#+booksndpoetry

[booksndpoetry]

Morning Coffee

A Hyunjin Drabble

A/N: Americano is a type of coffee, yes?

WC: 480 words

Characters: Hyunjin X Fem Reader

Genre: Fluff

Triggers/Warnings: The characters are morning people, and one of them dislikes coffee; you have been warned.

m.list

The both of you wake when the outside world is still half-asleep, early enough to hear the chirping of birds and the rare quiet of the sleepy city.

You throw open the curtains, rub your eyes and stretch, with your head falling back on his stomach as you lose the battle to sleep, plopping down on the soft sheets of the bed.

He just chuckles and pinches your cheek, and he gets up offering you, his hand.

You accept it and he pulls you up, and you feel like your day is complete even if the sun is just rising. 

You open the balcony door and step into the space, clad in a white nightgown. He follows in after, the ceramic mug, the one with cartoon splotches of pink blue and pastel that you gifted him last year, with freshly brewed coffee in one hand. Steam rises from the drink, warming the air around the two of you. 

He wraps his right hand around your waist and the left holds the mug. You lean into him, basking in the morning light. 

You don't drink coffee, as you're not a fan of its caffeine content. Truly, you can’t stand the scent of it and you absolutely detest its taste. 

However, despite this fact, Hyunjin always offers you a sip every morning before he takes his first gulp. As if it's some unspoken agreement that says,

 'Hey, I love you. Therefore, I will not have anything for myself without offering it to you first.'

You think it's endearing, the way he wants you to be included in that little habit too.

Just for that, you take a sip sometimes, like today, and make sure to grimace dramatically, exaggerating the bitter relish and complaining about how no one should technically like coffee and he laughs. 

 He laughs like he's seven and you're his best friend and you've just told him that Santa isn't real. He definitely doesn't believe you, but he loves you enough to play along and nod, even as residual, brown rings form along the inner diameters of the cup and the sun shines brighter in the sky and the world around you slowly comes back to life. 

He leans on your shoulders for a little while more, gaining strength to go about his day, as you do the same. 

He gives you one last kiss before you go, presses it tenderly onto your amaranth lips and your heart for safekeeping until he can give you one more when he sees you again, and you feel your opinion crumble.

No, you don't like coffee, especially not in the morning.

Because it's too bitter, and caffeine never leaves your bloodstream even if you drink it only once.

But you love the taste of it when it's smeared on your lips by his, the acrid drink suddenly the sweetest thing in the world. 

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration to characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[astraystayyh]

The prophecy- I.

ꕥ summary: when an angel becomes enthralled by the prospect of emotions, he falls into your world hoping you’d teach him how to be human. little does he know, there's no safety net awaiting him below.

ꕥ pairing: fallen angel!yongbok x fem human!reader.

ꕥ genre: slow burn. heavy themes relating to the complexity of emotions (insecurities, grief, nostalgia, love and sacrifice). angst. comfort. hope and healing. the members are included in the fic as well.

ꕥ warnings: plot installment. mention of alcohol and drinking, description of scars, self-loathing thoughts.

ꕥ word count: 17.8k.

Next. Series Masterlist.

authors note: this fic is my absolute baby. it is heavily inspired by Black Friday by Tom Odell, or rather my interpretation of its lyrics. angel felix is so so special to me, i got the opportunity to be very vulnerable while writing, so i hope you enjoy reading this first part as much as i enjoyed writing it. feedback is highly appreciated <3 this is for @forlix my angel who birthed this fic with me, and for @catboyanon for being my icon 💞 i love you guys 🫶🏻 thank you for reading!!!!!!

the series taglist is open! comment or send me an ask if you wish to be added— @linosssss @agi-ppangx @hwangism143 @httpdwaekki @booksndpoetry @courtnort455 @tonystenk @felixsbakingbud @oyinii @seungzsmin @kayleefriedchicken @freyjhasdesiredreality @babrieeee @nyasstars @lovefool-lix @velvetmoonlght @hash2013 @caticorn61 @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @minhosbitterriver @dorisnumber1fan @goldenmellow @juskz @chanshyunjin @aslou @hhwangsmoon @shinygubbins @msaddictions @abcdefgiwannasendmycodetou @realrintaro @theuntoldlullaby

Act 1. Everything comes with a price.

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want, Lord knows it would be the first time”- Please, please, please, let me get what I want, The Smiths.

Yongbok's existence has been a steady current of nothingness. 

He has known no low, yet simultaneously, no high. Has never stood at the edge of the world nor cradled it within his palm. He is a straight line, knowing no bumps on its road, crafted to stretch forward, and then some more, indefinitely. 

That is until you were assigned to him— his human to keep safe, to protect.

That is when Yongbok then realized that, all along, he had felt nothing— that there was a void overtaking his being, an absence of something, rather than what he had always known to be the norm. 

Yongbok knew the rules, he knew what his existence entailed— that it was one entwined with yours, that once you’d both turn eighteen he’d sense it when you were in danger, each time you were in physical pain. So, he’d protect you, hover above you like a halo, keep you out of harm's way.

He also knew that it would happen unexpectedly. His one friend Seungmin described it as a minor nuisance, a thorn that needs to be plucked out, a bad weed that has overgrown. “You'll help your human and it’ll be back to normal.” 

Yet, for Yongbok it wasn't merely a lone thorn, nor a solitary weed, but rather, a myriad of nuisances falling upon him at once— akin to a deluge of rain pouring as soon as the sky’s gates part. A throbbing so intense it made him falter in his strides, made his golden wings envelop him, as if to cage this unfamiliar feeling, to stop it from seeping from his body and soiling the azure skies. 

It was the first time you had called out to him, it was the first time he would see you in. He imagined you’d be in agonizing pain, skirting the edges of death on a final dance with the devils. But, you were on your bed, curled around yourself the way his wings enfolded his body. Sobs rippled from you, an undulating cascade of waves that almost drowned you in sorrow. 

You weren’t in danger. You weren’t in physical pain. So why was he here? 

Why had he felt it when you simply cried? 

Yongbok hovered near your door, unsure of what to do. This wasn’t in the rules he had learned— guardian angels do not deal with emotions, they do not feel the woes of the heart. “Humans are always hurt. Their heart bruises more than their body would ever endure. It is something we cannot control, nor can we help them with it”— those were the words of Christopher, the sovereign of all guardian angels, ones tattooed in the back of Yongbok’s mind.

“They do not affect us,” he had asserted, his voice maintaining its customary tranquility.

So why was Yongbok feeling the bruising of your heart?

He pondered for a fleeting moment before making a soft breeze ripple through your hair. You looked up from your bed, eyes cast outside the window, as a sunbeam delicately landed on your face. To his surprise, that seemed to halt your tears.  

In that instant, the weight on Yongbok’s heart suddenly dissipated, like a morning fog chased away by the sun. 

“So, this isn’t normal?” he asked Seungmin upon his return, who blinked at him once, then twice. 

“No. It must be part of your anomaly.” 

His anomaly, what explains Seungmin being his only friend. But his loneliness did not bother him, the perk of never feeling.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Yongbok sighed, circling the rim of his glass with his pointer finger. “Should I tell… you know.”

“Keep it to yourself.” Seungmin’s voice was stern, biting, leaving no room for Yongbok to object. 

So he did not. 

He kept it to himself, for the past five years, a diligent secret he’s gotten better at hiding. You were surprisingly a good human to guard, you never burned yourself, crossed the road while looking at both sides, and did not frequent shady places at 4 a.m. 

But your heart weighed so much on your soul.

You cried an average of one hundred and sixty-five times per year, sixty of which being heart-wrenching sobs that almost paralyzed him, made the feathers of his wings wither down and scatter on the ground like sakura petals. 

“Is it normal for her to cry this much?” he had asked Seungmin who had simply shrugged. 

“I don’t know. I don’t befriend humans.” he sighed before adding. “Why does she cry?”

“Other people hurt her.” 

“Then she’s stupid for repeating the same process.”

“Isn’t it fascinating, though? She knows the outcome might be the same, and yet–”

“Do you wish to befriend her?” Seungmin had cut him off, eyes narrowing down slightly. There was a hint of warning in his tone, a danger ringing somewhere near. You know where this path will lead you. 

“No,” he replied quickly. He never brought you up again after that. 

But his fascination with you did not die. Though, it wasn’t you, per se, that intrigued him. More so what you were feeling, every emotion that ran freely through your being. It was as if he perched on the precipice of your soul, drinking the droplets of emotions that escaped your being. Feeling through you, an extension of your very existence.

It wasn’t only the throbbing when you hurt, it was also a satisfaction when he made you smile again. Through a sunbeam falling perfectly atop you, a rainbow appearing above your head, a star shining more brightly as your eyes found it. Each time your heart bled dry and you begged for a sign, he was there, conjuring up one of you, smiling as you smiled, inching closer to you as the months went by. 

What if the sign was him? What if he showed you he was there all along? 

Would you smile at him too? 

These were dangerous questions swirling in his head, translating into even more harmful actions. Like getting closer to trespassing the line between your world and his, drawn by that fascination, that thirst to know more, to feel more. 

To talk to you. 

But it was all but wishful thinking, it is all thoughts he buried within himself, his body becoming the graveyard of his life— through which he breathes and through which he dies. 

Until tonight.

Yongbok felt that same familiar throbbing overtaking his being, only this one was much more intense, so much so he couldn’t hide the discomfort on his face, twisted in agony at the pain overriding you. He expected to find the telltales of your sadness draped on your being— teary eyes and shaky hands, pouting lips and the scrunch of your eyebrows that he’s come to memorize. 

But to his surprise, he finds you perched upon an abandoned rooftop overlooking Han River, the moon casting its shimmering reflection above its surface. You weren’t frowning, nor blinking rapidly to dispel your tears. Instead, you sat there, gazing at the river below, legs dangling over the edge, your face as placid as the water before you. However, the burden on your heart was unmistakable, a weight he recognized because he, too, bore it. 

He stops for a second, making a gentle rain graze your skin, light enough to feel like an embrace rather than a nuisance. He knew you loved these light showers as you always chased them, tilting your head to the sky as if thanking it for allowing the rain to visit, even for a fleeting moment. 

But this time, you remain unmoving, eyes still fixated on the water, as if you wished it would rise from its place and carry you with it underneath.

You look like an angel, for you feel nothing, numbness seizing your being and trapping it into its hold, just as it does for him. 

“Sometimes the human’s enemy is itself. They inflict harm upon their souls the most, sometimes even death.” He remembers the somber sayings of Christopher and then the question Jeongin asked, echoing the concerns that gripped everyone’s thoughts.

“Can we still save them from themselves?” 

“Not always. We can be too late.” 

You inch closer to the edge of the building, and Yongbok wonders if you had felt too much there was no other emotion your heart could pump out for you anymore, no life for it to breathe in you. 

Can humanity disintegrate once it pains you too much? Can you turn it off in a desperate bid for survival? Would it still be a life if you do not feel in it? 

“I’m not going to jump if that’s what you’re worried about.” Your cold voice startles him, and he looks around quizzically, wondering who you are talking to. But it is only the both of you atop the roof, and his wings are gone, the golden light that usually contours his being subdued. 

The realization dawns upon him – you can see him, and you are speaking to him. Yongbok feels the stirrings of his heart, a singular beat that resounds in his chest for the very first time.

“I’m not worried,” he replies, after painstakingly long seconds. His voice sounds different, deeper as it floods his ears. I can’t worry, he decides against adding. “Besides,” he clears his throat, walking over to you, his hands resting on the railing. “You can’t die from here. You’ll just break your bones. Get paralyzed, at most.” 

“What are you? A death connoisseur?” you snort, a small life seeping through your voice again as you finally look at him. 

“Something of the sort.”

“This makes you sound like a serial killer,” you sigh, a heavy breath pulled from the depths of his heart. “But you don’t look like one.”

“I don’t?” he questions. 

“No. You look kind.” 

Kind. Yongbok has been draped in a myriad of adjectives since his creation, ones that hang above him like a somber cloud, imprinted on his skin with ink visible to everyone but himself. ‘Abomination’ was the one that came back the most. But you described him as kind. 

What do you see in me? He wants to ask. Tell me so I can look for it when I see myself.

He’s acutely aware that he’s breaking the rules, his wings itching to fledge out and carry him away. But he forcefully keeps them at bay. Not now. Just a little more.

“Are you looking for hope too?” you ask, your voice much quieter than when you last spoke. Yongbok now sees it— the numbness wearing off and leaving place to an agonizing sadness, its essence is poured in your eyes alone, dull under the marvelous city lights. 

“Hope?” he echoes, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. 

“Mm,” you hum, drawing one knee to your chest while letting the other dangle, straddling an invisible line between your two worlds. “I come here and imagine as if the moon shines only for me.”

“That's not true.”

“I know,” you giggle quietly, your laugh swiftly morphing into a pout. “Most of the time it feels as if it’s shining for everyone but me.”

“I don’t think the moon cares enough to single you out.”

“That's somewhat comforting to hear.”

Running a hand through your hair, you speak again. “I don’t usually talk to strangers,” you confess, lifting the nearly empty soju bottle in your left hand. “I’m just a bit drunk, and really sad,” you whisper, as if entrusting him with a secret, an admission that the universe can be cruel in the fates it deals out. He knows that more than most.

“I don't mind,” he inches closer to you, his curious eyes casting over your gloomy figure. “So, you come here looking for hope?”

“It's a bit silly, right?” you smile sheepishly, and he shakes his head. 

“Silly, no. It’s just unrealistic to look for something that is not tangible.”

“Everything that is good in life cannot be grasped with our hands.”

He knows nothing of all these good things you speak of, so he remains silent.

“You know what’s funny? Each time I ask for a sign I find it.”

Each time you call out for him he is there. 

“Is that so?” 

You take a big gulp from your drink, setting it down as your tone grows melancholic with each word. “Yeah. I think I've seen more butterflies in the past five years than the average person does in a lifetime.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?” he asks tentatively, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. What if, all along, in his attempts to pull you up he has only been drowning you further? 

“It is. It makes me believe that things will turn out better, in the end,” you share, pausing briefly as if attempting to contain your words. It’s only a moment later that you continue, “I guess I'm just tired of believing things will get better instead of feeling better.”

He was a temporary patch-up, a band-aid made of silk threads destined to wear off with time. Guardian angels cannot help with the woes of the heart. For all their immortality, they fall short before the power of emotions, kneel in surrender at the altar of humanity. 

But on your darkest night— your black Friday where the sky resembles an abyss in which every star has fizzled out, he does not want to leave you without hope. 

“Maybe you just need better signs,” he whispers, as a hoard of butterflies swivels before your eyes, a kaleidoscope of colorful wings fluttering in the hopes of breathing life into you once again. 

“Butterflies don’t show up at night…” you marvel in hushed tones, your eyes darting everywhere to take in the magical scenery. 

“Did you do this?” you’re breathless as you turn to ask but no one’s near anymore. 

The heaviness in your heart has dissolved, not entirely, but enough for Yongbok to dismiss it as a fleeting nuisance, a stubborn weed, a lone thorn that he deftly plucked away.

…

Yongbok has not stopped thinking of your conversation, the steadiness in your voice as you spoke of hope, of good things that elude your gaze but infuse your existence with sweetness. He knew that he broke the rules by speaking to you, that there are but severe cases in which an angel is allowed to address their human. Sadness, no matter how profound, was not one of them. And yet, for all the years he spent abiding by the rules, he had not regretted talking to you, not once. 

He had memorized the cadence of your voice, the sheer glaze in your eyes as they held his, the way you drowned yourself in alcohol, nose scrunching at its bitter taste. Everything about you, he learned, committing it to his memory that was once a blank canvas, for he had never lived something worth remembering, for he had never strayed from the straight path, drawn out eons ago for him. 

Until you. 

It is the following Friday and Yongbok hovers near a bar, his eyes absorbing the sight of the drunk humans mingling in there. Some of them are laughing, clinking half-empty glasses as they cheer loudly, Others, too busy pressing their lips against one another to dare dream of forgetting this moment. And then some sitting alone, their gaze fixated on the liquid within their glass, as if it holds the key to all their unanswered prayers. Foolish behavior, but he is drawn to the mundanity of it, for some odd reason. 

He draws in a deep breath, before concealing his celestial wings and venturing into the dimly lit bar. He sits by a stool, curiously eyeing the array of alcohol on display. “What can I get you?” the bartender asks and he responds with a nonchalant shrug. “Strongest thing you have.” After all, inebriation is an experience beyond his grasp.

The abrupt sound of glass meeting the counter startles him, and he turns to his left. There, he discovers a young man, roughly his age, signaling the bartender for another pour. Ebony hair pulled into a small ponytail, a furrowed brow shaping his lips into a frown, the man’s gaze remains fixed on the scattered droplets of Whiskey across the counter. In the faint light, Yongbok spots a mole by his jaw, then another one underneath his eye. 

“Bad night?” Yongbok inquires, clearing his throat, a thrill coursing through him at the prospect of talking with another human.

“Kinda,” the stranger sighs, turning around to face him. “I’m Hyunjin,” he says, extending his hand with a lopsided smile.

He firmly shakes it, before introducing himself back, “Yongbok.” 

