sends you hurtling to your orgasm before you could even catch your breath.  

“Fuckkkk” Heeseung’s moans were like music to your ears, a sound you had never thought you would have the pleasure of hearing and now that you have you would never give up. 

Your orgasm served as a catalyst to his as he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty. His hand worked himself up and down, his breathing heavy and chest heaving up and down. “Oh my god.” He groaned as droplets of his cum landed on your stomach. You watched him with wide eyes, your own chest falling in tandem with his.

“Are you okay?” He asks after a while, letting you both catch your breath. 

“Yeah..” You sigh. “More than okay.” 

The next day, Heeseung is out of town for an away game, leaving you alone with your thoughts—ones you don’t particularly want to sit with. Over thinking the night the two of you had over and over again. It was perfect, in your mind. And you didn’t regret not one bit. 

When Yunjin suggests another movie night, you jump at the distraction. Wanting a way to calm your raging nerves. An hour later, the two of you are curled up on your respective sides of the couch, Chinese takeout containers balancing on your laps, Legally Blonde playing on the screen. But you’re barely paying attention. Your mind is still tangled in the events of last night—the heat of Heeseung’s touch, the way he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, the things he whispered against your skin. 

It’s only a matter of time before Yunjin notices. She shoots you a knowing look, pausing the movie. “Okay. Spill.” 

You hesitate, staring down at your lo mein. “Spill what?” 

She scoffs. “Don’t even try that. You’ve been acting weird all night. Like, more weird than usual.” 

You exhale, pressing your lips together. Then, before you can overthink it, you blurt, “I slept with Heeseung.” The silence that follows is deafening. Yunjin just stares at you, chopsticks frozen mid-air. “You what?” 

You groan, setting your food down. “You heard me.” She blinks. “Oh my god.” 

“I know.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“I know!” 

Yunjin drops her chopsticks and grabs your hands, shaking them. “Okay, okay. Start from the beginning. How did this happen?” So you tell her. You tell her about going to the frat house, about how Heeseung was being an asshole again, about the argument that escalated into something else entirely. By the time you’re done, Yunjin is still holding onto you, eyes wide. “So… what happens now?” You bite your lip. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because the truth is—you don’t know. 

“I have no idea,” you admit. “We didn’t really talk about it. He had to leave early for the game this morning.” 

Yunjin watches you carefully. “And how do you feel?” 

You hesitate. “I don’t regret it.” That’s the one thing you’re sure of. Yunjin nods, but there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Just… be careful, okay?” 

You give her a small smile. “I will.” She studies you for another moment, then sighs dramatically, flopping back against the couch. “Well, damn. I guess this makes you a hockey girlfriend now.” 

You snort. “I am not a hockey girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” She waggles her eyebrows. You groan, throwing a pillow at her. She yelps, laughing as she ducks. 

Monday rolls around, and you’re actually excited to see Heeseung again. It’s ridiculous. You know it’s ridiculous. But after everything that happened, after the way things felt so different between you, there’s a small, traitorous part of you that wonders if things have actually changed. But then hours pass. And Heeseung doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. You tell yourself you're not the type of girl that obsesses over whether a boy will call her or not but it’s hard not to. Not when said boy just made you feel like the most special girl in the world. The one who took your virginity and made it the most special moment of your life. The boy you're falling so madly and deeply in love with. 

You’re not that type of girl. By the time evening comes around, you’ve tried convincing yourself a hundred times that you don’t care—that you don’t need to hear from him. So when Yunjin texts you, asking if you want to grab food at the diner, you immediately say yes. A distraction is exactly what you need. A night at a little diner with your best friend who knows about Heeseung. You can get some perspective from a girl who's in a happy and healthy relationship. She’ll tell you that Heeseung is just tired, he was away all weekend playing Hockey he might just want to rest. All your worries will be satiated and then you can focus on having a good dinner. 

The diner is packed when you walk in, the usual buzz of students filling the space. You and Yunjin are making your way to a booth near the back when she suddenly stops short. You follow her gaze—and feel your stomach drop. At a table near the center of the diner sits Heeseung, Soobin, and the rest of the hockey guys, all laughing loudly over burgers and milkshakes like they don’t have a care in the world. And Heeseung—he looks fine. Like nothing happened. 

Yunjin glances at you. “Do you want to—” Before she can finish, you take a breath and start walking. You’re not going to hide from him. That would be pathetic. You’re just going to go over, say hi, and act normal. But the second you and Yunjin reach the table, you can feel the shift in energy. 

Heeseung tenses when he sees you, his usual cocky smirk faltering for a second before he recovers. “What are you doing here?” You blink, taken aback by his tone. “Getting food. What does it look like?” Some of the guys at the table snicker, and your stomach twists. You feel small. You feel helpless. 