“Yongbok, mm… Feelbok,” Hyunjin slurs, “no, no, Hanbok,”— happiness— Hyunjin giggles at his own words punctuating them with a thumbs-up. “Nice name.”

“Thank you,” Yongbok mirrors his smile, although the gesture happens more naturally than he expected. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, as he watches Hyunjin down yet another glass.

“I should be,” he mumbles, before placing his chin atop his palm, gaze lost somewhere far in the depths of his mind.

Yongbok remains silent as Hyunjin blinks slowly, a sad smile imprinted into his mouth. “I opened my art gallery today. It was acclaimed by all the art critics who visited. They said it was moving, woven with emotions that are translated into every choice I made, from the colors to the blending to the lighting.”

Yongbok frowns, a sudden confusion settling over him as he detects the sorrow dripping from Hyunjin’s tone. He realizes that his expression mirrors the same loneliness he witnessed in you countless times before. Humans, it seems, resemble each other at their most vulnerable.

“But…” he continues, prompted by Yongbok’s silence or the strong alcohol, he doesn’t really know. “All these people came but not the one I painted for.”

Ah, Yongbok now understands what drives Hyunjin’s sadness— love. The irony of humans strikes him; for the one feeling they crave ends up hurting them the most.

“Every painting was about her and she wasn’t there to see it,” Hyunjin confesses as anguished tears suddenly well in his eyes. He cannot conjure hope for Hyunjin, for he is not his human to guard, so Yongbok mimics what he witnessed you do countless times to your friends. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“It will pass,” Yongbok reassures, not with a misplaced sense of optimism, but because it is an undeniable truth. Humans forget as much as they remember, grieve as much as they love, heal as much as they hurt. In their short life, everything they go through passes. It is how they survive the hurts of the heart.

“I don’t want it to. If the pain passes then I won’t have anything to remember her by,” Hyunjin smiles sadly, patting Yongbok’s hand above his own. 

“Don’t you regret loving her?” he asks, perplexed by the breathing contradiction before him. 

“I regret losing her, not loving her. Never loving her.” 

As he stood on the same rooftop you were on nights ago, Yongbok is left with Hyunjin’s sleek business card held between his fingers, and a dull longing in his heart, many, many hours later.

Can a straight line stray from its path? Can his void be replaced with love? 

At what cost can an angel taste humanity? 

“Our kind yongbok.” A calm voice speaks and the wings on Yongbok’s back twitch more intensely than they’ve ever done. The danger Seungmin spoke of was here.

At what cost could he not? 

“Christopher,” Yongbok bows in respect, eyes refusing to meet those of his senior. 

“You had no problem looking at all these humans, no?” Christopher muses and Yongbok takes one step back. Chris knows, he has always known and yet he allowed it. 

Why?

“Fascinating creatures, right? I still fail to understand them. But what I do know for certain is that they are weak,” he pauses, Yongbok’s breath hitches in his throat. “Just like you.” 

Yongbok’s nails dig forcefully into his palms, it does not soothe his nerves the way it does to you. 

“But see, the difference between you and them is that they were crafted to be weak. Then again… everything about you is abnormal, you agree?” Chris speaks assuredly, his tongue telling facts alone. Yongbok remains silent, anticipating his punishment for trespassing into the human realm, for breaking the sacred rule of interacting with them.

Tales of chained angels, of those stripped of their wings, their bloodied feathers plucked out one by one haunt his thoughts. This is the closest Yongbok has gotten to fear. 

In a blink, Chris materializes before him, his hand resting on Yongbok’s shoulder, reminiscent of the comforting gesture he extended to Hyunjin. However, this hold is not reassuring; it bears a weight that spells danger with every squeeze. 

“Do you want to feel what humans do? Go, Yongbok, I won’t punish you. Roam with them, talk to them, and feel.”

Yongbok’s wings scatter with the wind, feathers falling like a curtain of white upon their heads. He falls to his knees, hand brought up to his chest as he suddenly senses everything surrounding him— the bitter wind brushing against his skin and the rush of hot blood coursing within his veins, the loud ringing of cars that morph into hands choking him, and worse of all, the loss of his wings that his spine seems to be weeping for. 

“But remember, everything comes with a price,” Christopher’s polished shoes come into his view— Yongbok does not recognize the distorted reflection staring back. “Even weakness.” 

Act two. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it.

“If brokenness is a form of art, I must be a poster child prodigy” - Neptune, Sleeping At Last.

Delicate snowflakes descend upon the earth, intricate crystals forming a pristine blanket that veils the ground, concealing its flaws to the naked eye. The snow doesn’t discriminate, it falls atop every building in Seoul, from towering skyscrapers adorned with luminous billboards to the humblest abodes, nestled in concealed alleys, all bathed in a bluish glow at the heights of the night. 

And in its fall, the snow does not leave Yongbok’s body behind, draping it in a cloak of icy tendrils, ones that seep through bones he did not know were capable of aching before. It mingles with his golden feathers, scattered all over the rooftop, tinged with his spilled blood. The crimson liquid oozes from his back to the ground, and in his first seconds as a human, Yongbok has already tainted the purity of the soil, he is already a nuisance, in this world too.

He is faintly aware of warm hands cradling his cheeks, attempting to infuse life into his pallid face. A kaleidoscope of blurry hues obscures his vision, and he is no longer sure how much time has passed since Christopher abandoned him on the unforgiven ground. It could have been mere minutes or lengthy hours— he is yet to be acquainted with how time passes on humans. 

He also cannot recall you coming into the rooftop, does not remember when you pulled his head onto your lap, nor began combing your fingers soothingly through his golden locks. You are worried, he can still feel the pulsing of your heartbeat ringing in his ears, or maybe it is his own, he still cannot distinguish what is yours and what is his. 

He’s in a haze, standing on the edge of a window, assaulted by biting winds that cut through him. He didn’t expect humanity to crash onto him this hard, for it to force oxygen onto his lungs only to set them ablaze. 

“You’re awake, you’re okay.” Your reassuring words break through the disorienting daze, your hand firmly clasping his, guiding him away from the window’s edge, ushering him back into safety. In the familiarity of your voice, the winds relent, morphing into gentle zephyrs that cool the burning storm within him. He can feel the softness of your hand, your thumb swirling around his palm as if drawing out a soothing spell with your touch. 

“H… hurts,” he stammers, the words escaping between breaths that struggle to find passage. He brings your palm atop his heart, where a myriad of stones seem to have found refuge, crushing his lungs and rendering them a cloud of useless dust, scattered away by the wind. 

“It’s okay. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay,” your voice is calm, though it speaks of frightening things. Would what he felt pass now that you put a name to it? Was it supposed to reassure him to hear that panic, like an uninvited intruder, has seized his being and is attacking it relentlessly? A secret ambush, a Trojan horse infiltrating his body under the guise of humanity. 

“Help me,” his plea echoes weakly, an awkward sound that clashes with the very air particles, imprinting itself onto the oxygen you inhale. Is this what Christopher meant? Were his weaknesses only going to surge forth more now? 

Is the cost of humanity facing the ugliness within you? 

The questions swirl in his head like a relentless tornado, drowning out your voice until it becomes a distant murmur in the backburner of his mind. His body rebels against him, ears amplifying the cacophony of his breaths, shaky hands refusing to be still, lungs constricting to the point of near collapse. He’s back before the window, dangling over its edge with one silky thread, worn out from the countless humans who had clung to it in desperation before.

His hand slips. You seize it before he falls.

“Breathe with me, focus on my voice,” you come to him like a calming tide, pulling him into safe shores. You’re so close your nose almost brushes with his own, your hands enveloping his icy fingers to anchor him back to you. He tries to mimic your slow inhales, tuning out all his tumultuous thoughts to focus solely on you.

Under the starry sky and the unyielding snow, and through the panic that captures his being, his gaze seems to fixate on the most mundane of things— the soft moonlight filtering through the strands of your hair, casting a faint halo around your figure. As you draw in deep breaths, encouraging him to follow suit, the thought crosses his mind – perhaps, you are his guardian angel now.

Time passes in this shared rhythm until, finally, you release his face, falling beside him on the snow. His breaths find a more regular cadence, mirroring yours, yet an ache persists in his chest, as if unseen hands continue to press down on his heart, squeezing it dry of its blood.

You run a hand through your face tiredly, eyes looking up at the expanse before you. “Fuck, I thought you were dying.” 

An apology lingers at the tip of his tongue, vocal cords itching to free the three syllables into the chilly air. But Yongbok has never apologized before, he doesn’t know how the words might crystallize in the cold. He isn’t sure he could bear witnessing their form now. 

“What happened?” he ventures, his voice small and fragile, his face turning slightly toward you. You appear like a crescent moon, soft and gentle even with only half of your face visible to him. 

“I came to the rooftop and I found you on the ground, surrounded by bloodied feathers and shaking from the cold,” you begin to explain only to freeze as if a crucial detail has just resurfaced in your memory. He knows what you’ll ask about before you speak. 

“What are these feathers?” your inquiry hangs in the air, your gaze still directed ahead. He remains silent, unsure of how to explain the inexplicable.  

“Who are you?” you press, and his reply comes in a single word, uttered vulnerably, “Yongbok.”

Please leave it at that. 

Your voice is softer, more resigned when you speak again.  “What are you?” 

He does not need to voice the truth. He could chuckle and say that he’s human, what else do you expect him to be, and his voice might shake from the unrehearsed lie but you would believe him, and then he’ll make sure your paths would never cross again. 

But a small part of him feels as if he does owe the truth to you. Because you cared for his well-being when you did not need to, gave up some of your warmth to infuse his being with it, sacrificed minutes of your time to make sure he’ll have sand left in his hourglass. 

So, he sucks in a deep breath, gathering the courage to unravel the truth. 

“I’m an angel. Your guardian angel. Or maybe was. I still don’t really know, yet.”

An incredulous laugh escapes your lips, gusts of powdery air materializing before him. “An angel?”

“Yes.”

“This is insane,”  you shake your head, your face buried in the same palms that had cradled his cheeks tenderly moments ago— his sail amidst the winds. 

“Is that how you managed to make all those butterflies appear that night?” you question, and he nods, shutting his eyes and releasing a strained exhale.

“So you’ve been guarding me all this time?” 

“Since you turned eighteen.”

He freezes as he wonders what you’ll say next— maybe you’ll ask him to disappear from your life, not one to wish to mingle with angels and their kindred, maybe you’ll leave him be in the snow, lonely as he has always been.

What he doesn’t expect is for your eyes to find his, compassion swimming in your gleaming irises, your voice dripping with concern as you ask him. “What happened to you, Yongbok?” 

There was no way for you to feel what he did, and yet you spoke as if you could— as if you peered into his heart and discovered it butchered and bruised, found thorns entangled around his veins instead of vines. 

“I don’t know,” he chokes out a sob, as sudden tears stream down his cheeks, salty as they infiltrate his mouth, drowning him from within. The tears refuse to cease even after he wipes them, one after the other, a futile gesture akin to pouring water into sand, an attempt to nurture something not meant to grow.

“It’s okay,” you smile, your eyes shimmering like a million fireflies in the night. He shakes his head, as more tears escape him in the guise of words. In all of the times he has seen you cry, he never fathomed he would have sobs racking his body, too. That tears would cascade like an unyielding waterfall, an earthquake shaking the planes of his body, rattling his bones with an intensity beyond what he believed humans could endure.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, cradling his face against the warmth of your neck, his tears seeping through your clothing. He is weeping, though he does not know what for. For nothing yet everything. For the loss of his wings and the birth of his heart. For the harshness of the ground and the softness of your hold. For the Yongbok who perished and the one who came to life. 

…

A fallen angel comes in various forms, some are entirely disgraced while others retain fragments of their celestial countenance. Yongbok, though deprived of his wings, did not lose his powers. He realized this when he instinctively healed the wounds on his back, the torn skin scarring in fleeting seconds. A small mercy bestowed upon him by Christopher, or so it seemed.

He will understand the reasons behind this act much later.

But for now, in his first breaths of humanity, when the echoes of his sobs have at last withdrawn from his being, leaving behind a lingering weariness, he is dealing with less stellar facets of his existence— the more mundane technicalities of it. 

“So, not to rub salt on the wound but I assume you also don’t have a place to stay in,” you ponder, waiting until he regains enough composure to grasp your words, ensuring they wouldn't float beyond his reach.

“No, I didn’t exactly prepare for this,” he winces, his gaze briefly meeting the scattered feathers on the ground. But not for too long, looking at them invited a grand sense of loss into his being, a sentiment too weighty for his fragile state to harbor. 

“You can stay at mine, and tomorrow we can start looking for a house for you?” you suggest, stretching out your tired limbs.

“You don’t… You don’t need to help me.”

Yongbok does need your help, you are the only human he knows and he is unfamiliar with how your kind acquire housing. And yet he finds himself at the crossroads between what his heart wants and what his tongue speaks of— ready to vehemently refuse your proposal to not inconvenience you, as if he’s a towering mountain poised to shoulder burdens when in reality, his being has never been this frail.

“You guarded me for five years,” you smile softly, effortlessly dispelling away his concerns like meaningless specks of dust. “It’s the least I could do.”

Stepping into your home was as familiar as walking into his own. He, unwittingly, memorized each nook and cranny of your place, a consequence of all the times he had lingered near— hovering, more accurately, above. So much so that he instinctively slips off his shoes and places them in your rack, mirroring the countless times he observed you perform the same task.

“So you really are my guardian angel,” you shudder quietly and he hums in questioning, turning to look at you, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you respond, perking up and adorning your lips with a swift smile. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m okay,” he whispers, attempting to shrink as much as possible in the confines of your place. He has never felt this much discomfort in his own body, as though the skin draped on his bones belonged to a stranger. 

“Well, I’m hungry so you’ll eat with me,” you say with a warm smile, putting your hair up in a quick bun before walking into the kitchen. You move seamlessly as if you are hosting a long-time friend rather than an angel you saved from possible hypothermia. 

“Buldak ramen?” you ask, hands resting on the counter.

“Sure,” he nods, settling atop the stool. 

He watches in silence as you bring the water to a boil, before pouring two servings of the instant noodles into it. You pause, thinking it over before adding two more. 

“How are you so nonchalant about this?” he blurts out, finally freeing the question that had been swirling and growing in his mind- an insatiable weed that needed to be plucked before it infested his brain completely.

“About having an angel in my house who was apparently cast away from the skies and has guarded me for the past five years without me knowing, and who somehow knows where my shoe closet is without me needing to share?” you ramble in one breath, the tightness in your chest palpable. “Yeah, I’m totally cool about that.”

“You’re totally not cool about that.”

“No, I’m not,” you admit sheepishly, settling on the stool before him. “I mean I am. A friend of mine met his guardian angel two years ago when he saved him from a horrible car accident. So, your existence does not freak me out, it’s common knowledge for us humans.” 

You bite your lip, averting your gaze from him to the painting adorning the wall above your couch—a bouquet of red roses where the petals seem dripping scarlet, resounding with passion and love, signed by H.

“It’s just… did you do something bad? For you to be left there alone?”

“Not bad,” he mumbles, clearing his throat awkwardly. It suddenly seemed silly to explain to a human that he envied their humanity, the one thing most of them seem to despise. “I broke the rules by talking to you that night, then to another human, and I was punished for it. I think,” he adds hesitantly.

“Oh,” you gasp softly, redirecting your attention to the pot to turn off the heat. It makes breathing easier for him. “You think?” you echo.

“It’s what I wanted,” he whispers, a bit breathless, now frightened by this newfound reality. He kept his powers and yet he lost his wings— he cannot fly back to his home and yet he can conjure anything his mind wishes for. He is with the one human that sparked his fascination and yet he cannot stop thinking of the price Christopher mentioned. Thinking too much about any of these things brings tears back to his throat— his body yearning to produce a liquid it has never known before.

“So, I assume you’ve never watched Howl’s Moving Castle up there,” you abruptly shift the subject, a radiant smile gracing your face as you pour the ramen into two bowls, generously topping them off with cheese.

“No?” His response carries a hint of uncertainty, and a sudden wave of frustration washes over him for feeling so displaced in his own existence. Yet, you appear oblivious to the awkwardness emanating from him as you gasp enthusiastically, seizing the two bowls and making your way to the couch. 

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” you beam, patting the spot next to you before taking the remote and queuing up the movie.

The meal tastes better than anything Yongbok has ever eaten in his life, each bite igniting his taste buds in a symphony of flavors, akin to the spark of a popping candy in his mouth. He finds himself engrossed in the movie, in the stunning visuals, the gentle hues, and the paradoxical characters, uncovering reflections of his own existence within them.

He has never understood the need humans felt for art, dedicating hours upon hours to creating something not for their personal gain, but for others to watch, to reach, to touch. A craft not to appease one’s soul but to soothe the spirits of others. Yet, as the movie’s credits come to an end, a subtle shift occurs within him. Perhaps, he thinks with his widely beating heart, he now understands a little more.

“I feel terrible like there is a weight on my chest,” you repeat one of Howl’s concluding lines, stealing a glance at him, a tender smile gracing your face. The one dialogue that felt like a mirror was brought up to Yongbok's face.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” he completes Sophie’s response to Howl. 

“That’s true. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it,” you speak softly, as one would do to a child taking tentative steps into the world, learning that their first breath starts with grieving the only place you've known for nine months, followed by happiness, then sadness again, akin to the moon’s gradual phases. And maybe, in a way, he is a child lost in the overwhelming flood of these emotions, ones yet to be untangled in his mind but that already lay upon him like stones.

“Not everyone knows they have a heart, Yongbok. Some end up dying before ever feeling, without ever truly living.”  

“I just didn’t imagine it would be this… soul-crushing to bear it,” he admits softly, the words escaping him like a delicate secret. There's a hint of fear that accompanies his confession, an apprehension that Christopher might materialize before him, speaking in that calm, knowing tone—berating him with a simple “I told you so.”

“It’s a little organ facing a big life. It’s normal for it to be overwhelmed, don’t you think?” 

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, placing a trembling palm above his heart. Still as heavy. 

“You had a long night, get some rest, okay? We can start looking for a house tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he nods, as you rise from your place, only to reach for your wrist before fully thinking it through.  “Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

In the cracks of his heart, one seed of gratitude has been planted, a singular ray of light amid a stretch of darkness.

Finding a house turns out to be a strenuous task, and Yongbok feels remarkably disinterested in the discussions with every real estate agent you encounter. You play the role of his assistant, weaving a tale about an important businessman client who abruptly secured a job transfer to Seoul. However, he couldn't care less for the large windows ushering sunlight or the expansive patio offering picturesque views of Seoul. Instead, he focuses on your reactions to each room—the gasps of delight at spacious storage areas and the vacant rooms you dream of adorning in the future, once you're no longer a broke college student, as you explain.

You envision a room dedicated to your books, with a chair nestled in the middle for the long nights you spend reading, and another room designed as a painting studio. The expansive kitchens you visit are perfect for your baking endeavors, and Yongbok, perplexed by your fascination with fridges sporting two doors, finds amusement in your lively antics. Yet, a void persists within him, unfilled by the prospects of a shiny new home.

“Still not the one?” you ask on your third day of apartment hunting, and he shakes his head. 

“It’s okay, we’ll find the perfect one soon,” you reassure, and in that moment, he thinks back to your very first conversation on the rooftop, wonders how you can find hope for everyone surrounding you but yourself. 

“I still can’t believe I befriended a nepo angel,” you giggle, before inching closer to him on the couch, peering at him from beneath your eyelashes. “My air fryer is broken by the way, can you replace it?”

He contemplates for a minute before shaking his head, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “No.”

“Aren’t you my guardian angel?”

“Right, a guardian angel. Not a bank.” 

“But if my air fryer isn’t replaced soon then I’ll keep using it even though all its electric wires are now exposed and a fire will break out and I’ll end up dying—”

“Fine,” he heaves a resigned sigh, “I’ll replace it.” 

“Can you also get me the Le Creuset kitchen set?” you grin, standing in your kitchen a few minutes later, cradling your brand-new air fryer between your arms.

“I'm not your sugar daddy.”

Your gasp is so comical that it coaxes a little giggle from his lips. “So you know about sugar daddies and not Studio Ghibli movies.”

“Gossip travels in our world too,” he shrugs, and you put the air fryer down, leaning closer to his face. From this proximity, he can discern the delicate curve of your eyelashes and the way they frame your glowing eyes—how can your eyes shine so brightly even under the shittiest kitchen lighting he’s ever seen?

"Hello? Did you hear me?" you wave a hand before his face, and he snaps back to reality, your voice flooding his senses again.

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” you shrug your hand dismissively in the air, “should we celebrate your third day of knowing me?”

“That's cause for celebration?” he frowns, and you playfully hit his arm. “I feed you, I clothe you, I put a roof above your head—” Your words are muffled as he clasps a hand over your mouth.

“Can you hear that?” he wonders.

You shake your head no.

“It's quiet, finally.”

His hand, a feeble barrier, does not manage to muffle your offended gasp, and in that moment, Yongbok laughs for the first time in his existence, a sound that ripples from the roots of his being, washing over his sadness and erasing it for a split second.

His eyes are closed as he tips his head back in laughter, and he misses the way your eyes soften, your retort withering at the tip of your tongue. 

He’s beautiful when he smiles, you think. You hope for all his powers he cannot hear your thoughts. 

…

Yongbok does not know what’s there to celebrate on his third day in this world, for all he had felt so far was excruciating sadness. But he complies with your wishes, rising at dawn to join you on the shore of the nearby ocean. Seated on the sand dampened by morning dewdrops, the remnants of melting snow resemble ink on a page not yet dry. 

He watches as the last threads of the night unfold before his eyes, leaving way to a mesmerizing palette of soft pinks and oranges, the sky blushing from a night spent with the moon.

You brought him to witness the sun rising above the ocean, said that it would help calm down the frenzy of his heart. You are quite right, since the rhythmic dance of the waves acts like a spell, unraveling the knot in his tongue and coaxing him to recount everything that has led him up to this moment, to you. You were the main reason for his journey, he did not see it fitting to conceal the truth from you. He did not know yet how to deceive or lie. 

“So you wanted to feel?” you conclude softly and Yongbok nods, eyes not peeling away from the sky before him. It looks grander from below, a vast ceiling you never fear might collapse on you.

“That’s why it overwhelmed you a lot, every emotion is heightened because it was the first time, I suppose” you muse. 

“Yeah, but does it ever lessen with time? Isn't that why you cry often?” he asks, now free of the bounds that once restricted his curiosity.

“Can you please not bring this up again?” you hide your face, and he tilts his head, a perplexed expression etched on his features.

“Why is that?”

“It's embarrassing that you saw me cry this much,” you mumble, your words nearly drowned out by the crashing waves.

“It's not embarrassing. It's... fascinating,” he asserts. You stare at him incredulously, prompting him to elaborate. “You go down the same path, fully aware of where it leads, and yet, you do it again on the off chance that you'll receive the same kindness you show.”

“I sound stupid,” you giggle, and he mirrors your smile, not to mimic you, but because the corners of his mouth yearn to curve upwards, refusing to leave you alone in your grin.

“No, you sound brave.”

Your eyes soften at his words, the light of the rising sun filtering easily through your irises, causing your pupils to widen with each passing second.

“Thank you.” 

A tranquil quiet settles between you, the soothing sound of the waves filling the silence. The sun hovers directly above the water now, perched on the horizon, the sky much bolder in the colors it showcases.

“I come here when my heart feels too heavy to bear. I suppose that looking at the sea calms me,” you murmur, your cheek pressed against your knee.

“Why is that?”

“For these waves to reach the shore, they go through a lot, you know? Storms and tumultuous roads, and rage fills them, anger, sadness too at being away from home for too long. But then, they always reach the shores at last. And they calm down, and they’re at peace.” 

You turn to look at him, the hues of the sunrise reflecting off your face, dancing with the shadows that mold your features.

You look beautiful, so much so that he almost misses what you say next.

“So it is comforting to know that no matter how grand my worries are, there will come a time when they too will grow tired and rest.”

“It will pass,” he whispers and you nod cheerfully. “See, you’re already getting the gist of it.” 

“No,” he contradicts, “everything I know about humanity is from you.”

The colors of the sky seem to seep through your face at his words, and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through his being at the thought of making you blush.

He licks his lips tentatively, bringing your hand to rest atop his heart, hoping that the pressure will help ease its tension.

It does, ever so slightly.

“It feels like my heart is squeezed between two narrow walls,” he explains and you nod in understanding.

“Like it’s been sucked through a straw that drains you out of life.”

“Yes,” He exhales with contentment at the thought of someone understanding what he means, of what he feels no longer being an anomaly, but the norm for most.

“Will you move in with me?” he suddenly asks, and you startle, your fingers growing limp in his hold. 

“What?” 

“Your apartment is shitty, you hate your landlord and I’m pretty sure there is mold growing on your walls.”

“Okay, no need to attack me,” you roll your eyes amusedly. 

“I’ll buy the apartment you wanted, it technically doesn’t cost me anything and it’s closer to your university too, you no longer have to commute. You can get the library you wanted and the painting space too.” 

“But—”

“I’m a fallen angel tasting humanity for the first time, I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m supposed to do. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet because I don’t know who I’ll find there. And I’m so scared, Y/n, so scared,” he confesses, breathless, his hand still pressing your palm against his erratic heart. 

A few seconds of heavy silence pass, Yongbok senses a resolve in you unfold. 

“And in return?” you ask tentatively. 

“I want to be happy,“ he breathes out, eyes flickering over yours like a swaying candlelight, “Could you show me how it’s done?”

Act 3. What’s an angel to a human?

“I want a better body, I want better skin, I wanna be perfect like all your other friends"- Black Friday, Tom Odell.

“So, happiness.” You stand near a blank whiteboard in the middle of your cramped living room, the one you just asked Yongbok to conjure out of thin air. 

You’ve been slightly abusing his ability to make your every wish materialize in a fleeting second, but only for useless things, like a bar of soap that smells specifically of these notes combinations you always thought would pair heavenly together (they did not), or a tube of salted caramel ice cream at 2 a.m. because you were too lazy to walk to the fridge (it was mere two meters away). Or just like now, a huge whiteboard so you’d explain to him, visually, how to achieve happiness. 

You told him that you’d only allow him to buy you a new house if he truly felt happy, for the very first time in his life. When he asked you how he’d know, you said he’d simply do, when the time comes. You shook hands on that promise two days ago. 

“Was this really necessary?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow at you. In response, you place your palms against your hips, eyes squinting at his dubious figure. 

“Do you want to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, shut up.”

“I don’t think violence is the way to go about joy,” he quips and you quickly shut him up with a glare. Yongbok came to find that annoying you brought him a strange sense of satisfaction— he enjoyed seeing you pivot away, trying your best to conceal your amused smirk at his teasing. You always fail, or perhaps his perception of your being is heightened by the bond you share.

“I was saying, happiness is a byproduct of biological reactions.” You draw in a smiley face with utter concentration, and he stifles a giggle at the simplistic representation of the feeling. “There are four main hormones that allow us to feel happiness.” You pause, pointing your pen at him. “Yongbok, do you know which these are?”

“If I did know, why would I be here?” 

“True,” you nod vigorously, looking back at the whiteboard before locking eyes with him once more. “Can you please play along? I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” you smile excitedly, speaking in hushed tones as if it was meant to be a shared secret between you both, far from the reach of the angels and peers that must be looking down at you both right now— you in indifference, him in disdain.

He shudders at the thought. 

“Fine. No, I do not Miss,” his smile is small, it grows when your eyes soften at him playing along. “Care to explain?” 

“So, in theory, we have dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin.” You flip the board, revealing some intricate drawings of what looks like the human brain, different arrows going out of it, filled with many inscriptions that he assumes are definitions of the hormones you just revealed. 

“But all of this is…” you play the drums on the board, leaning forth in suspense. “Useless!” you shout, throwing your marker and eraser in the air. Yongbok claps diligently at your dramatics.

“You know for humans with limited amounts of time on this earth, you sure do love wasting your precious minutes,” he taunts and a fire seems to light in your eyes, flames surging higher each time you poke fun at one another.

“You know for an angel who desperately needs my help, you sure do talk a lot.” 

“Touché,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Please grace me with your special knowledge.” 

“Fine.” You plop down next to him on the couch, your knee bumping against his. A pang of ache flares in his being before disappearing as quickly as it came. It leaves him no time to decipher its cause.

“Happiness is the hardest thing to get in this life. Sometimes you follow all the instructions on how to be happy and yet fail to achieve it.” You speak with a lingering bitterness in your tone as if you’ve spent the best part of your life following defective manuals. 

“Happiness won’t come to you, Yongbok. It doesn’t come knocking on our doors. You’ll have to search for it. Especially on days when everything seems grim and dark, you’ll have to squint your eyes and find it in the small things all around you. And when you do, hold on to them with all your might. Even if your hand bleeds, you hold on just as tightly.”

“What small things?” he asks, turning his entire body towards you. He is almost breathless, waiting for you to spell out the secret to tasting life’s sweetest fruit.

“Things that remain gentle no matter what time does to you. Like looking at flowers, sitting underneath the sun, watching the sea, being kind and helping people, enjoying your favorite hobby… “ you enumerate, your eyes never leaving his. “Do you have a hobby?”

“No?” he replies, though it comes off more as a question. You pick up on his uncertainty, waving a hand quickly through the air.

“It’s okay. I’ll help you find one. I promise.” 

His response comes as easily as an autumn breeze. 

“Okay. I believe you.”

You beam at him, sunlight seemingly pouring into your pores, brightening your face from within. He finds it strange that he suddenly sees the sun in you, a star he has never taken an interest in. But he quickly brushes the thought aside, mirroring your grin.

“I was also thinking,” you add, “you should work with me at my café.” 

“Me?” he points at himself and you giggle, nodding. “Yes, you! Do you want to just sit here all day waiting for me to come home from uni?” 

“What? Who said I don’t want to be your trophy wife?”

You snort, bewildered. “A what?”

“I did a deep dive into Urban Dictionary yesterday.”

You blink once. Then twice. “Crazy words to hear from an angel. And it’s a no, to being my trophy wife.”

“Please?” he pushes, tugging at the outskirts of your sleeve. 

“No,” you sing-song, standing up and heading to the kitchen. “We needed a new barista anyway. And I’ll teach you how to make coffee. Also, I think you’ll enjoy people-watching.”

“That sounds creepy!” he shouts from the couch.  

“Says the guy who told me I cry an average of 160 times per year!”

“It’s 165, actually,” he corrects. 

You peek your head out of the kitchen, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Die.” 

“What happened to live laugh love?” 

“Just how much did you stay on Urban Dictionary?”

“A lot,” he shudders, shaking his head. You burst into uncontainable giggles, and the same satisfaction floods Yongbok’s being. Although this time it is much stronger.

It is a weird thought that suddenly brushes his mind— he thinks that if the sun ever spoke it would be your laugh spilling out of its mouth. 

… 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you grin, spreading your arms wide as you open the door to Haven Café. Yongbok follows closely behind, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black jeans.

“It’s nice,” he says absentmindedly, his eyes sweeping across every surface of the interior.

“Nice? This is my baby. Please be more expressive,” you retort, pointing a finger at him threateningly. He shakes his head, amused.

“This is the most beautiful place my fallen angel eyes have ever seen,” he says with mock reverence.

He isn’t lying, though. Resplendent flower vases adorn every corner, and a warm, inviting atmosphere permeates the space, evident in the comfortable auburn chairs and the books scattered on the sage shelves.

“I was actually wondering… What makes something beautiful?” he suddenly asks. You pause in your tracks, then resume opening the blinds.

“How it makes you feel,” you say simply. “Help me?” you add. Yongbok nods, sidling up to your side to open the remaining windows.

“This place is beautiful to me because it makes me feel at ease. I know that whatever happens, I can always escape here. Between the flower vases, the aroma of coffee, and the large windows, I feel good. At home,” you explain.

“But isn’t home your house?” he asks earnestly, tilting his head to the side. Your smile, warm and comforting, brushes over him like a fleeting sunbeam.

“Home is where you feel most like yourself.”

He does when you’re nearby. 

Does that make you my home? He wants to ask, but something inside stops him. He thinks it is too big of a confession to be uttered at the rise of dawn. 

“When did you start working here?” he asks, watching you refill the ice.

“Seven years ago.”

“Oh,” he gasps softly, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t known you your entire life. He wasn’t there to guard you through your childhood, to watch you stumble off the steps, or swing high to the sky. He realizes how little he knows about you. He suddenly aches to learn more, to know everything.

“The owner was our old neighbor, so when I was sixteen, he got me my first job here. I’m very attached to this place and its memories so I still come here.” 

“Memories,” he repeats to himself slowly, as if tentatively tasting the way the word feels on his tongue.

“What was that?” you ask, as you sweep the counter with a purple rug.

“It’s nice to have memories,” he smiles and you scrunch your nose, shaking your head slightly.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I have no memories. None worth getting attached to anyway because all my life was spent feeling the same way. So, in a way…” he pauses, licking his lips tentatively. “I have never lived anything that shaped me. Except for meeting you.” A few silent beats pass, and you feel as if he has more to say, so you remain quiet. 

Yongbok opens his mouth, only to close it again, deciding against speaking. Yet again, too early.

“It’s your first life, in a way,” you finally say, “there are all these unknown feelings that you are experiencing for the first time. It’s unfair to you if you expect yourself to figure it out from the get-go.” 

Your palm rests upon his back, swiping gently left and right before you move around the corner to filter the coffee. But Yongbok feels as if the clock orchestrating the universe has halted, the seconds freezing the moment your hand touched his back.

It is a heavy, gruesome knowledge that he bears— knowing that beneath your warm, comforting touch lies a map of butchered skin and scars running down his spine. His powers had fallen short of erasing the remnants of his lost wings, leaving behind clots of skin that starkly highlight all his imperfections in one place.

Yongbok had looked at his back only once, a fleeting glance before he vowed never to set eyes on his abomination again, this grotesque reminder clinging to him like skeletons overflowing from his closet.

He felt ugly, and worthless for carrying such a vivid reminder of who he once was. Who he failed to be. No one should ever see his back.

Especially not you.

“There are twenty minutes left until opening. Shall we discover what your favorite drink is?” you ask, snapping Yongbok out of his haze.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat with an inhuman effort. “That sounds nice.”