Heeseung leans back in his seat, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t realize you were such a fan of hockey hangouts.” 

You furrow your brows. “What?” Your heart drops to your stomach. 

He shrugs. “I mean, I just didn’t peg you as someone who follows guys around, but hey—good to know.” 

The table erupts into laughter, and heat flares up your neck. You cannot believe this. is he seriously—after everything—is he seriously doing this right now? He’s humiliating you. And for what? To look cool? To hurt you? Because it was working, he was hurting you. Soobin, however, notices immediately. His gaze flicks between you and Heeseung, frown deepening. You glance at Yunjin, whose mouth is already set in a furious line. But before you can say anything, she grabs a cup off the table—one full of soda and ice—and without hesitation, throws it straight at Heeseung. 

Gasps ring out. The laughter stops immediately. Heeseung sits there, stunned, soda dripping from his hair and down his face. The entire diner is watching now, but Yunjin doesn’t care. “What the fuck, Yunjin?!” Heeseung exclaims, jumping up, shaking the liquid off his hands. She glares at him with pure, unfiltered rage. “You are such a fucking asshole, Lee Heeseung.” 

Then she grabs your hand, yanking you away from the table before you can even process what just happened. Leaving your heart at the table with him. Shattered for everyone to see. 

The second you’re outside, the cool air hitting your flushed skin, you exhale sharply. “Holy shit.” Yunjin looks just as pissed as you feel. “What the hell was that?” 

You shake your head, anger and humiliation swirling inside you. “I don’t know.” But what you do know? You’re done. Done making excuses for Heeseung. Done thinking that maybe—just maybe—he’s not the person you feared he was. Because he just proved exactly who he is. And it hurts. 

When the two of you are back at the dorm you allow yourself to cry, to feel the emotions as they came. The heeseung you thought you knew would never do this to you. But it was clear to you now that he only used you as a means to pass his class. His sweet personality was only a well executed act that you were stupid enough to fall for. How could you fall for that? Hockey boys were nothing but egoistic man boys who threw each other around, chasing a puck for a living. They lacked sustenance, they lived their lives like barbarians and you hated them, and everything they stood for. 

You yanked your phone out of your back pocket before swiping to Heeseung’s contact. You hovered over his name for only a second before you opened messages and typed out; “Tutoring is done. Don’t text me, don’t call me. Goodbye.” and you wished you could gather the words to hurt him the way he hurt you but you just didn’t have the strength. You wanted to forget Lee Heeseung and hockey all together. 

Days pass in almost a blur. You contine life as usual only Heeseung is no longer a part of it. You avoid him like the plague, if he’s near at all you bolt. There was no talk of hockey in the dorm anymore. Yunjin was just as pissed and hurt as you. She was the best friend anyone could ever ask for really. 

It was Friday night when you finally had time to settle in for the night. You had an old copy of pride and prejudice in your hand and a hot cup of tea next to you. Yunjin was with Soobin for the night so you were finally alone. It was just past ten-thirty when the sound of pounding on your dorm broke you out of your reading trance. You hurried out of your bed, opening the door with a sense of urgency. Only to be met with Heeseung. 

He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, sporting a grin on his face. The audacity of him. To show up to your dorm..grinning. Was it is lifes mission to torture because it sure did feel like it. The look on Heeseung’s face as you slam the door almost makes you falter. Almost. You stand there, heart racing, hands clenched into fists as you try to steady your breathing. On the other side of the door, you hear nothing at first—just silence. And then: “Wait—no. Wait.” 

A loud knock. You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to do this. “Please, just open the door,” Heeseung says, his voice muffled. 

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “Go away, Heeseung.” 

“I—no. Not until you listen to me.” Another knock. Then another. “I swear I wasn’t using you.” 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me.” 

“I mean it.” His voice is closer now, pressed right up against the door. “That night at the diner—I fucked up, okay? I was an idiot. I didn’t want the guys to know about—” He pauses. “About us.” Something about the way he says us makes your stomach twist. You hate that a part of you still wants to listen. “Why?” you ask, your voice sharper than you expect. “Why is it so humiliating to be seen with me?” 

“It’s not,” he says immediately. “That’s not—fuck. That’s not what I meant.” You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say. “Can you—” He exhales, frustration laced in his voice. “Can you at least open the door so I can look at you while I apologize?” You hesitate. Of course, you hesitate. You should just tell him to leave. He doesn’t deserve the chance to explain himself after what he did. But against your better judgement and like a complete and utter idiot, you unlock the door. 