Yongbok doesn't like coffee—you could tell from the scrunch of his nose and the squint in his eye after one sip of his iced Americano. “Are you bad at making coffee, or does it always taste like this?” he asks, and you throw a dozen napkins at his head in response.

“People ask for me specifically to make their coffee. Know your place,” you squint threateningly. He raises his hands in surrender, biting his tongue cheekily. Your eyes linger a bit too long on his lips, shaped like a cupid’s bow, their arrow striking straight through your heart.

It sometimes astonishes you how pretty your guardian angel is, and how seemingly unaware he is of the beauty he carries within each one of his features, each worthy of paintings and sculptures to immortalize them for eternity to come.

“This is good,” he grins, sipping his caramel Frappuccino happily.

“Because it’s ninety percent sugar,” you smile just as brightly. He puts down the drink slowly, eyeing you curiously.

“Why do I feel as if this is a secret insult?”

“It’s not a secret insult. I’m doing it to your face,” you smile, and he rolls his eyes so much they almost reach the back of his head. You can’t help but giggle quietly as he grabs the vanilla matcha drink. “Wow I can’t believe the sassy men apocalypse affects angels as well,” you sigh.

“I literally have no idea what half of these words are.”

“What happened to Urban Dictionary?”

“Die.”

“Aww, look at you picking up my slang already,” you coo at him. 

It's his turn to fling balled-up napkins at your face. You dodge them perfectly as if in a dance you’ve rehearsed thousands of times before.

“Anyways,” you clap excitedly, “you have five minutes to make me a latte.”

“Me? But I don't know how to.”

You place a recipe book before him, tapping the counter diligently. “I expect the world’s tastiest latte.”

A small smirk draws upon his lips as he shakes his head slightly. The sight of him makes you flustered all of a sudden.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

“No,” you grin. “Have fun!”

You wander through the café, dusting the books on the shelves– your most prized possessions, ones that you bought and others that customers themselves have donated. You return to Yongbok’s side when his voice booms through the place, calling your name.

“Here,” he slings the drink toward you, and your face contorts in shock.

“What the fuck? Since when do you know how to do this?”

“Do what?”

“This intricate latte art?” you point to the foam forming a perfectly drawn white swan.

“Ah, this. One time you were in the kitchen, very frustrated because you couldn’t get this shape right. So, I did it for you.”

“Are all angels as sweet as you?” you grin, taking a sip of the drink and holding his gaze over the rim of the glass. His heart catches in his throat for two reasons—anticipation as he awaits your reaction, and hunger as he aches for you to describe him even more, to dress him in all the adjectives linked to his being so he wouldn’t feel like a stranger, a blank canvas in his own body.

“How is it?” he asks. You remain silent, taking another sip.

“Mm.”

“Mm?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s opening time!” you sing-song, walking away, and he follows behind you. “Why won’t you tell me? Is it that bad?”

“I don’t want to!” you speed up walking, and so does he. You end up running, skirting around the chairs, your laughter coating the room like golden honey. “Leave me alone!” 

“You have to tell me!” he shouts, chasing after you in an impromptu game of catch. He suddenly manages to grab your arm, spinning you around until your back is against the table, his arms on either side of your body. His eyes are suddenly drawn to the languid rise and fall of your chest, and then to the way your tongue slowly swipes across your lips, wetting them. 

A sudden warmth pools in his lower stomach, and he lets out a shuddered breath, his heart caught in a web of unknown feelings.

“Am I interrupting?” an unknown voice breaks in, and Yongbok quickly takes three hurried steps away from you, his cheeks ablaze as if flames are latching onto them—he doesn’t know if it’s from his embarrassment or from the golden specks he could decipher in your eyes.

“Mr. Kang!” you shout excitedly, skipping over to stand by the man’s side. He’s shorter than you, his back slightly hunched from time’s morphing hands, and his smile is warm as it lands on you. He reaches out to ruffle your hair in greeting before his gaze lands on Yongbok.

“Is this your friend?” he asks, the same smile still etched into his lips. You nod, and Yongbok bows deeply before straightening up.

“Can he make nice coffee?” Mr. Kang asks, and Yongbok stares at you expectantly.

“The best,” you finally grin, and a worried breath dissipates from his chest.

“I think we’ll get more clients too. He’s very handsome!”

“I know, you should see his freckles,” you giggle, pointing to a lightbulb that needs fixing on the other side of the café. Yongbok stays rooted in place, trying his best to steady his breathing. He is sure his face has turned the shade of the sky after a crimson sunset.

…

“This is Chris,” you say, standing by Yongbok’s side two hours later as he diligently wipes the counter. Yongbok follows your gaze to a young man nodding his head to the rhythm of his headphones. He looks serious, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. His hair is hidden beneath a black cap, but a few strands escape, swooping like a duck’s tail.

“We take a music theory class together. He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, a true social butterfly. I think the term was coined for him,” you explain. As if summoned by your words, Chris looks up, his eyes finding the two of you. He tilts his head in greeting, clicks a few keys on his laptop, then rises to join you.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, and you roll your eyes. “When are you going to drop the cheesy nicknames?”

“Never,” he smiles, dimples deepening. They remain as his gaze shifts to Yongbok.

Yongbok isn’t used to smiles that don’t falter when they land on him.

“Hey, mate,” Chris says, extending his hand. Yongbok nods, shaking it.

“I’m Chris.”

“Yongbok.”

“Are you new here?”

“No, we just found him outside and forced him to make coffee,” you tease. Chris bumps your shoulder playfully. “Shut up. Good luck having to stand her for so long.”

“As if you aren’t obsessed with me,” you scoff, turning to Yongbok. “He refuses to drink coffee anywhere else.”

“Because you give me free sweets.”

“In this economy?” Mr. Kang appears suddenly, and the two of you burst into laughter at his timing. “Did your daughter teach you that?” you giggle, and he nods, almost desolate as if forced to acquire this knowledge.

“Anyway, we should hang out at one of my parties, Yongbok. Let’s catch up,” Chris grins before winking at you— “My usual, please, baby.”

You send him a playful middle finger. He blows you a kiss as he returns to his seat.

“We’ve known each other for three years now. He’s very annoying,” you smile, shaking your head. “But he’s a good friend.”

Yongbok feels something chip away in his heart, as his eyes land on Chan’s figure yet again. A slow ache swirls in his stomach like thorny vines. Time seems different for humans. He has known his fellow angels for much longer yet he doesn't think anyone would ever speak of him with this fond of a tone. 

---

“You did well,” you smile, patting Yongbok’s shoulder at the end of the day, the café as empty as it was at 6 a.m.

“Thank you, it was nice,” he replies with a tired, yet genuine smile. You nod, a slight yawn taking over you.

“Will you help me get some flour from the back? Then we can go home.”

Home. A concept that seems less foreign when you are near.

“Sure.”

“It’s there,” you point to a high shelf in the storage room. “We usually use a staircase, but we broke ours last month. I almost fell on my head— “

“But ended up magically walking away unscathed?” he interrupts. “I know.”

You slam a hand over your mouth, staggering back. “How?”

“Y/n... please don’t be surprised when I tell you this,” Yongbok frowns, placing a hand on his heart.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

“When I told you I was your guardian angel, it meant that I actually guarded you from harm’s way.”

“No,” you shake your head.

“I know,” he nods solemnly. “I’ve saved you from many, many clumsy falls.”

“My savior,” you giggle. “Lift me?” you say, and he nods, squatting down until you climb atop his shoulders before rising again.

“Okay, get a bit closer,” you instruct as you grab a packet of flour. “Shit, okay, this is heavy,” you giggle nervously.

“Why are you shaking? I’m the one carrying you,” Yongbok chuckles.

“When have you ever seen me around the vicinity of a gym?”

“Just hang in there, I’ll squat slowly,” he reassures.

Your feet are almost on the ground when the bag slips from your hands, falling with a resounding bang. Clouds of white envelop you both, shrouding your clothes in powder. You freeze, only to erupt into laughter as Yongbok grabs your waist, pulling you down to him.

“My god,” you manage to utter between chuckles, staring at the flour scattered all over the ground. Your laughter intensifies as Yongbok stares at you blankly, his face completely covered in white.

“What should I do?” you giggle, clutching your stomach. Yongbok can’t hold in his laughter much longer at the sight of the tears rolling down your cheeks. His giggles stream through your veins like a cup of hot tea, making your entire being warm up from within.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, your palms settling atop his cheeks, slightly wiping away the powder.

“It’s okay,” he chuckles still, swiping his knuckles across your cheek to remove the flour, as well. Your hands cease their movements as you take in the fully concentrated look on his face.

“Can I ask you something?” you inquire quietly, and he nods.

“You seemed quiet today,” you note. He stiffens slightly before turning your cheek to the left, wiping the other side of your face. “Or was I wrong?”

“I don’t really know how to talk to other people.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m scared they’ll be able to tell there is something abnormal about me.”

“Yongbok...” you speak his name softly as if it was molded after your voice alone. “That’s nonsense. There is nothing abnormal about you.”

He avoids your gaze, so you place your hand atop his, tilting your face to catch his eyes. “Hm?”

“Just because my wings aren’t here doesn’t mean my past is erased.”

“Who said it should be? No one’s asking you to be perfect. No human is, Yongbok.” He remains silent, so you sigh softly, inching closer to him.

“If a straight line goes on with its path...” your fingertip drags a straight line across his chest, the white shirt he’s wearing suddenly igniting from the warmth of your touch. “It will remain undisturbed for the rest of its life. But what good is that? If a line doesn’t go down,” you trace a curve down his shirt, then one up again, “how will it ever know how sweet a high is, right?” you smile, before bopping your fingertip across the tip of his nose.

“You have pretty freckles, by the way,” you smile, and he clears his throat, nodding furiously. “Thank you.”

“You know, the guy who ordered the matcha latte, he spent his entire time here observing you,” you grin knowingly, and he frowns. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, and when you gave him the change, he did the... what was it called again?” you muse for a few seconds before clapping. “Ah, yes, the triangle method.”

“What’s that?”

“He looked into your left eye, then your right one,” you demonstrate with your gaze gliding across his like a skilled ice skater grazing the surface of ice. “Then... his gaze flickered to your lips,” your eyes follow your words, and his breath suddenly catches in his throat, an unknown feeling swelling in the pits of his stomach. Tender and aching all at once. 

“Did it work? Did I fluster you?” you giggle, leaning to place your ear atop his heart. Yongbok pushes your head away, grateful for the dim lighting that conceals his blushing face. He doesn’t know what emotion will burst into him if your head rests across his chest.

He doesn’t think his heart could handle it.

“No, you didn’t, um—” he’s flustered. He prays with all his might you can’t tell. “Let’s clean this up, I’m hungry.”

“What should we have for dinner?”

“Sushi?”

“No, let’s have kimbap.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

You shrug happily. “I’m giving you the illusion of choice.”

Your words send a chill running down his spine, his hands freezing in place. Is this what Chris has offered him? An illusion of choice. Of a different ending. Of a fate different from what he has always thought would be his.

No, Christopher can’t be that cruel, right? Yongbok shakes his head, cleaning the entire room with an absentminded swipe of his hand.

A fool made to believe he can change a prophecy.

But Yongbok can’t help the small voice growing in his head, feeding off his worries and anxiety, echoing mindlessly within his mind.

But he can.

He can.

He is.

…

Time passes differently on humans than on angels. It now marks Yongbok in different ways, too. 

The hours he spends feeling sad are excruciating, stretching long and long till he starts to question whether the sun does rise at the end of the night. Or if it is a cruel lie recounted by humans to make the sadness less harsh, easier to bear. 

But those same hours he spends happily pass within the blink of an eye, their fragments stitching into Yongbok’s memory, a tapestry woven with threads of your silky voice and glimmering eyes. It is those happy moments he lived for the past month that he wishes to remember. 

Only those. 

He's gotten better at latte art, taking pleasure in drawing different shapes, animals, and even faces into the drinks. It’s less the satisfaction of being good at a task, and more so the smile that blooms on the faces of whichever customer gets their drink. Delighted by something he did, for once.

He’s good at making brownies. And apparently, his brownies are the best you’ve ever had. He’s only ever discovered the joys of baking because you were craving some but were feeling too lazy to make them. It was arguably hard to bake in the dark, as if ashamed of what your reaction would be if you found him struggling with pots and browned butter. 

But all of his embarrassment dissipated when you tasted them first thing in the morning, your eyes lingering longer on his figure when you found the plate. 

Mr. Kang agrees, too, so much that he’s asked him to put up these brownies for sale. Yongbok spends a lot of time with the kitchen staff, where Mrs. Kang, the head chef, teaches him the intricacies of carrot cake and cinnamon rolls. She calls him “son”,  Yongbok doesn’t know why an urge to weep overtakes him each time he hears the nickname.

You took him on picnics across the Han River, bowls of steaming hot ramyeon in your hands as you watched the sunset, sometimes the sunrise too. He reads books lying on the grass field, your shoulder brushing against his own. He doesn’t know why he remembers the swipe of your skin against his, or the specific scent of your perfume as it intermingles with that of the salty river. 

Sometimes it is bike rides across the river. You chasing the sun and him chasing something else— was it your smile, your happiness, a glimpse of your face each time you turned back to look at him? He doesn’t know the exact answer, but he knows that when your gaze met his across your shoulder, the wind swaying your hair as if spelling out lullabies for his soul, something excruciatingly tender bloomed within his soul. 

Sometimes it is day trips to neighboring cities, where you can see the beach once again. Where he swims and floats atop the water. Where he closes his eyes and feels at peace, where the water chases off images of his pain and leaves only images of you. 

He also volunteered at your local food kitchen. The people who eat there have called him kind, too. He feels as if you sat the course of how he would be perceived when you described him as such, the very first night you spoke in. He likes being there. He likes talking to people, he’s gotten better at it, too. 

He met Chan, and his two friends, Han and Changbin. He doesn’t remember how he ended up singing ad-libs for their newest mixtape. But they complimented his voice, said it’s perfect for harmonizing. You had simply grinned as if you already knew that from the moment you had first heard him speak. You spent the rest of the night eating grilled meat and playing video games over at their dorm. Yongbok doesn't think he laughed as much as that day. 

And each time he thinks the heights of his happiness are attained, that this is as joyful as he can get. That sorrow will undoubtedly follow closely, as it lingers just around the corner, waiting for the cup of his happiness to be filled to the brim. You prove him wrong. You make him laugh harder. You broaden his heart for him to receive even more happiness. 

As you are doing now, missing every target to win this pink cat plushie in Lotte World. 

“This is embarrassing, how can you miss all of them?” he sighs amusedly and you turn around, pointing a finger at his face. 

“Because you are staring at me with your…” you stammer, waving your finger in front of his face, “eyes.”

“How am I supposed to look at you then?”

“Just don't. I don’t do well with scrutinizing.”

“Okay, I’m not looking.” he turns around, closing his eyes for a second, waving his hand discreetly through the air. He knows that your delighted scream will follow. 

“Did you get it?” he feigns being surprised as you shake his shoulder, turning him around. “I did!” 

Your smile is as wide as an ocean, as beautiful as the sunsets you take him to witness. He’s lost in thought as he takes in your grin. 

“You look so pretty, Yn,” he says honestly, earnestly, because it is the only way he has ever known to speak to you. “Pretty like the sun.” 

“Oh,” your excitement fizzles out, the plushie growing lump in your hold. “Doesn’t the sun burn the more you look at it?” you giggle nervously, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear. They are rebellious, refusing to stay still, so Yongbok steps forward, gently doing it for you.

“Because the sun shines a bit too brightly to make sure everything else in the universe does.” he pauses, running his tongue across the expanse of his lips. “Just like you, with me and everyone else in your life,” he says. My light is a reflection of yours, is what you hear. 

“You are very honest,” you smile softly, bringing a hand to your ablaze cheeks, hoping to cool them down. 

“Is it a bad thing?” he asks. Nervous. You quickly shake your head, despising the thought of a negative emotion trapping his heart.

“No, no. It’s a good one. Truly.” 

“Okay.” 

“Should we go to the ferry wheel?” you suddenly ask, hugging the plushie closely to your body. 

“Yeah, sure, let’s go,” he grins. 

Yongbok’s limbs are slightly achy from all the rides you went on today, but nothing seems to deter the smile on his face, even as the line stretches for meters ahead. Nothing, except for the discomfort slowly growing on your face, your thumb tearing at the skin near your nails. 

“What’s wrong?” he questions, trying his best to catch your fleeting gaze. 

“There are too— too many people around, I feel a bit suffocated.” 

Yongbok doesn’t think, he simply grabs your hand and you are suddenly on the top of the ferry wheel, humans morphing into tiny ants to you from high above.

“Better?” he asks worriedly, tucking a strand of your hair behind the cuff of your ear. 

You’re still slightly dazed, but the wind that slams into your body feels like a gulp of cold water. 

“Your hands are shaking,” he notices, entwining your fingers with his, naturally, as if it is second nature for you both. “And they are cold. Are you dying?” he asks and you finally burst into giggles, shaking your head.

“No, I… I sometimes get anxious around people; it usually turns into a panic attack but I think you stopped it.”

“I helped you?” he asks, eyes softening and you nod. “Why are you surprised? you always do.”

Yongbok doesn’t know how to face the gentleness of your tone. It is a much harder opponent than the harshness he was subjected to. 

“Do they happen often?”

“It depends. They come and go like the seasons. I actually… I learned how to help you from my mom. Do you remember? back on the rooftop?”

“Really?” he asks, bringing your interlocked hands to his mouth and blowing warm air onto them. His lips almost graze your knuckles in the process. 

“Yeah. She got them frequently and she taught me how to ground her. And then I used those techniques on myself. Then on you.” you sigh, closing your eyes and tipping your head back. 

“Hers happened because of a past accident. She once got stuck in a mob of people and ended up fainting. it was my dad who pulled her up from the ground, it’s how they met, actually,” you grin slightly, before breathing in slowly.

“You know, I read that you can inherit trauma from your parents, but also from generations past. That  it changes the genetic structure of your mind. I wonder if that’s what triggers me.” 

“That's fascinating to think about. How emotions and experiences can be inherited.” 

“I know,” you smile, “I think it passed.” you gesture to your interlocked hands and he lets go promptly, staring ahead at the twinkling city lights, light pink dusting his cheeks. He’s embarrassed because he enjoyed the feel of your palm against his so much, maybe too much, enough to wish for your line palms to meld into one another. Becoming two indiscernible scriptures to the naked eye. 

“Wait. Does this mean we didn't need to wait all day for the rides?” you suddenly ask and he nods. 

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I don't… I don't like using my powers a lot around you.”

“Why is that?” 

“I'm scared that the more I use them the more you'll realize that I'm a fallen angel and that you have no business talking to someone like me.”

“You are very silly, you know that right?” you sigh, placing your cheek atop his shoulder. Yongbok’s world stops spinning right there and then. “I don't feel as lonely anymore now that you’re here. Angel,, human, or something else entirely… None of that matters to me.

To me, you’re just Yongbok.”

the question trickles suddenly into his being, tiptoes inside him gently like a droplet finding its way back to a waterfall— what is the grandest thing the universe has to offer?

To him you’re it. 

“I think I'm happy right now.”

“You think?” 

“I don't know how to describe it… But it feels like I have a little sun in my chest. It glows and it’s warm.” 

You tilt your head back to look at him, a wide smile on your face. He finds his answer in the sunset that filtrates through the strands of your hair, the last sun rays of the day coating your face in a warm glow, as if it was made to make your features shine the most, to make the shadows in your face look like a sculpture. 

“Yeah,” he says after a few silent beats, “I really am happy.”

“Does this mean we are moving?” you giggle, spreading your arms wide as if taking in the entire universe into your chest.

“Yeah, wherever you want us to.” His words are soft, resolute, draped with a gentle discovery— he followed you down to earth, he’d follow you everywhere in it.

…

“I don't know how I'll explain to people how I suddenly afforded this apartment,” you smile, hands on your hips, as you take in your new surroundings. 

Yongbok moves to stand directly behind you, his chest almost brushing against yours. you feel your heart palpitate at his proximity— so close yet so out of reach, simultaneously.

“Just say you moved in with me”

“Mm, I’ll say we are childhood friends and you just moved to the city.”

“Friends? Is that what we are now?” he grins, the light from the tinted windows bathing his features in a kaleidoscope of colors. He’s so beautiful, You you suddenly wish for a change to what you are. you don’t know by what exactly. But something, anything that will allow you to appreciate, venerate his beauty fully.

“Well, we aren’t strangers anymore.”

“I think you are my first real friend,” he says, a bit shyly, pink filling up the spaces between his tan freckles. 

Yongbok always speaks what’s in his mind, with this air of innocence tainting his words as if he doesn’t know that thoughts can be kept to himself. 

You never mind it. Though it churns your insides, makes you experience this particular attachment to him. You want to orbit around him, hear what he thinks of everything, of the colors it seems he experiences for the first time, the food he tastes, and the humans he speaks to.

And most importantly, you. 

You yearn to know everything he thinks of you. You don’t allow yourself to decipher where this need is coming from. You don’t think you’d be able to handle its consequences. 

“You’re lucky I'm like… The best human to ever walk on this earth,” you grin, throwing your hair over your shoulder and onto his face. He squints his eye to chase away strands of your hair.

“The humblest too,” he says, his eyes drifting across the living room. You chose an apartment on the smaller side, as opposed to his unlimited budget. But he likes what you did to the place. He doesn’t quite understand the intricacies of home decor, but he likes the plants everywhere, the flickering candles, and the fragrant flowers bathed in dim lightning. 

And he loves your painting room the most, with a neat library on the side. It feels like taking a walk straight into your heart. 

“Who painted that, by the way?” he suddenly asks, pointing to the painting in the middle of the room, right above the beige couch. 

“Hwang Hyunjin. It took me four paychecks to be able to afford it, three years ago. His pieces are now much more expensive.”

“Hyunjin…” he repeats, tasting the name on his tongue, it is familiar, and the memory suddenly hits him once again. “Oh, I talked to him before.”

“Did you?!” you ask excitedly, grabbing his arm and shaking it slightly. “Where, when, how?”

“At a bar, before I became... half human?” he says, unsure a bit of what he is now. “He actually invited me to his upcoming exposition. When was it again?”

“Today!” you nearly yell and he flinches.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I've been following his news. He's really my favorite artist.”

“Should we go?” 

“Actually?”

“Yeah. you seem to really like him.”

“Oh my god, I’m meeting Hwang Hyunjin. oh my god, I need a dress,” you grab his hand, pulling him away. “We need a dress!”

“We?”

“Let’s go shopping, we need to buy…”

Your words fizzle out in his brain, his whole focus on your entwined fingers as you push him through the room. Your palm feels like a soft petal brushing against his bruised skin. 

If he freezes time, just for a bit more, to enjoy the feel of your hand in his, would anyone blame him? 

The earth would understand surely— the desperate need to appreciate softness when all he has known is thorns pricking his skin.

...

“Yongbok!” Hyunjin's boisterous voice echoes through the art gallery, drawing every eye to you and Yongbok as you stride inside. Yongbok barely has a moment to take in the lavish surroundings before Hyunjin walks toward you, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the white marble.

“I knew you’d come!” he grins, grabbing Yongbok’s hand between his two large palms, shaking it warmly. 

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.” 

“Of course I'd remember you,” Hyunjin says, his face darkening for a fleeting second, before his eyes rest on you. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Hyunjin,” he smiles, grabbing your hand and shaking it a bit more softly. 

“Yn. I’m a big admirer of your work, truly.”

Yongbok’s eyes soften at your excitement— they don’t leave your figure when he tells Hyunjin that you have a piece of his hanging in the living room.

“Really?” Hyunjin’s face brightens up at the news, “which one?”

“The red roses in the vase. It’s one of my favorites.”

“That was in my beginnings,” Hyunjin muses, a hint of nostalgia tinting his words. “I put a lot of love in it.” 

“I can tell, the colors especially scream of passion.”

“Are you one for passionate love?”

“Is love truly love if it is devoid of passion?” you ask, tilting your head. Hyunjin’s eyes linger on Yongbok for a moment before turning back to you.

“Excellent! Please choose whichever artwork you prefer; it will be my gift.”

“Really?” you beam, brighter than Yongbok has ever seen you before. The sun suddenly perishes within him.

“Of course. The prettiest artwork for the prettiest girl,” Hyunjin winks smoothly, before patting Yongbok’s shoulder. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Yongbok’s voice is withered as it floods his ears— “Please.”

…

Yongbok’s eyes are fixated on the red liquid swirling around his glass. He fears that if his gaze deserts the wine he’s drinking then it would inevitably drift to you and Hyunjin, giggling together, like long-time friends. Or is it lovers? The lines blur so easily for humans.

He had feigned an ache in his legs, telling you that he’d sit down while you go on with the tour. You had placed a hand on his arm, a worried crease in your eyebrows. “Okay?” you asked. Comforting, warm. It is the adjectives that always come to his mind when he thinks of you with him. 

But you aren’t his to describe. His to be kind with. His. 

So, he hummed, a tight smile drawn on his face. 

It’s not that he despised Hyunjin’s artwork. On the contrary, Hyunjin is a skilled artist, he can see why he’s reaping the fruits he sowed years ago. And yet, what disturbs him is something silly, stupid, too feeble for an angel, a human even, to care for.

He doesn’t like how your laugh travels around the gallery, how you fell so easily into conversation with Hyunjin, talking about your shared interest in art. He won’t ever have a passion of years to talk to you about. How could he when his existence merely spans over three months?

Yongbok is shrinking more and more, till he becomes a single dot of paint on the painting in the very far end of the gallery. Forgotten, dim before all the others. How can he dream to compare if he doesn’t know who he is? If his memories of life don’t even contain the four seasons, pausing in winter, barely brushing against spring.

When his torn skin doesn’t bear blemishes from falls years ago, while riding the bicycle, while playing with other kids, proof of a childhood well spent. No, his scars are that of one stripped from his roots, cast into an unknown world, punished, ridiculed. 

He’s unworthy of being an angel, unworthy of being human, unworthy of being in your company. Why are you wasting time with someone like him, who’d only pull you down, someone who needs instructions to understand how to carry his heart? 

The thoughts play out in his head, again and again, on your ride back home. You are happy, radiating even at the thought of a painting delivered by Hyunjin himself, your favorite artist, sitting in your home. His skin ricochets off your happiness, morphs it into anger and bitterness, all directed at himself.

He hates Hyunjin. He doesn't. He hates Hyunjin with you. He wants you to be happy with him alone. Isn’t he horrible for wishing to strip you away from happiness? 

Horrible.

Horrible.

Abomination. 

“Can you help me take off my necklace?” you knock on his bedroom a few minutes after you arrive, walking in to find him sitting on his bed, deep in thought. 

He startles at your presence, backing away even more into the wall. You frown at the tumult you perceive in his eyes. 

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “Please, get out.” 

He can’t bear looking at you. He can’t bear you looking at him. What will you see? Someone poisoned by jealousy, whose insides are collapsing on themselves, whose body rejects his bruised soul, over and over again. 

Where else is he supposed to flee? If he sheds this skin, which one would finally accept him whole? 

“What’s wrong? you’ve been quiet all night, avoiding my gaze. Did something happen that upset you?”

He’s panicking, on the verge of combusting into tears. How would he explain this hatred coursing through his veins at the thought of being perceived? By your kind, beautiful beautiful eyes, nonetheless. 

“I really–“ a pause, “ I really don’t want to see you right now.”

You falter, your hand curling tighter against the doorknob.

“Because each time I do, I– I see you with Hyunjin, and I feel as if flames are burning inside my lungs, choking me.” 

“What?” 

“And I hate- hate how I… look how I exist right now. So please, leave, I don't want you to see me.” 

You hesitate for a few seconds, rooted in place. 

And then you close the door. 

You are inside. 

“Talk to me, what is it you’re feeling?” you speak softly, your voice cautious, none of the things he’s used to. It angers him all of the sudden. 

“This is exactly what I hate. You are wasting your time helping me decipher my feelings, you are pitying me. Can't you see how burdensome I am?”

You shake your head, taking a step forward. 

“I don’t, I like it, I… I love helping you, I love seeing the world through your eyes again. It feels like I'm learning new things every day thanks to you and I—“

“I’m an ABOMINATION,” he yells, the walls seem to shake from the voracity of his voice. “From the moment I was created, I have been nothing but anomalous, I… I don't belong anywhere, who was I kidding by coming here?” he tears at his hair slightly, now pacing back and forth in front of you. “Did I really think that feeling would suddenly fix the void within me? that talking to humans would make me normal–“ 

“Yongbok!” you cut him off, no longer capable of bearing the sound of his shaky voice. “Please you are not listening to me!”

“No, you are not listening to me! Look! Look at how ugly I am, look!” he turns around, taking off his white shirt, exposing his butchered back to you. “Look at everything that haunts me, please look at it, hate me and leave.” 

He pleads, naked and vulnerable before your eyes. He waits for you to deliver the killing blow, to cement the horrible thoughts he bears for his body. 

If it is your voice speaking of how worthless he is then he’d believe it more. 

A pin-drop silence coats the room. Yongbok believes you somewhat vanished from existence. 

And then. Your lips on his back, brushing across the plane of his shoulder in the softest, faintest manner. He almost thinks he’s imagining it, imagining you kissing his scarred skin as if it is a delicate petal, worthy of care. Worthy of admiration. Worthy of love. 

“Is this what you hate about yourself?” you whisper, your knuckles grazing his scars. “Why are you so mean to your body, Yongbok?” your voice shakes. Hot tears pool in his eyes at the sound of it. “ Didn’t it scab its best to keep you alive?”

“You are such an idiot,” you breathe out quietly, your warm palms settling atop his waist. “I won't hate you for this. How could I hate you for this?” 

Yongbok is dizzy, drunk off your voice and the way your touch makes goosebumps ripple across his skin. “How could I hate you when all I see is resilience?” Your lips brush against his back, the faintest kisses peppered down his spine. “When all I see is what kept you alive?” 

Yongbok’s blood has spilled into the first snow of Seoul, what feels like a lifetime ago. But somewhat, it is underneath the caress of your hands that he has felt most exposed.

“So, I am thankful for your scars,” another tender kiss, this time to the nape of his neck. “Otherwise, you would have bled on the snow and I wouldn't have known you. And it’s a horrible horrible thing for me to imagine.” 

Your chin nestles across the plane of his shoulder, your hands wrap delicately around his chest. Can you feel his heart beating wildly? Can you hear it spelling out your name? 

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Yongbok. Haven't you been through enough, already?”

It isn’t the thoughts in Yongbok’s head that finally make him breakdown. It is rather the feeling of your chest pressed to his back, your cheek resting across his shoulder, you hugging him for the very first time in existence, you enclosing him in a cocoon of safety the way his wings used to.  

“I’m here. you can cry all you want,” you reassure, soft and comforting. His grief for his wings suddenly seem too far out of reach, the safety of his feathers paling before the safety of you. 

Yongbok doesn’t think as he spins around, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. You respond swiftly, bringing his body even closer to yours, running your hand comfortingly along his spine. 

He doesn’t mind your fingers grazing his scars, he doesn’t chase off your touch. On the contrary, he craves it, his cells calling out your name, thanking you for all the love you’re giving him. He wishes he could glue himself to you, crawl inside your veins, build himself a nest between the web of your nerves. He doesnt think he could ever survive mourning you. 

“Please— please don’t leave me,” he begs, lost in waves of uncertainty, he thinks that if he holds you tightly you won’t ever disappear from his hands, trickling between his fingers like grains of sand. 

“Don't be silly,” tears fall down your eyes too, landing on his back like dripping wax. You attempt to steady your voice but it still shakes like rattling branches. “Where would I go?”

“What if they take you away from me?”

A flash of white clouds Yongbok’s vision, the cold returns to his body tenfold. He blinks repeatedly, and then he finds himself atop an abandoned rooftop. The blood runs cold in his veins, his heart pausing in his chest as he hears heavy footsteps approaching. Did he place a curse atop himself? Did his worst fear come true as soon as he spoke of it? 

Are you gone?

Oh God, are you gone?

“Yongbok,” a familiar voice speaks, and life resumes its course inside his feeble body.

“Seungmin,” he speaks the name in relief, a breathtaking smile blooming on his face. He sees the scrunch in Seungmin’s eyebrows relax ever so slightly, before a placid look drapes across his face again.

“Why did you do it?” Seungmin asks and Yongbok’s grin falters. 

“Did they send you?” he asks, a hint of apprehension filling his words.

“No, I came to bring you back.”

“What?”

“I will fly you back and you will kneel before them and apologize. And you will vow to never speak to humans again, and it will be forgotten.”

“I don't want to.”

“Why are you— “Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “they are humans,” he says the words in disdain, as if looking down at them from atop an unreachable altar. 

“I know they are.” 

“They are weak. Driven by things they cannot touch or see.”

“And I love them for it.”

Seungmin frowns. “You’re defending them.” 

“Seungmin,” he sighs tiredly, “why are you doing this?”

“Because I'm trying to help you. This, emotions, feelings, love. It isn't worth the pain they will end up causing you.”

Yongbok scoffs loudly, angrily. “What do you know about love?”

“You think you are special? You think you’re the first angel to go through this? I loved someone too Yongbok!'' Seungmin yells, taking him completely by surprise. “And they had him get in a car accident to punish me for it. I still hear the screeching tires; I still see his skull fracturing against the ground. I had to beg— beg for them to rewind the seconds and bring him back to life. And all for what?” he scoffs, grabbing Yongbok’s shoulders and shaking them. “You are on cloud nine because this is something new for you, you think that those humans would ever accept you? But you are wrong! Tell me, what’s an angel to a human?”

The shout that leaves Yongbok’s throat is a foreign one to his being. “That doesn't matter to me!” he yells, pushing away his hands. “Look me in the eyes, ask me, what’s a human to an angel? I’ll tell you it’s everything. Everything if it’s her.” 

“This will ruin you. They will kill you, Yongbok. She will be your demise.”

“I’d rather die by her hands than live by yours.”

“What if she ends up dying by your hands?” Seungmin speaks calmly, coldly. Yongbok feels the ground give up beneath his feet. “What if in the process of hurting you they end up hurting her, what will you do then?”