The second it swings open, Heeseung is standing there, wide-eyed, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually do it. He looks… tired. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Slowly, he lifts the crumpled test paper in his hand. “I got a hundred” 

You glance at it, then back at him. “Good for you,” you say again, flatly. “I guess using me was worth it.” 

His jaw clenches. He rubs the back of his neck. “I know you don’t owe me anything. I just—” He shakes his head. “I panicked, okay? I thought if the guys found out about… us, they’d—” 

“They’d what, Heeseung?” You cross your arms. “Make fun of you? Say something stupid? Newsflash—people say stupid shit all the time.” He looks away. “You don’t get it.” 

“Then make me get it.” 

His hands tighten into fists. His lips press together like he’s warring with himself. “I just—I’ve spent years making sure people see me a certain way. That I’m not the same loser I was before.” You stare at him. “And you think being seen with me ruins that image?” 

His head snaps up. “No.” He steps closer, and for the first time since that awful night, his voice is softer. “That’s not what I meant.” He swallows. “You make me feel different. And that—” He shakes his head, frustrated. “That scares me.” You don’t know what to say. Because what do you do with that? What do you do with the fact that this boy, the same one who humiliated you in front of everyone, is now standing here saying things you never expected to hear? 

A lump forms in your throat. “Then maybe you should figure out what you actually want, Heeseung.” He looks at you, something raw in his expression. “I already know what I want.” But you don’t let yourself believe him. Not yet. So you step back. And this time, when you close the door, you do it gently. And you let yourself cry because that’s the only thing you can control right now. 

The next night you're curled up in bed, the soft glow of your laptop screen illuminating your face as a movie plays in the background. You’re not really watching, though. You’re just existing, letting the noise drown out your thoughts. The door swings open, and Yunjin and Soobin step inside, their laughter filling the space. Yunjin glances at you before excusing herself to the bathroom, leaving you alone with Soobin. He hesitates for a moment before sitting down on the edge of your bed. “Hey,” he says gently. “How are you doing?” 

You don’t even look away from the screen. “I’m great.” 

Soobin scoffs. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.” 

You sigh, finally meeting his gaze. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying to piece you together. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something softer. “Heeseung is a mess,” Soobin says after a moment. “He misses you. And he’s sorry.” You swallow the lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to care. But despite yourself, a single tear slips down your cheek. 

“He used me, Soobin,” your voice cracks, and you look down at your lap. “How can I forgive him? Why would I?” Soobin sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Because you love him. And he loves you.” Your breath catches. it’s so simple, so matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s just waiting for you to admit it to yourself. Before you can say anything, Yunjin steps out of the bathroom, looking between the two of you. “You ready to go?” she asks Soobin. 

He nods, standing up. But before he leaves, he gives you one last look. “Just… think about it, okay?” Then, they’re gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You sit there long after the door closes, Soobin’s words echoing in your mind. Because you love him and he loves you. 

Your heart clenches, and you wipe at the tear on your cheek, frustrated. It shouldn’t be this hard. You shouldn’t still care this much. But the truth is—you do. You sigh, curling up tighter in your blanket. The movie playing in the background is one you’ve seen a million times, but you’re not paying attention. Your thoughts keep circling back to Heeseung. His face when you shut the door. The way his voice wavered when he admitted you scared him. 

Does he really love you? Or is this just another game to him? You don’t know. And that uncertainty terrifies you. Opening your heart up terrifies you. A soft knock pulls you from your thoughts. Your stomach twists, half-expecting it to be Heeseung, but when you open the door, it’s Sunoo. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Yunjin texted me. Said you might need company.” 

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. Of course she did. Sunoo plops down next to you on the bed, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap. He watches you for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “So. Are we wallowing or plotting revenge?” You huff out a laugh, shoving him lightly. “Neither.” 

“Boring.” He sighs dramatically, throwing himself back against your pillows. “Okay, then what’s the plan? You’re clearly miserable. And I’m pretty sure Heeseung is too.” You don’t say anything, just stare down at the popcorn in your hands. Sunoo sighs again, but this time, it’s softer. “Look, I get why you’re mad. You should be mad. But…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not close with Heeseung and I barely know him since it’s my first year, but I’ve never seen him care about anyone the way he cares about you.” 

Your chest tightens. “Then why did he treat me like that?” 

“Because he’s an idiot.” Sunoo shrugs. “And because he’s scared. But mostly because he’s an idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Not helping.” 

He nudges you. “I’m just saying… Maybe talk to him. Really talk to him.” You sigh, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know if I can trust him again.” 

Sunoo is quiet for a moment, then says, “Then make him prove that you can.” You swallow hard, his words settling into your chest like a weight. Heeseung owes you more than just an apology. Maybe if he really wants you, he’ll fight for you. And maybe you, just maybe you’ll let him. 

That weekend, Yunjin had had enough. She wasn’t about to let you wallow in self-pity any longer. “You’re coming to the game,” she announced, standing in front of your bed with her arms crossed. You groaned, pulling your blanket over your face. “Pass.” 

“Not an option.” She yanked the covers away. “You’ve spent all week moping. You need to get out.” 

“I am out,” you deadpanned. “My bed is out.” 

“Not what I meant.” She rolled her eyes. “Get dressed. Now.” Despite your protests, she wasn’t having any of it. Eventually, after an absurd amount of bribery (including the promise of ice cream after), you gave in. By the time you arrived at the arena, the energy in the air was electric—fans were buzzing with anticipation, the scent of popcorn and arena food filling your senses. The rink was already packed, the game about to start, and you felt out of place among the sea of jerseys and face paint. Yunjin, however, was thrilled, chatting with other students and cheering before the puck even dropped. You sat stiffly beside her, arms crossed, doing your best not to look at the ice—because you knew if you did, your eyes would immediately find Heeseung. 

And you weren’t ready for that. A few minutes into the game, Yunjin’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, eyes scanning the screen before she let out a dramatic sigh. “Ugh. Soobin left his gloves in the locker room. Can you please grab them for him?” 

You turned to her with a glare. “Why can’t y—” 

“Just go do it,” she cut you off, shoving your shoulder lightly. Something about her tone made you pause. She sounded too casual. Too… calculated. You narrowed your eyes. “This feels like a setup.” 

She gasped, all mock innocence. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” You weren’t convinced, but the alternative was sitting here and enduring the game, so you sighed. “Fine.” 

Yunjin grinned, and you shot her one last suspicious look before heading down the corridor. The locker room hallway was eerily quiet, the distant sound of the game muffled through the walls. You pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside, expecting to see rows of empty benches and Soobin’s gloves lying somewhere in the mess of gear. instead, standing in the middle of the room, was Heeseung. Your breath caught. He looked different off the ice—less intimidating without his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends. He was still in his jersey, the bold number on his sleeve catching the light, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. 

And he was staring at you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, charged with everything that had been left unsaid. You clear your throat, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. “I’m just here to grab Soobin’s gloves.” Your voice is steady, indifferent. Like seeing him doesn’t completely shake you. 

Heeseung nods slowly, then gestures to the bench behind him. “They’re over there.” You walk past him, determined to just grab the gloves and leave, but as soon as your fingers curl around them, Heeseung speaks again. “You’re here.” 

You freeze, but don’t turn around. “Yunjin dragged me.” A beat of silence. Then, softer—almost hesitant—Heeseung says, “I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.” 

You inhale sharply, gripping the gloves tighter. Finally, you turn to face him. “You made that pretty easy when you humiliated me.” Regret flickers in his expression. “I know,” he murmurs. “I was an idiot. A complete asshole. I told you, I was scared.” 

You scoff. “Scared of what, Heeseung? That people would find out you actually cared about me? That you weren’t just some player?” 

“Yes,” he admits, and the raw honesty in his voice takes you off guard. “I was scared of how much I cared about you. Scared that you’d realize I wasn’t good enough for you.” Heeseung runs a hand through his damp hair, exhaling shakily. “I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter, because you do. You do more than you realize.” 

Your chest tightens, emotions crashing over you all at once. You want to be mad. You want to scream at him for the way he made you feel. But there’s something in his voice, in his expression—genuine remorse, vulnerability—that makes it hard to hold onto that anger. “You really hurt me, Heeseung,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll run. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes making it up to you.” 

You swallow, emotions warring inside you. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out—giving you the chance to pull away—but when you don’t, his fingers brush against yours, light and uncertain. “Can we just… start over?” he asks. “Please?” 

Your heart pounds. A part of you wants to walk away, to protect yourself from getting hurt again. But another part—maybe the bigger part—wants to believe him. You take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. “Okay.” 

“Okay”

reg taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @filmnings , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @chwesun , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @ghstzzn @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340

crossing the line masterlist coming soon.

[vantxx95]

4 years and 21 days ago i took this silly quiz and it said people love me because i’m exhilarating just like dancing in the rain or the rush of a rollercoaster.

today it says they love me because i feel like coming home like sleepy, warm, soft.

i don’t know. i think life just changes you. it slows you down, makes you quieter in ways you don’t even notice. i’m not as loud as i used to be. not as sharp around the edges. but i think there’s something kind of beautiful about that.

still me. just different now. mwah

I am writing this on all my SNS bios cause people misjudge me A FREAKING LOT !!!