“I… they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don't love her.”

“Who said anything about love?” Seungmin sighs, shaking his head. He looks almost desolate, somewhat that terrifies Yongbok even more. “You have your answer, I fear they have theirs too.”

Seungmin walks away, pauses, before turning back once more. He hesitates to speak, and in the seconds of silence that ensue, Yongbok discovers how terribly heavy fear is to bear. 

“I’m sorry, Yongbok.”

His tongue is heavy as it moves to ask— “what for?” 

“For the things yet to come.” 

[hwangism143]

passion fruit.

"you're supposed to scoop it out with a spoon," chan mumbled from behind you.

his hands made their around your next, his face pressed against your hair. you didn't know when he woke up, but didn't want it to be a consequence of your overwhelming desire to eat passion fruit.

"i'm sorry i woke you up channie," you pouted as you turned to look at him.

sleepy eyes and a lopsided smile was the beautiful sight you were witness too. chan's curls sprang up and he started peppering your face with kisses, his breath minty from toothpaste.

"i didn't wake up because of you," he said in between his attack of smooches, "i woke up because i smelled passion fruit."

you couldn't blame him. your rabid passion fruit consumption had caused your shared apartment to retain it's sweet smell. it was nice for the first few days, but living in a state of permanently smelling like you has just checked into caribbean hotel got annoying fast.

"go sit down, i'll bring it over," chan insisted.

you tried to argue, but he ushered you onto the sofa, all your protests submerged by the sound of his voice telling you that it's his solemn duty to spoil you.

loving chan was like being wrapped up in a warm blanket. it felt like sunshine and everything nice, like soft moments and heavy yet fleeting touches.

loving chan didn't make you feel on top of the world; it made you feel like you could lose yourself in your world.

chan brought over a bowl of passion fruit and two forks. he held it out for you and you grabbed them from his hands eagerly.

"i love you," he announced, "but if the baby gets a passion fruit obsession, i'm moving to alaska."

you giggled against his chest as he snaked his arms to drum his finger on your very pregnant belly.

"you really mean that?" you snorted.

"no," said chan against your hair.

"for you and for the baby, i would buy every single passion fruit there is, just to keep you both happy."

please reblog and comment if you liked this fic! it means everything to me and I love reading your thoughts <3

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requested: by @booksndpoetry

[straykidsland]

Acceptances 23

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[lettersndpages]

• mare

• she/her

• side rec blog for booksndpoetry!

[booksndpoetry]

Soft launch: Basketball Date

wc: 442 words

genre: fluff

pairing: basketball player! hyunjin X fem reader

entails: second date shenanigans, best friends to lovers, flustered mc

a/n: just a little something that was in my drafts, please let me know your thoughts on this :)

warnings: mentions of short height, apologies in advance; and my weak attempts at a joke (please tell me it's funny);

m.list

“I can't shoot, it's too high.” 

You squint at the rim, estimating the distance between the ball in your hands and the net. As if you can gauge anything from that. 

“You can do it, come on.” Hyunjin looks at you expectantly, legs widened in a receiving stance. When you don’t move, he straightens up and comes near you. 

Error. Not good for your heart. 

You try, you really do. But given how tall you are, it's a wonder how the ball flies halfway to the hoop in the air. 

You pout, "I'm bad at this."

Hyunjin chews his pink lips, which are swollen and glistening with the number of times he’d run his tongue over them. And no, you aren’t looking at his lips, they just happen to be in your direct line of sight. 

After a beat, he speaks.

"No, you're not." 

He comes to stand behind you, heat radiating off him.

"Do you trust me?" 

"To not throw me off a cliff? Yes. To not empty my bag of chips when I leave you alone for one minute? No." 

He doesn't bat an eye at your words, used to them.

Instead, he asks again, voice softer, "Do you trust me?"

You know your answer before he finishes his question. 

"I do"

Your words come out slightly breathless due to the proximity, and you curse under your breath. 

You’re hyperaware of his every movement, your skin burning with his gaze and the intensity of the sun. 

“Do it now, darling.”

He puts his hands on your hips and before you can comprehend it, he's lifting you up, up like a glass ballerina, until you're high enough to have a better chance at shooting a shot. You can think & feel nothing except his strong arms around yours, holding you tight and safe. 

You grip the ball with shaking hands and throw it in. The ball makes a clean transition and falls down the basket. 

You both let out cheers, and he slowly brings you down, as you attempt to compose your thoughts. His touch lingers on your hips, like his fingers are indented into your sides. You repress the urge to touch the spot his fingers had been seconds ago.  

"You're not bad at it. You just never had the right teammate."

He leaves you there in the middle of the ground and goes to get a water bottle, like he didn't just threaten to unleash a swarm of butterflies in your tummy. 

You hide a smile behind your hand, eyes taking in the high net again. 

Yeah, maybe you just never had the right teammate. 

labels: @straykidsland

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration to characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

The Gratitude Series

A Lee Minho Fanfic

Prequel to "A Modern Love Story"

WC : 2.8k words

Pairing : Lee Minho X Fem reader

Genre : Fluff

Triggers/Warnings : Repetitions of two particular words and mentions of brownies; read at your own risk of temptation

A/N : This was inspired by my own conversations with my friends when they told me to stop thanking them. I hope each of you who reads this, gets someone who'll thank you from the bottom of their heart.

m.list

“Some days I adore you a little more than a human being can adore” – Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

To Lee Minho, you were an enigma of sorts. You were like a ball of yarn, threaded with your secrets. And he was the cat, ever curious. Each thread that unravelled, satiated his curiosity, until he wanted more. Until he knew it was never going to be enough. It was more of a depraved hunger than anything, but you didn’t have to know that. 

i. 

Minho had always considered his part-time job as a barista at the local café just as a way to spend his time wisely and earn some money. He did not expect the best people to be the customers, nor did he think the café was particularly interesting. It just…..was.

But that was his opinion before you came into the café. 

The first time he’d seen you, you had ordered a milkshake and sat down at one of the tables, book in hand, the nearly empty café a reflection of your quiet, poised state.

When he’d come to serve your milkshake, you’d stopped reading your book, the original volume of Howl’s Moving Castle he’d observed, as he approached you.

You read his name off his name tag, gifted him, a complete stranger back then, a dazzling smile and said “Thank you.” with the calmest voice he’d ever heard. 

He had been surprised. Not because you’d thanked him, more so because you stopped what you were doing just to acknowledge him and thank him, face to face. 

He hadn’t known what to do. Receiving thanks or compliments had always been awkward for him.

 And so he gave away his embarrassment with the tips of his ears glowing red, muttering something incoherent in reply, and your smile had become a little bit wider. 

Just a little bit, but he’d noticed it. 

That is how he remembers his first encounter with you, with him completely flustered by you and your bright smile. 

ii. 

After you had left the café that day, he had come in extra early to work every day, in hopes of catching you if you were an early riser. But to no avail. 

After two days, he thought himself stupid. He barely knew you. And you would’ve probably forgotten his name, he reasoned with himself. 

Still, his nights were filled with thoughts of you. He thought long and hard about you. 

Did you thank everyone that way? Or was it just him you thanked that way?

He had hoped, foolish as it was, that it was the latter. 

Had you found him attractive and hence given him your attention?

The question wasn’t entirely baseless. Lots of people frequented the café just to flirt with him. But he knew that it wasn’t the case, he would have remembered you if you’d come there before.

Would you come back again? Would he see you again? 

And so, he’d tossed and turned. He couldn’t get his mind off you.  

The two days turned into four weeks and the study group he was in at University, had set up a meeting at the music club. 

When he’d asked Chan, the person who had organized everything, why they hadn’t set up the meeting in the University’s large library, the latter had unashamedly said that the library wouldn’t allow food in and hence the spot was selected. 

Even on the walk to the meeting, Minho rolls his eyes. 

The library would have been much quieter. With no rules to maintain silence, he had no idea how to protect his ears from his group of extremely loud friends.  

He arrives minutes before the meeting. The tiny room was packed and he was already assessing the number of decibels emitted from the inside. 

Taking a breath, he pushes the door open and walks inside. The entire study group had assembled for the first time, and there were a lot more people than he’d expected. 

As soon as he sits down, Chan who had been chatting with someone next to him, turns and greets Minho. Minho nods in acknowledgement, looking away and that’s when he sees you for the second time. 

You sit in a corner of the room, nose deep in a book, just like the first time he’d met you.

Today, you’re decked up in a long winter coat, and a lemon-coloured scarf wrapped around your neck.

Just like the first time, you’re smiling as you read your book.

Just like the first time, you manage to take his breath away.

And just like the first time, he doesn’t know what to think, let alone what to do. 

Despite that, he knows that he might not have a chance to see you again and thus, musters up all his courage and approaches you, which is exactly when Felix decides to announce that he brought brownies for everyone. Minho has to clamp his mouth shut to stop a groan from escaping him. 

Great, he thinks, now he would never ever have a chance with you again and he would die an old cat gentleman.

Even in his head, he thinks it sounds ridiculous. He reminds himself not to hang out too much around Hyunjin. The dramatics were rubbing off on him. 

Shaking his head, he goes back to retake his seat when he notices Felix distributing scrumptious looking brownies (that he knew were delectable) to the large group of people, by himself.

He also notices another box, and maybe it is because he’s gotten so used to serving people, he takes the box up and starts distributing brownies to the other table.

Felix offers him a cheery thanks and Minho just waves him off. 

When he gets to your table, Minho holds his breath. He expects you to have forgotten him, but you lift your head and say,

 “Hey, Minho right? We meet again.” 

and all the practice he’s given himself goes down the drain. Clearing his throat, he pretends he isn’t affected by the fact that you remember his name, and extends a brownie towards you. You look at his outstretched hand and take the brownie, and just as he’d predicted, you look up at him, still smiling, and gift him a:

“Thank you.”

 He’s just as bothered, with the base of his neck going red at the words. However, in a burst of courage, he’s taking a chance with you just to lengthen the conversation. 

“I’m not the one who made them, Felix did.”, he informs you and you tilt your head slightly. 

“I know, I’ll thank him later.”, you reply, “I’m thanking you now.” 

“Why?” he asks. He doesn’t know, why you did it. He wanted to know. 

“Because”, you say, your words slow and deliberate, like you had all the time in the world,

“you could have let him distribute them to everyone, all the thirty five students, all by himself. It wouldn’t have been a big deal. But you chose to help him and give some of us a brownie, when you could’ve eaten yours first. So, thank you.” 

He’s stunned. Both by the sincerity of your words and the honesty you delivered them with. 

For a moment he stands there, absorbing your words. Before he can respond, one of them asks if they can have one more cupcake and he gets to his senses. You smile and wave him off. 

The second time too, he thinks, was just as delightful as the first. 

Maybe Chan chose the right spot after all. 

iii. 

Slowly, Minho eases his way into your life until you’re both latched together, like two sides of the same coin. He makes you milkshakes even when he’s not in the café and you smile and thank him for it, every time. 

He’s grown used to your words of gratitude, but he knows that you don’t throw the words around lightly. So, he makes space in his heart for all your thank yous, and slowly learns how to respond to them too. 

He wonders whether it is because you two aren’t close yet, that perhaps you feel the need to thank him for every little thing. He shrugs it off, feeling like you might stop your adorable habit once you fully get to know him. 

But mostly, he wants you to stop looking at him and smiling at him like he’s the candle burning on your desk at dusk, the only source of light when you need it. Because, he feels like it might never be enough when he falls for you. 

It was so easy to fall in love with you, your entire existence a balm to his soul effortlessly. 

He thinks about it then, when he jogs to get you your water bottle from your bag, placed at the very end of the basketball court you were running in to get your daily laps in. 

Just as he’d predicted, you tell him: 

“Thank you.” 

His chest feels too tight, like he’s been running for an hour, when he’s only been jogging for twenty minutes. 

He wants you to stop. 

He wants you to tell him those words for the rest of his life. 

Minho feels like collapsing in the middle of the basketball court, to hit his head hard enough. Just so he can stop this heady feeling from consuming him whole. 

iv. 

Minho feels himself flying in love with you. Why? Because he sees you are already in love with him too. 

It’s unmistakable in the way your eyes search for him whenever he comes into a room.

It’s in how you always try to say yes to all his plans even though he tells you it’s okay if you feel otherwise.

It’s in the way you smile at him, something only for him to see.

But mostly, he knows it because of your eyes. Your eyes light up at his arrival, and they are transparent pools of your love for him, as clear as daylight.

And that, he learns, makes all the difference. 

v. 

Before you, Minho had a hard time trusting words. 

Why?

Because they were grand and promising at first, but empty if they weren’t followed by true actions. 

Most of the people early in his life only talked and talked, empty words with thoughts of what could’ve been, except they never were. 

But with you, Minho knew they were true to their meaning.

 He’d seen you bear the weight of them when you stayed behind for two hours in class to help a failing classmate.

He’d seen you fulfil them when you stayed up for hours writing something for the highest grade you had ever gotten, even if it was for extra credit.

He sees you stay true to them when you call your mom every single day like you’d promised, and when you call him without fail each time you go to the department store to ask him if he wants something. 

All he sees is you. 

You were an exception to his every agenda, every single time. 

He has no complaints. 

vi. 

One week before the finals, you're holed up in your room, ignoring all his calls, and Minho knows what's up. 

Your Psychology exams are what’s up. 

He drops by to your place and lets himself in, shoes placed in your shoe stand, just the way you do it. Going in, he gives a shout to let you know of his arrival. You holler something back & he takes it that you know.

Wandering to the kitchen, he spots a fruit bowl. Thinking that you could use a snack after all the studying you've done, he takes a few oranges from it and heads to your room. 

The sight of you hunched over your desk, buried in your books, your glasses barely hanging off your nose is what greets him.

 For a moment, all of it ceases to exist except him and his thoughts and you.

 He'd read all about the pinings of writers and poets who'd sworn that their lovers and muses were capable of taking their breath away at any time, even when they might look unflattering to the rest of the world.

 Minho had disagreed. One had to look unpresentable when they were buried in work and gave no thought about maintaining their appearance, right? 

 Wrong.

 He's rendered wrong. 

So, so, wrong. 

Because the sight of you then, bare-faced and bespectacled, puckered lips and furrowed eyebrows elicits an emotion he doesn't know how to name.

It's strong, this little feeling and every time you purse your lips or scrunch your nose, it grows stronger. He doesn't know what to do with the stubborn feeling, but he knows it's there to stay.

You were so engrossed in your reading that it took you a good three minutes to find out Minho was in the room.

After you do though, you abandon your textbook on the study desk and turn your attention to Minho. 

“Oh hey. Need something?” 

He chuckles, running a hand through his silky, wine-red strands as he takes you in fully, eyes subtle but greedy in their perusal of you.

 “I should be the one asking you that, you being buried in work and all.”

He gestures to your growing pile of papers, notes, and books. 

You let a whine in response.

“Don’t remind me of that. I’m taking a break. Seriously, I don’t get why I need to know the names of all the medical records used in the world. How am I supposed to treat other people, when I myself am slowly going insane?” 

You punctuate your rambling by sinking further into your chair until it shakes. 

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. But he does know how to make you feel better, that’s one thing he prides himself in. 

Coming to stand in front of you, he slowly reveals the arm behind his back and flourishes the oranges he’s fetched, like a magician exhibiting a miracle. 

You’re a magician of your own, giving away one of your dizzying smiles that he can see in his head for days on end. 

He slowly sits down on the floor, and starts peeling an orange. You join him and reach for one, but he swats your hand away. You frown, but abandon all thoughts of oranges when you remember your assignment, still very much unfinished. 

You abruptly get up, startling Minho out of his trance. He flinches before glaring at you. You cheekily smile down at him. 

“Sorry Min, I have to get this done before nightfall.” 

“Okay.” He says, even as gets up to shove a piece of fruit in your mouth. 

“Mo, yw don undastan-“ 

“Don’t talk while you’re eating.”

You glare at him, but do as he says.  

Even in your disgruntled state, you manage a quiet “Thank you.” 

You know how Minho left the comfort of his home just to come to cheer you up, even when he’s a homebody. And you’re grateful for it; you would’ve holed up in your room until you disintegrated into bits otherwise. 

He just shakes his head. 

Silence prevails in the room for a while, unless interrupted by the clicks of the keyboard and the quiet chewing as he feeds you slices. 

“You don’t have to say thank you to me all the time, y’know?” Minho begins, leaning beside you on your mahogany desk. 

You absently hum and finish typing the sentence. Only then do you fully process his words. 

“Huh?”

“We’re friends now, or at least I think we are. So, you don’t have to thank me for every little thing. It feels like you’re being formal with me.” 

This is the longest you’ve spoken with me, and it’s because of my thank yous. Isn’t that reason enough for me to tell you those words every time? 

The words are at the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. They weren’t for now, this moment. 

You just exhale and give his head a ruffle. He dodges it, and glares at you, reminding you of his cats.

Your mouth curves upwards. 

“What are the words ‘Thank you’ for then?

I don’t think they exist just for a half-hearted appreciation for someone I barely know.

I think they exist so I can try and convey my gratitude to the people close to me. I won’t ever be able to fully convey the feelings in words, but I can try.