^ why do people fall in love with you ❤️

[vantxx95]

ATTENTION FIC-LOVING PSYCHOS i am once again crawling out of my fic hole to scream into the void: drop me your best fics. now.

criteria:

enemies to lovers (make them HATE each other please i’m feral)

strangers to lovers (accidental roommates? rival influencers? yes.)

best friends to lovers (sickeningly soft slowburn? i’ll cry.)

exes to lovers (wreck me. i want emotional carnage.)

literally don’t care if it’s:

a smau, a regular fic, a drabble, a 700k word epic, or a one-liner that made you scream

on wattpad / tumblr / your friend’s private google drive

angsty / fluffy / funny / devastating / a mix of all four

just give me good writing and feelings so raw they make me punch a pillow bonus points if it’s:

slowburn to the point of psychological damage

messy texting and miscommunication

fake dating gone terribly right

mentally ill in love

one of them realizes first and the other is oblivious

(bonus if it’s someone from: skz / enhypen / bts / txt / svt / ateez / nct / zerobaseone / etc. but anyone is fine if the writing slaps)

i’m starving. give me nourishment. i don’t want peace, i want problems. drop links. reblog with recs. send them like you’re throwing bread to pigeons.

[vantxx95]

─★ ˙☕️ !! an annoying customer | a na jaemin smau .

PART 1 : this you?

warnings : kys jokes, swearing, the whole gang after each others throats 😖..

annas note : woooo!! first part :3 i hope you guys enjoy this.. i wonder how things will end up.. please let me know if you did enjoy this, it means a lot as it’s my first smau ever!

next | masterlist | profiles | introduction

taglist: @jeonghansshitester @kukkurookkoo @cigsaftersuh @polarisjisung @injvns @kaosuni @sibwol @n0hyuck @ayukas @phototypee @hyckvr

[vantxx95]

good graces ; prologue

prev | m.list | next

a/n: IM SO SORRY FOR MAKING JAKE AN ASSHOLE I SWEAR I LOVE HIM 😞 also the hardest week of my exams are almost over! so hopefully that means the chapters will be out soon ❤️

taglist: @yutarot @rksbae @sevn97 @dreamiestay @raevyng @catpjimin @mrsjohnnysuh @xiuriii @minkyuncutie @jaehyunsjasmine @cookiehaos @jenoleeaesthetic @tynlvr @ohwowzersthatscool @rubiiisyeon @multifandomania @girlz4jaem @veilico @jeonghansshitester @jkslvsnella @jungaji @xyzsiissnnsnsjs @17ericas @elsbunny @grassbutneo @nosungluv @flamingi @xxxx-23nct @baobeii55 @shoetaroshoe @tannieflix @myballsareitchy2

bold = can't tag!

[vantxx95]

⋆₊˚⊹.𖥔 zoom, click, panic ! -> 1. that's not my dick or anything

intro -> masterlist -> next

notes : i'm trying to break down the chapters down so there's not so much at once idk if you guys like that... i think it builds anticipation 😓 chenle genius agenda rise!!!

taglist : @sunghoonsgfreal , @hizhu , @axo-l0tl , @strawberrysavi , @hyuckiebb-blog , @hyucktion , @4yunogf , @jakesbubu , @gacktsa , @iheartjayke , @annoyednblax , @luvvhaechan , @dudekiss3r , @nanaxwi , @yesohhsehun , @prettybluei , @soobinbunnie5 , @hyucksunset , @peterm4rker , @byeonwooseokabs , @kodasity , @hyuckmoon , @catdonut657 , @lionzyon , @luvandletter , @defzcl , @nneteyamss , @222brainrot , @1lovejinki , @zzurao , @catpjimin , @multifandomania , @docilismo , @cyjzzl , @livingdoll-hara , @this-is-lowkey-a-hyuck-fanpage , @ohwowzersthatscool , @babyjenono , @wonswondrland , @jenoleeaesthetic , @bananinhazz , @hyuckna25 , @doejaejung , @angeliqueiguess , @mymartiniblue , @aerivrs , @heyitsbreeeeee , @ohmymydiana , @jae-n0 , @hyuckshinee

[vantxx95]

the boy is mine (l.dh) — masterlist

PAIRING. haechan x fem!reader (also jeno x reader)

GENRES. smut, angst

WORD COUNT. around 101k

SUMMARY. when you return home from studying abroad seeking love and excitement, the last thing you expect is to catch the interest of someone who could upset the very delicate balance of your friend group and maybe even your life as you know it.

CONTENTS. infidelity, alcohol & weed consumption (MC is a non-smoker if that matters to you), explicit smut (dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, oral (receiving), rimming (receiving), groping/frottage, marking, spit play, (brief) ear play, breast play, slight sir kink, creampies/unprotected sex (if you explicitly need me, a stranger on the internet, to tell you not to fuck raw, you are not responsible enough to be reading this. move along now), snowballing, public sex, car sex, riding, bratty dom-leaning switch!haechan, bratty sub-leaning switch!reader, sweet dom!jeno, face riding, handjob, overstimulation (receiving), praise kink (receiving), light degradation kink (giving), mating press, morning sex)

PLAYLIST. the boy is mine - ariana grande // fantasize - ariana grande (unreleased) // lowkey (feat. erykah badu) - teyana taylor // agora hills - doja cat // pussy is mine - miguel // softest touch - khalid // cut - tori kelly // seatbelt - josh levi // often - doja cat // surrender - nbdy

NOTES. this fic will update every tuesday on my tumblr, and is already available on patreon! if you’d like to join the tag list, send me an ask!

STATUS: COMPLETE

PART ONE. — 19k (posted tue, july 23)

PART TWO. — 20.4k (posted tue, july 30)

PART THREE. — 17.9k (posted tue, aug 6)

PART FOUR. — 19.8k (posted tue, aug 13)

PART FIVE. — 15.6k (posted tue, aug 20)

PART SIX. — 8.6k (posted tue, aug 27)

[vantxx95]

WATCHING TV — lee haechan smau

001. let her cook

m.list - next

TAGLIST: @kooookie @ikykyuno @bath1lda @haechology @mmjhh1998

[vantxx95]

─★ ˙☕️ !! an annoying customer | a na jaemin smau .

PART 1 : this you?

warnings : kys jokes, swearing, the whole gang after each others throats 😖..

annas note : woooo!! first part :3 i hope you guys enjoy this.. i wonder how things will end up.. please let me know if you did enjoy this, it means a lot as it’s my first smau ever!

next | masterlist | profiles | introduction

taglist: @jeonghansshitester @kukkurookkoo @cigsaftersuh @polarisjisung @injvns @kaosuni @sibwol @n0hyuck @ayukas @phototypee @hyckvr

[vantxx95]

CATCH THAT GOMDO! ᵔⰙᵔ | 01 lost and found

prev | masterlist | next

taglist(open): @hyuckluvr-com

authors note: posting chapter one before i head to bed :] goodnight everyone! happy reading!!<3

[vantxx95]

CRUSH DIARIES. lee jeno

pairing. idol!jeno x youtuber!reader

genre. social media au, idol au, friends to strangers to lovers, romance, humor

warnings. swearing, alcohol mention and usage, sexual jokes, kys jokes, etc..

synopsis. you were a growing youtuber that posts interesting content about your life. you remember a trend that was blowing up a few years back, but you had always been too nervous to do it. it was the viral “sending a quiz to every boy i’ve had a crush on.” you honestly weren’t expecting to hear back from anyone, but you thought it was worth a shot. what happens when you actually do hear back from all of your crushes? what happens when fans try and figure out who all the anonymous crushes are? but most importantly, what happens when one of your crushes, who is now a famous kpop idol, reaches out to you after so many years?

notes. welcome to another stuckonmark smau! this has been in the works for awhile and is of course inspired by the old youtube trend “sending a quiz to every boy i’ve had a crush on” and the infamous “to all the boys i’ve loved before.” i am so excited and hope you all enjoy! replies, likes, reblogs are greatly appreciated! i’d love to hear back from y’all in my asks!

taglist. closed!

status. ongoing !

no boys allowed!!! (except mark) — the dream team — the crushes

01. just do it

02. should we go to sm and riot

03. my legs appear to be spread OPEN

04. speculation and what not

05. real life kdrama

06. thanks daddy

07. six feet under

08. surprise sunrise

09. real or fake?

10. just a coincidence

11. signing off

more tba..

[vantxx95]

TERMS AND CONDITIONS

mark lee smau :3

SUMMARY: when two chronically online ncu students accidentally spark a campus wide dating rumor after a misunderstood post goes viral. starting off in the wrong foot, they eventually join forces for the following reasons: one to get an ex off their back and the other to impress their crush.

fake dating au! mark x fem reader, university au, humorous (attempted), slight bickering, fashion major yn!, music major mark!

NOTES: this is my very first smau, pls be kind >_<, i hope you guys enjoy and let me know if there is any requests (ｏ ^-^)ｏ

STATUS: COMPLETED!!