So think of each of my thank yous as a two-word love letter sealed with joy for being in my life.

Is that better?” 

You duck your head down, shy after your sudden outburst of emotion.

I won’t ever be able to convey my gratitude fully, but I can try. 

A two-word love letter sealed with joy for being in my life. 

Good god, he believes you’re an angel at that instant.

You were ethereal in every way, whether that be the way you talked, the way you walked or the way you looked at him with thoughtful eyes, like he was the star in each one of your universes.

No ordinary person could be like that, could they?

He’s at a loss for words, like usual. And that doesn’t surprise you. He was a man of a few words anyway. 

Stealing an orange slice, you get back to work. 

This time, Minho thinks, even the word ‘delightful’ doesn’t cover it. He’s sure that no word can encompass even a sliver of your essence, except maybe the words ‘Thank you’. 

And he hopes that now you’ll let him tell you that every single day. 

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration to character. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Chapter One: Meet-Cute

a/n: This was not the fic I was hoping to publish and I don't know what this is (it's a mess). I might make more if you encourage me.

wc: 2.4k words

pairing: art mogul! Hyunjin X writer! Reader

tags: friends to ??, reconciliation, use of cheesy epithets, me trying to write slow burn.

genre: a pinch of angst, fluff

triggers/warnings: Whatever this is, it is not good. Read at your own risk.

m.list

Ten.

No, not Ten from NCT.

Just ten more minutes until you could excuse yourself for the evening and it wouldn’t seem suspicious.

You take in deep breaths and try not to make eye contact with anyone lest they try to make conversation with you. You were deliberately dressed discreetly for the same purpose too. Baggy jeans, vulcanized sneakers, a white shirt with a logo you’ve never bothered to investigate, and a pin on your braided hair. You were sure you looked like you didn’t belong, and you felt it too.

Being a bestselling author has its perks, your editor had told you, her voice tinged with something like awe when your book sales had skyrocketed. You thought it meant that more people would leave you alone to write. Though, to your dismay, it meant events held at ridiculously expensive hotels, with overpriced champagne and people at every corner trying to please you so they got a favour out of you.

It should be pretty obvious in your behaviour that you hate these events. You weren’t even a good actor. Although, knowing your agent, she probably set you up to meet your next best sponsor or another journalist who would try to get an interview with you.

The more you thought, the more you tensed up. Checking your watch for the umpteenth time that evening, you let out a ragged breath. Eight more minutes until your freedom.

Or maybe not, you think when you see Frank, the editor-in-chief for [famous magazine name] making his way towards you. Frank was known to be relentless with his requests and you were cemented about the fact with your experience in his studio.

“Hello Miss, how’ve you been doing since I last saw you?”

You hold your hands behind your back, not fooled by his polite façade.

“Good. How about you Mr. Frank?”

“Good, good.” He nods his head, more to himself than you. “Great weather today, innit?”

The sky was pretty magnificent today. The event was being held on one of the top floors of a famous hotel, and the large glass windows were set perfectly to watch the sky. The sky was a cerulean blue, with streaks of pink and orange, like the trails were smeared by the tiny fingers of a child, bold and [synonym for pretty] in their forms.

“Truly.”

He chuckles again, “Always a person of a few words, Miss ‘Name’. Although, can I hear them?” There it was, the unspoken request. He would once again wear you down trying to convince you to spare some time for an interview and a magazine shoot, and you would have to refuse again. You hated refusing, as much as you had to do it, and you didn’t like people who took no for an answer.

You simply take a step back, as if a physical distance would help you say the words easier.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Frank. I have an impending project and I don’t want to distract myself. Maybe next time.” You offer him a weak smile, trying not to let your grimace show. You were bad at this.

He simply waves you off, expression more sombre than it had been seconds ago, and your heart drops. You had disappointed him. You seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

Unable to stand being there any longer, you rush past the faceless bodies, feeling the need to go away, to run away somewhere.

You go down the elevator and text your agent.

<<Attendance: done.

You silence the device and pocket it, finally reaching the lobby of the hotel. You swear not to stay in the damn hotel for any second longer, but the universe gives you another reason.

Luckily, it’s in the form of someone familiar. Unluckily, it belonged to your best friend you hadn’t seen in seven years.

Hwang Hyunjin.

You trip in the middle of the lobby.

Hyunjin hadn’t known what to expect that evening. He had been offered an invitation, just like any other month. He was unsure about whether he had to attend the event. After all, he had a business to run. But after one of his clients had finished the meeting early, some deal about an upcoming art exhibition place, he was having second thoughts. But some part of him had insisted on his attendance, as he’d heard that one of his favourite artists would be coming, and that’s how he found himself at the entrance of the skyscraper.

What he absolutely did not expect was to see you, standing right in front of him. Until you tripped, and he couldn’t help his laughter.

You quickly get up and pretend to inspect your shoes for any indication of dust. Damn five-star hotels and their extremely slippery granite floors. For what purpose were they made so smooth and shiny? For one to see their reflection when they faceplanted there?

Hyunjin’s still laughing lightly when he comes near you.

“You okay?” he asks, concerned. You hear his voice, and it is still the same smooth tone, albeit deeper. You missed that voice. But the way he speaks, polite yet guarded, you think that maybe he doesn’t recognize you.

“You haven’t changed one bit. Still tripping down flat surfaces, Miss Writer?”

And he proves your assumption wrong. You frown at how easily he can annoy you with just the sight of his stupid face, handsome or not.

Your lips straighten themselves into a thin line, and he remembers why he’d teased you countless times when you were younger. You were adorable when you attempted to look angry, like a tiger cub trying to sulk. He smiles, eyes taking you in again.

“You haven’t changed either. You laughed at me when I fell!”

That wasn’t true. He had changed, in more ways than one. Time had carved him beautifully, with elegant lines and soft beauty, evident on his face. And he was no longer Hyun, your best friend. He was Hwang Hyunjin, the rising art mogul, and founder of the famous ‘Hwang Designers.’ The man sought after by rich men and women alike.

The laugh he’d been subduing comes out in full force once again at the memory, and he clutches his jacket. For a moment, he’s your Hyunjin again.

You hit him on the shoulder, and he stops laughing.

“I haven’t seen you for seven years and this is how you greet me?”

He sobers up quickly. He knew he had to apologize, sooner or later. He decides to do it now.

“Ice cream?” he asks.

“Butter-scotch and Strawberry?”

“Yes. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Deal.”

When the both of you walk out the set of doors, you don’t look back at the gigantic building and to your surprise, neither does he.

The both of you stumble into his car, a spacious Audi, and he puts the car in reverse. It reminds you of the countless things you’ve missed. Like the first time he learnt how to drive. It saddens you a little, and he notices.

“The nearest dessert place is pretty far. You sure about this?” He wanted to make sure he wasn’t intruding on your schedule.

“I’m sure, Hyun. Now, let’s go.” You punctuate your statement with impatient slaps on the centre console. He chuckles, starting the car.

Once on the road, he thinks back on your words earlier. You had called him Hyun, after such a long time. He’d been called a lot of things, but he thought this epithet was something he wanted to keep being called. It’s a physical entity of your friendship, showing how it is still intact. And he feels like he’s sixteen again, sitting with you on your rooftop, as your shoulders brush. Like nothing has changed.

He drives past trucks and numerous cars, taking turns until the roads are empty.

You roll the windows down, and let the wind flow between your tresses.

The cool air feels heavenly against your burning skin. You close your eyes just as a strong gust of wind blows. You lean against the rails of the windows. It felt like freedom, like being alive at last.

Hyunjin watches you intently, eyes flickering between you and the road. It had been so long since he’d seen you, and he physically could not keep his eyes off you. He still remembers the mole above your left eye, the numerous dimples on your cheeks and the little bump on your nose bridge. He’s dreamt about it every day you’ve been apart, to be honest, but now was not the time.

Driving through empty highways at night was not how he envisioned his reunion with you, but there you were.

“Do you want to go somewhere in particular?” he asks you, voice soft, in that same tone he used to talk to you.

“Just keep driving, please” you swallow thickly. You didn’t want to return to your reality, not yet.

He nods once, then “Shall I take you somewhere? You’ll like it, I promise. Unless you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, then “Okay. I trust that you won’t get rid of me.”

He rolls his eyes, “Come on, ----- you should know me better than that. I would’ve done it already if I wanted to.”

You huff, “And here I thought you wouldn’t even dream of it.”

He just smirks and shifts the gear, speeding up.

“Slow down, I don’t want to die yet.”

He side-eyes you, “I’m not getting you killed, darling” He slows down anyway.

You feel yourself flushing because of that word. This was new. The Hyunjin you knew always called you silly names, but not this. This was different, mature. The tone of his voice was suddenly deeper.

No, no.

This was Hyunjin you were talking about.

He was your friend years ago, and you have yet to determine what he is to you. You will not be having such thoughts. Shaking your head, you lean back in your seat, when he stops the car. He’s brought you to the spot near the bridge, overlooking the river reflecting the city lights. You get out of the car and he leans against the hood with you, simply watching the scene before you.

It’s beautiful, the vast cityscape, stretching along the length of the river. The flashing lights dance over the waterbody like stars twinkling over the Milky Way. It feels so grandiose. But, you know that despite it looking so enigmatic, it is not so glamorous in reality. And the sudden weight of the expectations of others weighs down on you, all at once.

The distress must have shown on your face, because he stands in front of you, holding your face like he used to do when you were upset.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

He’s wiping your face, and you realize you’ve been crying.

“Nothing.”

“You know you can tell me anything.”

“I thought I could, until you went away to another corner of the world, leaving me behind.”

He flinches a little at the words. It’s true, he did leave you behind. It’s time he owns up to it.

“I’m sorry, ----. We were going to be far apart, and you and I were still young. I’m thankful for our friendship, but I thought that we could leave it behind. To revisit it one day, if we wanted to. I didn’t want to burden you with a friendship so pressing with its demands just to keep it alive. I thought I gave you a choice. Nonetheless, I’m sorry I didn’t contact you. I wanted to, but each year held me back when you’d gone years without speaking to me. But I believed I was still your friend,” he bends down and holds your hand. “I thought we’d survive despite not a single word being exchanged between us. And I know I’m right. But please be upset, I don’t like you being upset with me.”

You hold his hand, fingers curling around his wrist.

“I’m not mad at you, I understand. Maybe not then, but I do now.”

You give him a genuine smile, and his heart soars.

“So now, you’re back to being my best friend, no takebacks. Or I’ll knock you out.”

“Woah, ease up there. It’s been barely five seconds since we’ve made up and you’re already threatening me?”

“Like I said, I’ll knock you out.”

He immediately moves away from you, hands positioned in a poor imitation of some jiujitsu pose you know he has no idea about.

And you laugh, a childish sound coming from your mouth. He sees you, head thrown back and he feels his lips curling upwards.

You stay there for what feels like hours, catching up. He teases you and you threaten him, and he makes you laugh. You forget the ice cream. It feels just like old times.

When it gets darker, Hyunjin drops you off at your home after saving your number, with promises to meet you tomorrow. You wave him off, beaming.

Later, you stumble into bed with a heavy heart, sad that the evening had ended so soon. You know you won’t get any sleep, and yet you try. When you finally feel like you’re dozing off, your phone vibrates with a notification. Cursing whoever decided to message you without your permission (how dare they, when you were just about to fall asleep?) you unlock it to see a message from an unknown number.

>>>See you tomorrow, Miss Writer.

You smile and type something to send him too.

<<<See you tomorrow, Mr. Hwang.

And he’s the one who’s kicking his feet when he receives your message.

Labels: @straykidsland

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration to characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

A Modern Love Story

A Lee Minho Fanfic

m.list

Sequel to The Gratitude Series

WC: 3.6k words

Characters: Lee Minho X Fem reader

Genre: Fluff

Triggers/Warnings: Mentions of nightmares

Entails: Established relationship, pet names, hugging, they're in love.

You’re not a writer, but if you could compile all the moments you were so deeply in love, you would do so. And it would be messy, imperfect, blunt, and out of order, but it would be yours. It’s no grand fairytale, but a modern love story, just as you like it.

i. Thank you for looking at me when you needed comfort.

Words of affirmation are your love language, and acts of service his, but you feel utterly helpless when he's so broken. You don't know what will help ease his hapless cries, but you want to be there for him.

“Hey,” you call out softly. No answer. You go further and plant your feet in the middle of the room.

You and Minho had been together for a short time, a little over a month. It is still a delight whenever you're reminded that he's yours now. The both of you were slowly warming up to each other, but there was still a considerable distance between you two. As though you hadn't dared to go near a line that meant you were truly in it, together. It would mean you were vulnerable and bare, unguarded around the other.

But that changed when you came home to a very tired-looking Minho on the couch, who was utterly drained from the day's events.

Your first reaction was to give him space and time to collect himself. But then it dawned on you that the way you want to be given comfort is not the same way he would expect it.

Carefully, you tread across the room till you reach him and with the tenderness you reserved only for him, you hesitantly card your fingers in his hair and whisper his name.

Minho was so out of it that he failed to register you coming in. He was just lying there on the couch, too tired to even take off his jacket. He was so exhausted, he felt like he could lay that way for hours on end and suddenly he felt your presence.

He feels your fingers in his hair and the caress of his syllables on your tongue. He doesn't know how to react.

He never expected that you'd catch him in his messiest state. He wants to brush this off, play off his embarrassment as nothing and just when he opens his mouth, you beat him to it and ask

"Want me to stay or give you space?"

His lips part at your words. That was the first time you’d spoken to him without stammering. He always thought it cute. But then, if you were going to speak to him like that, in clever but thoughtful sentences, he was going to think you were running after his heart. You give him a small but reassuring smile after and he just…breaks.

Maybe it was the gentleness you handled him with or the considerate question you asked him. The answer to which lay within his choice.

Either way, he can't stop it when fresh tears spring to his eyes and trail down his cheeks before he can stop them. He ducks his head in embarrassment.

He was sure you'd look at him in a different light, and distance yourself from him. Although the logical part of his brain assures him that you're way too kind and understanding to do that, his emotions get the best of him and he cries more.

You concede by wrapping your arms around him and laying his head on your shoulder for now. You were in quite an uncomfortable position. Your office chair was not the most comfortable, and your legs were feeling the impact of it then. But that wasn’t important.

Right then, you simply hold him, knowing that he's capable of picking himself up but being there to help him share the burden of his weight. You tighten your hold around him when he takes in deep breaths, only for sobs to wrack him. You lightly run your fingers on his scalp, until he calms down and you're both sitting in silence.

"You okay now?" you ask him softly, and he almost says yes.

But he doesn't, because he's too warm and cosy in your embrace. He goes with the truth.

"M’better, will be okay" his words come out muffled due to his face resting on your collarbone.

He sighs happily and nuzzles his face in further. You smile. Even though you can’t see his face, you’re sure he’s blushing. You understand and lay your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around you. The both of you stay there for a while, in each other's arms.

After a few minutes, you make a move to get up but he holds you, not letting you go. He looks up at you, and you're at a loss for words.

You'd always known Minho was beautiful. He'd taken your breath away completely multiple times, like when he took you to his home for the first time and you melted at the way he looked at his cats. Or the time when he'd monitored his performance in the camera, eyes unblinking as he analysed himself. His gaze had always left you breathless, evident by the way you could not hold eye contact with him for long.

But the way he was looking at you now, you had no words to describe it. His eyes were soft and raw, begging you to stay. His pupils were dilated, and he looked at you with such intense affection and love. You wanted to capture this moment forever. But instead, you brushed his hair back from his eyes and told him that you were going to be back. He pouts and you almost relent but he loosens his hold on you.

"Come back soon." he pleads and you nod.

You get up from the couch and go into the kitchen, looking for a clean tumbler. Once you find it, you fill it just below its brim with water and hurry to the living room.

You thought he'd not want to initiate more contact, but the moment you're within arm's reach, he pulls you in until you're sitting in his lap. You yelp, precariously holding the glass so no water spills out.

He pays no mind to the glass and simply rests his shoulder in the crook of your neck.

You suddenly feel shy at the action, feeling like hiding away until your cheeks are no longer burning. You were no stranger to physical touch, but it was the first time he was touching you so much and it made your heart race.

"Drink up" you tell him, holding out the glass of water.

He makes no move to take it. He just tilts his head slightly and you understand. You bring the glass to his lips and he takes sips, and then gulps of the water until it is empty. The entire time, he never once loosens his grip around you. Suddenly you feel warm all over, especially in your chest.

When he finishes, he licks his lips and looks at you. "Thank you" he says, and you reply with an automatic

"You're not welcome."

You don’t register the words coming out of your mouth. You’re too busy tracing his now-dried tears. His eyes crinkle with a tiny smile at your words, amused at the way you phrase your words. Even distracted, you never fail to banter with him. You look up and grin, feeling a bit giddy at the fact that you made him smile. Out of all the people in his life, you were the one who got to make him smile.

“Now what?" He asks, eyes no longer sad, but bright. You breathe a little easier.

"I dunno. What’d you wanna do?"

“Hmm” he makes a show of thinking loudly.

You just stare at him, not bothering to cover the awe in your gaze. He looks at you, a single eyebrow raised.

"What?" you grin wider and before you think too much of it, you place a peck on his lips.