(◞‸◟；)

profiles: yn group / mark groups

chapter 1: gooning jail escapees victim

chapter 2: is this about a girl i see…

chapter 3: who even is mark?

chapter 4: nvm he dont want me

chapter 5: okay hello hard launch

chapter 6: yk if ur cool with that…

chapter 7: my bf has a bf

chapter 8: neozone (mostly written)

chapter 9: am i where i think i am

chapter 10: and they kept spawning???

chapter 11: one at a time ladies

chapter 12: oh Im a freak alright

chapter 13: #freakalert

chapter 14: Man Tf Up!

chapter 15: oh gimme a break

chapter 16: guess who cried (hard edition)

chapter 17: i also goon to ur mom

chapter 18: yo lemme hit pls (half written + half smau)

chapter 19: a whole packaged diva

chapter 20: #scissorcity

[vantxx95]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅rent-a-girlfriend.com

maybe you should've deleted that stupid girlfriend rental website you made years ago. and maybe you should've ignored park jisung's very desperate request to pay for a fake girlfriend. but hey, it's easy money, not like you'll fall in love with him or anything... right?

basically, even though the rent-a-girlfriend site isn't actually in service... who would say no to $40 an hour and free dates with park jisung?

fuckboy!jisung x fem!reader

genre : humor , strangers to lover , fake dating , college au , fluff fluff fluff(jisungs a fuckboy but he's still a dork) , oblivious jisung and y/n , miscommunication trope most likely, crack alternate storyline of cryptic crush

warnings : sex jokes , death jokes , mean insults and comments , jisung a lil freak , should probably read cryptic crush before this one if u haven't (i will be making inside jokes)

notes : im weak for fake dating aus. i'm playing it cool and i'm just gonna let this one flow. i like to focus on the comedic points of my smaus so this one will be no different, but i kinda want like a longing pining type of feel once they start liking each other yk... is it fake dating without secretly crushing on each other? gonna take it slow and see how the plot develops

playlist : kiss me , sixpence none the richer | linger , the cranberries | heaven knows im miserable now , the smiths | valentine , laufey | bad habit , steve lacy | n side , steve lacy | lovers rock , tv girl | glue song , beabadoobee

status : ongoing , updates x2 a week

taglist : closed !

yn’s group , ji’s group

intro

1~ IN THIS ECONOMY????

2~ big booty latina

3~ head for a mcflurry

4~ didn't wipe the what.

5~ something is off…

6~ get real

7~ A TWINK????

8~ this shit just pmo

9~ japan's greatest treasure

10~ savannah slow down.

11~ golden pickle

12~ i want you

13~ 🩷

14~ i was hacked.

15~ ik my cookie good

16~ who else feel like a baka rn

17~ stood up and applauded

18~ mercedes benz logo

19~ auw fucK man

20~ boo you whore

21~ BOMBOCLATT

22~ i think im gay

TBD

extras :

TBD

[vantxx95]

where you are ‣ lee haechan smau

summary: what the absolute fuck is up baby! fall semester marks the peak of greek life at ncu. the campus quad is filled with tents representing various fraternities and sororities with their letters proudly presented in front of each booth, all eager to recruit new members. as students return to campus, they are met with a flood of fliers and invitations to parties, mixers, and rush events. while you were walking through the crowd of eager freshmen to join these organizations, you bumped into someone very unexpected...

what do you do when you bump into the guy you hooked up with after a music festival during summer break? instead of the royal blue basketball jersey you first met him in, it was replaced by a varsity jacket with the letters reading "ΝΧΘ".

"haechan?"

pairing: fratboy!haechan x fem!reader

genre: smau, non-idol au, college au, fluff, nsfw/suggestive (mdni!) comedy, humor, slight slowburn, strangers to lovers, rave bae core? (am i in love with you or is it just the drugs?)

warnings: mentions of alcohol/substance usage (marijuana, mdma/ecstasy, lsd, cocaine), profanity, jokes about sex and death thrown around, both groups are out of pocket and tmi doesn't exist apparently... no ones safe! the boys gc is kinda questionable (this is where i say men deserve no rights!), haechan x reader met at an edm festival (the term rave bae will be said here and there. rave bae is someone you meet unexpectedly while raving, kinda like your temporary s/o for the duration of the rave or festival... smth like that!) disclaimer notice: these portrayals are fictional and are not intended to encourage or glamorize substance use.

playlist: where you are - john summit | club classics - charli xcx | intimidated - kaytranada, h.e.r. | high and i like it - it's murph, evalyn | what a life - john summit, stevie appleton | saving up - dom dolla | talk talk - charli xcx, troye sivan | mr useless - shygirl, sg lewis, club shy | atmosphere - fisher, kita alexander | thinking about you - calvin harris, ayah marar | gas pedal remix - john summit, subtronics, tape b, sage the gemini

notes: omg!!! my first post ever... honestly i've been debating to do this for a long time... now here i am :D ngl i lowkey based this off a personal experience (i am a changed woman now okay... spare me! 😭) my first lil fic dedicated to haechan!!! the playlist is highly edm biased with a sprinkle of brat. i just think it fits the vibe so well hehe. open to feedback and enjoy!!! ♡

status: ongoing!

taglist: closed!

profiles: live laugh love y/n (1), john summit fanboys (2)

intro: so.... edc next year?

one: comedown

two: wtf is college

three: boutta fuckin jump (written)

four: y/n’s eras tour

five: is my brain braining?

six: heyyyyyy 👀

seven: i know what u are…

eight: tequila ftw (written)

nine: ot3 timeout

ten: i want u 😩

eleven: drunk olympics

twelve: stuDYING

thirteen: agram 🙏😭

fourteen: gn haechan (written)

fifteen: team y/n

sixteen: options

seventeen: u did ur big one 😞

eighteen: h for harry styles

nineteen: kms postponed! (written)

twenty: haechan x y/n crumbs

twenty-one: how tf we feelin (written)

twenty-two: use protection 😏

twenty-three: missed connection

twenty-four: shhhh 🤫

twenty-five: enemies to lovers trope

twenty-six: #fomo

twenty-seven: are u in love

twenty-eight:

twenty-nine:

thirty:

[vantxx95]

PAY THE PRICE — smau

after getting evicted out of your old place, you're left with no other choice but to look for a cheaper alternative. which is how you end up becoming neighbours with lee haechan, who has a passion for music and disturbing whatever peace and quiet there is.

or in which you found yourself a very nice apartment, the only issue? your neighbour is your friend's somewhat ex-situationship who won't stop playing his guitar at 2 am in the night.

neighbour!haechan x fem!reader

genre ; enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, probably slow burn, humour, neighbours au.

extras ; haechan is kinda an asshole | boy next door + likes everyone but you trope-ish | profanity and death jokes because they’re silly! | probably romantic tension | some mark x reader here and there | renjun and jaemin having their own e2bffs moment | probably inaccurate depiction of how someone would get evicted pls don’t shoot me 😅

notes ; i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan <333 idk i got nothing better to do now so i’ll just start this because i know i won’t be posting any of the other long fic wips any time soon 😭

PLAYLIST ; She , Tyler The Creator — For The Night , Chloe Bailey — IDK WHAT TO TELL YOU , Bktherula — Surprise , Chloe Bailey — I Wanna Be down , Brandy — Suite Life , FLO — Is It A Crime? , No Guidnce — Round&Round , NCT U .

STATUS ; completed! (18.02.25)

profiles (1) profiles (2)

intro

1 ) jaehyun’s trophy wife

2 ) free cookies (not really)

3 ) midnight disturbance

4 ) attempted murder?

5 ) THIS IS FAMILY

6 ) haechan’s second identity

7 ) kiss buddies and useless complaints

8 ) critically acclaimed idgaf veteran

9 ) founders keepers..?

10 ) yangyang’s new interest (y/n)

11 ) a late welcome party

12 ) invest in a cage jaemin

13 ) cat fight (REAL)

14 ) the cure to a lack of sleep = cup pong

15 ) who said quiet guys can’t be freaky?

16 ) you got a girlfriend?

17 ) i DO have a girlfriend

18 ) this is life, i love life..

19 ) nah. they fucking.

20 ) let’s play apex?

21 ) whole house mad

22 ) drunken regrets

23 ) he’s got to be fucking with me..

24 ) a sincere apology letter (kinda)

25 ) are we cool or not?

26 ) we’re good (for real)

27 ) a personal guitar lesson

28 ) LIVE TWEETING YNHAE MOMENTS

29 ) a moment of vulnerability

30 ) friendly q&a between friends

31 ) that’s strange.. that’s weird..

32 ) solution to job loss = family guy (???)

33 ) what has jaehyun done for society?

34 ) ynhae bonding activity hours

35 ) an unwanted double date with yangyang

36 ) an overwhelming realisation

37 ) the universe can kill itself

38 ) a “what are we” conversation

39 ) i got that hair too, kinda

40 ) reviewing haechan’s tweet and new issues

41 ) diagnosed with the crush disease

42 ) putting your satisfaction first

43 ) some girl talk with mark.. this diva..

44 ) girls day gone WRONG

45 ) homies before hoemies

46 ) #BringBackGenderNorms2024

47 ) no one but us

48 ) the words of the DEVIL

49 ) remove the fake from life

50 ) y/n and jaemin would’ve loved this

51 ) you’re a queen and he’s just.. there

52 ) we are sooooo fixing this

53 ) spiritual connection attempts

54 ) satanic mind manipulation

55 ) cucklord

56 ) when you kinda gaf

57 ) when you been thuggin it out for so long

58 ) a second try

59 ) be careful who you call OOMF

60 ) the paid price

BONUS:

TBA . . .

TAGLIST is closed

[vantxx95]