He stops moving entirely. You think you've overstepped your boundaries and go to apologise for kissing him without his consent first, but he stops you when he places his lips on yours.

He kisses you softly. His cracked lips are rough, but welcoming on your own. The sensation of kissing him is like soothing a wound you didn’t know you had acquired. He kisses you until you have to break apart for air. He makes no move to stop until you push him lightly. You feel like your entire body is aflame.

"We don’t need to stop." he says, despite his ears turning scarlet. Heat rushes to your face and you lightly hit him. He makes no move to dodge it, and you see a familiar glint of mischief in his irises.

"I almost forgot how to breathe." you say while fanning yourself, eyes not meeting his.

He just smirks, hands still on your waist. He feels great at having made you shy.

Minho makes up his mind on what he wants to do.

“We have two options" he says, and you pause your movements.

He waits a bit more for dramatic effect and says "Option one: I'll make dinner and you can help me" and you grin, nodding.

"Option two: " he drawls out slowly

"We eat each other for dinner".

You blanch and remind him, “I’m not into cannibalism, you know?”.

He pays no heed to your words. his mind is somewhere in a place filled with your eyes and your soft touch, and his eyes are on your lips. It still amazes you, how he can switch up in an instant. You roll your eyes, even as you hold up one finger.

"One." you say, moving away from him. He pouts in reply.

"Only option two is available. It's irresistible." he says earnestly grabbing your hand.

He can’t believe you didn’t choose option two. You're not charmed by his attempts. But you're very endeared, both by his pout and his now-red ears. You go back and grab him by the fabric of his shirt. He stills in place.

"If you want, we can choose option two after dinner.” You say nonchalantly as possible and make your exit. He just blinks and his ears burn. You drive him crazy. He wanted you to keep driving him crazy.

A moment later, he’s hot on his heels, chasing after you. With his heart in tow.

ii. Thanks to you, I’m looking at myself for the first time through your eyes.

“Baby I’m going to get groceries. You want anything?”, you call out while writing your grocery list. He comes into the kitchen and looks over your shoulder. “No?” he questions, more to himself than to you. You’re momentarily distracted by his face, but you snap your head towards your list before he notices. You were still way too flustered around him.

“Do you have ingredients for if you decide to cook?” you ask, still writing down stuff, except your grip on the pen is now tighter. Thanks to him, your Adonis of a boyfriend.

“Your handwriting is nice.”, he claims, as though it is a fact as true as time, even as he ducks under the cabinets to cover his flushed face.

The world stops, then resumes spinning on its axis. You exhale softly.

“Really?”

The words come out a minute later than you intended. Lots of people had said the same thing to you before, the same words thrown around lightly.

But coming from him, you feel as though your handwriting is actually nice. You were used to your slants and the cursive, the font as familiar to you as the back of your hand. Nothing special about it. Now, you fall in love all over again with your own lettering, delighting in each form of the alphabet. With him, everything was new, even parts of yourself that you had grown used to. Loving him was coming back home, in the truest sense of the word.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

A moment later, “Can you get me pudding?”

iii. I like your company

Minho is sulking around the house, for reasons unknown to you. This is the fifth time he’s sighed so loudly in the last three minutes, the sound. And as much as his pout is adorable, you don’t want him to be upset.

Turning the television off, you get off the couch and make your way to the bedroom.

He sits there, nearly engulfed by the pile of blankets he’s surrounded himself with. The visual makes you smile.

“Why are you sighing baby?”

“Because you left me when I decided to watch a movie.”

“You were the one who declined my company remember?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually go. I wanted to watch it with you.” He says it like a confession he didn’t intend to make, one he’d hoped to keep in the secret chambers of his heart.

Your self-satisfied stance softens entirely.

“Baby I didn’t know you were teasing me. I thought you wanted some alone time.”

He just presses his lips into a line, and says, “I don’t want to be alone, even when I say so. I just want you with me.” He looks at a distant spot above your head, everywhere except your eyes.

Your eyes crinkle at that, all faux smugness gone. “I won’t know until you tell me, love. Unfortunately, I’m not inntinsic-“

“What’s inntinsic?” he interrupts, and you just give up on what you were going to say, the words forgotten.

You were a goner from the time he took interest in every word you said and carefully listened. You loved to use new words you’d learnt from reading, and every time you mentioned a new one, Minho would interrupt you mid-sentence to demand to know what it meant. It was cute, the way he didn’t want to wait until you were done speaking to understand it, like he wouldn’t miss a fraction of a second with the knowledge of you.

However, thinking back on your words, you just realized that whatever you used was not a real word. You just quoted a book,…and he didn’t know.

“Oh um, never mind. I meant to say telepathic. Inntinsic is…not a real word.” You want to bury yourself in a burrow at the end of the world and disappear.

“You’re using fantasy words now? What about all the times you tricked me? My reputation is at stake, Name.” He’s now sitting up, sounding all cocky at your little slip-up.

Minho knows that you’re meticulous about your grammar, and he hopes to tease you enough so you grant him a shove, a touch, anything. He acts like you’re at his mercy, when really he’s at your mercy, a puppet with the strings entwined in your fingers.

You tsk “I take it you don’t want to watch a movie with me? Great thanks. I’m off now.” Giving him a mock salute, you attempt to bolt out the door.

He laughs and catches you before you can get away. He grips your waist from the edge of the bed and you come crashing into his chest. He tickles you relentlessly, and you squirm in his hold, tears leaking from your eyes. “STOP, stop, please-“

Your shared laughter spills into the air, as the invisible stars in the evening sky bear witness to your glee.

Damn him and his strong arms, you think. But then again, if you’d exercised a little you wouldn’t be in this situation. He was big and warm in his blanket fort. Who were you to refuse?

After you finally catch a break, his eyes rove over you, full of affection. You look away, the eye contact too intense. He smirks at that, and you pretend not to see it, clearing your throat for no reason.

“I call dibs on choosing the movie.”

“We’re watching Home Alone? AGAIN? I thought we talked about thi-”

“Oh shush. It’s starting.”

iv. Walk with me through my nightmares

Your home was empty, except for the petals of lilies scattered around the entire place. You call out to someone, but no one answers. You remember something. Entwined hands, warm shirts, him. Suddenly you’re not at home, but in a dark alley, the entire place pitch black if not for the soft moonlight. You’re standing in front of him. He offers you his hand. You want to take it, but you can’t seem to lift your hands. You try again, but your hand doesn’t budge. You look at him, mouth opening to tell him but strangely, no words come out. He’s retracting his hand and you want to tell him to stay. You try to scream, but it stays lodged in your throat. He turns around, against your wishes. You stay still, even as he goes out of sight. Don’t go, don’t go. Please

You open your eyes, sweating, as you feel something patting your cheek repeatedly. Taking a few deep breaths, you grab something closest to you. An arm, Minho’s arm. You clutch it with your hands. He’s with you, he’s here. Minho holds you tightly, bringing your head to his chest. He rocks you slightly as you try to ground yourself. After a few minutes, he slowly detaches you from his hold, getting up from the bed. You’re too tired to ask him why, sending him a questioning look instead. He merely tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, hand patting your head while telling you to wait.

You sit back against the headboard, as you sleepily try to stay awake.

Hot. It was too hot. You needed air.

You abruptly wake up from the bed, the duvet falling off you. You take one, two, three wobbly steps before you come crashing down on the floor. You wince, rubbing your knee where it hurt from the fall, but the sensation of the cold floor feels nice. You sit there, unmoving, trying to make sense of what just happened. You had a nightmare. A really bad one at that. And you don’t know if you can fall asleep again.

Minho was jolted awake when you were whimpering in your sleep, your entire form trembling. This is the first time he’s seen you going through a nightmare, and he’s grateful that he got to be there for you. What was he supposed to do? You’d like some water, right? He could get you some water. When he returns to the room, glass in hand, he sees you curled up on the marble floor, shivering.

He quickly scoops you up in his arms, and you cling to him like a baby. His lips twitch at that, but he knows better than to tease you in this state. Depositing you on the bed, he brings the glass to your lips as you take in greedy gulps of the water. After you’re done, he wipes your lips and tucks you into bed wordlessly. You don’t have the heart to tell him that you can’t fall asleep. You simply close your eyes and stay still, as he gets back into the sheets, tugs you closer until your foreheads meet, and falls asleep.

But you stay awake. The sounds are too much, the absent hum of the air conditioner, the rustling of the bedcovers, faraway sounds of a vehicle.

You put both your hands into your ears and shut your eyes. When you start to think that maybe you might not get to sleep, Minho starts talking, even as his eyes are closed.

“Do you think maybe we should change the curtains tomorrow?”

You’re confused. You respond with a meek “Huh?”

“The curtains. We put them on during spring, I think we can put up different ones for winter. We can decorate the whole house too, if you’d like.” Minho’s voice drowns out the rest of the incessant noise. The rhythm of your heart stutters, then starts again.

He was trying to talk you to sleep. And it was working. Your eyes slowly drift shut, even as you fight to stay awake. You love him, so much. And you want to let him know.

You tap him thrice on the arm. I love you. You do it again. You hope he understands.

He opens on eye to look at you, confused. You tap him again, I love you. Maybe it was your sleep riddled brain, but you swore you felt him tap you back, a smile adorning his face.

v. I don’t want an epilogue. I just want to wake up with you, for the rest of my life.

Weeks pass by, and the leaves outside droop and fall, painting the ground yellow and crimson. Soon enough, as the world outside begins to be covered in snow, your life slowly becomes coloured in the shades of love.

The hues of your love were mellow, but not monochromatic. They were the colour of the sea in spring, when both of you were feeling blue, wordlessly being with each other. They were the colour of his warm eyes, whenever the both of you sat on the kitchen counter, hands trying to eat popsicles before they melted, even as your teeth chattered. They were the colour of the first rays of sunlight, when his arm reached for your waist and your hands reached for his hair, limbs tangled together under the duvet.

These little moments were your favourite. Because it was just you and him. A thousand thoughts roamed your mind, but the thoughts of him prevailed, always. And you hoped it would be so until the end of time. Until the end of your time.

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

"Where were you?"

A Kim Seungmin Drabble

m.list

WC: 254 words

Characters: Seungmin X Gender-Neutral Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Triggers/Warnings: None I can think of.

"Hey" you went to stand in front of him, tucking him into your waist. Seungmin wraps his arms around your waist, head resting on your stomach. He doesn't say a word for long moments.

You come in early, and you find your boyfriend as quiet as a mouse, knees tucked together due to the cold.

"Why are you so late?" he mumbles, his voice squeezing your heart.

"Am I really?" you ponder, eyes going to your watch. You weren't late to meet him. You were two minutes early. "But I'm not." You told him patiently, waiting for him to explain.

"You are" he reaffirms, his hold tightening. "I read that soulmates will arrive at the right time, exactly when you need them. So where were you all these years? I missed you." He cries.

You were startled, you didn't know what prompted the outburst. But you held him that way until he was strong enough to hold himself.

"You're late" he tells you again over dinner, when you're both clad in much more comfortable clothing, and his tears have dried enough for you to leave trails of kisses on his beautiful face.

"And what about it?" You humour him.

"For that, I'm subjecting you to be my soulmate in all my lifetimes".

You thought your poor heart was going to burst from all the joy it had to suddenly contain.

"I accept it wholeheartedly", you give him your acceptance with a raise of your spoon and a loving kiss on his lips.

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Nerdy is the New Sexy

A Han Jisung Fanfic

m.list

A/N: If anyone gets the title reference, know that I love you.

WC: 1.08k words

Genre: Fluff

Characters: University Student Han Jisung X Gn reader

Triggers/Warnings: Idiots in love, mutual, oblivious pining (I don't like this but here we are)

“Your/Name. Go to sleep.” Jisung says from his room, rubbing his eyes.

You startle at the sudden noise, only to realize it's your roommate, staying up because of the harsh light coming from your room.

“Sorry,” you say, “I’ll just be up for a few more minutes.” “What’s so important you’re staying up for it?”

He comes into your room to peer into your laptop screen. Your breathing quickens at the proximity. He squints for a moment and then he looks at you dead in the eyes.

“Why the hell are you researching Popular dishes of the Medieval Period?” “You never know. I might need it” you weakly defend, though you were just insatiably curious. “God, you’re such a nerd.” He says fondly.

You almost forget how to breathe. Both, from the words coming and the person speaking them. 

“I’m not a nerd,” you reply, your tone soft, but firm.

“I’m not a nerd because nerds genuinely spend their time learning new things, things that make them appreciate the world more. Something that justifies as well as glorifies their existence on this planet. It's like giving back because you have a chance to live a life. I'm not a nerd because I sometimes procrastinate and end up hurriedly finishing the essay in two hours instead of the four I'd originally kept apart for it.” You ramble in one breath. 

Han watches you, soft eyes taking in your every breath and relishing in the words you speak. He didn’t know it was possible to love someone so much, without even touching them. For him, you were the human embodiment of love and he didn’t like it when you discredited yourself, even for the smallest of things.

“But you write as good of an essay you do in two as well as you do one in four.” He says firmly. 

“That’s true,” you muse, “Work expands to fill the Time allocated to it, I guess.” He gives you a self-satisfied look that says ‘See? I told you so.’ 

“You’re a nerd,” he says in finality. ”Don't even start about how you're not qualified to be one. You're the biggest nerd I know. You're a writer, you make everything sound enjoyable, you're kind, and you have such thoughts about nerds. You're the epitome of a nerd if I ever saw one. So don't worry your little head and come back to sleep. I don't want to drag you to class tomorrow and hear your whining.” He ends his speech with a tired expression as if recounting all the times he dragged your whiny self to classes held at ungodly hours of the morning.

Your heart lurched and backflipped in your chest. God, this was embarrassing, even if you were the only one who witnessed your lovesickness.

He was basically confessing to you, in terms of, hot romance novel terms. But he wasn't the male lead of a romcom and you weren't the protagonist. He was your roommate and you were his friend he was forced to get acquainted with because of your living situation, nothing more.

You don’t want to have fantasies that will end up being just that, fantasies.

So you don’t think about how nice his smile is, or how his arms have been bulging out from his sleeveless shirts recently and how utterly easy it is to love him.

You decide you'll just keep this safely tucked into your mind, where nothing can reach it. You vow to yourself you'll keep it safe for when you second guess whether you really want to keep loving him, when you second guess if you need to keep writing, or when you feel like giving up on yourself. You're nothing if not a writer of your words.

‘What a lame excuse of a pun.’ You tell yourself. But then with the look he's giving you, you realise you haven't given him a response to his words, yet. And you sheepishly smile as he shakes his head, knowing you got caught up in your head again.

“Thank you,” you tell him. You want to tell him of your gratitude in great detail, in a much more deserving way, but words have deserted your mind now and these will have to do.

He smiles, “You act like it isn't true. It is. Now hurry up and get to bed.” He pats your bed and falls into the mass of pillows you’ve kept there. You giggle at his action. That was another thing. You were always smiling around him. He made it so easy. 

"Talk dirty to me, why don't you?" you say, playfully wiggling your eyebrows and he throws a chocolate wrapper around you. You frown at that.

“That was my bookmark, you dweeb.”

“So?” he questions as though it means nothing.

“Find another one” he says nonchalantly and you want to throw a brick at his stupidly beautiful face.

“I can’t. Ugh. What do you know about the struggles of a bookworm?”

He rolls his eyes at your theatrics. Even as he makes a note to carry some chocolates for you tomorrow, so you can have enough bookmarks.

“I’ll get you your favourite drink if you come to bed right now,” he says, attentive eyes waiting for your reaction.

For one moment, when he says that, you pretend he's your boyfriend who’s really in love with you. You know you shouldn’t do it but all the fics on your phone say otherwise. So, you pretend he's beckoning you to come sleep next to him, waiting to pull your face under his chin and rest his head on yours. It feels heavenly, the feeling. You wouldn't ever refuse to go to bed if it were real. So you don't refuse now. You turn off your computer and your desk lamp, take off your glasses and dive headfirst into your bed, and it’s his turn to giggle at your antics. You won’t refuse him anything even if he’s not yours. The power he had over you, you didn’t ever want him to know. 

He tucks you in like a baby, and whispers “Sleep well, you nerd”, and then he’s off to his own room. You merely smile and snuggle in, and you’re out like a light moments after.

Only when the door is firmly shut, does he kick his feet in the air, having a full-on meltdown after being so near to you. Was this his punishment for writing songs with unrequited love? He groaned. It was so unfair. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Letting Go

m.list

A Lee Felix Fanfic

A/N: Here it is, like I promised. Loads of thanks to the lovely @hyunverse for helping me proofread this, as well as for tolerating my rambling. This is my first real attempt at angst, so I'd love to know your thoughts about it. Happy reading!

WC: 4.5k words

Genre: Angst, fluff

Characters: Lee Felix, Female Reader, Tears, Bags of chips, Changbin, and the butt-hunters of Stray Kids.

Triggers/Warnings: Break up, Exes, Breakdowns, Heartbreak, and (Implications of) situational depression.

“When you love someone, you have to let them go. If they come back to you, they’re yours. If they don’t come back to you, they were never yours.” – Anonymous

You know he was lying just to protect you, but why did it hurt all the same? It was Felix you were talking about. It hurt because he’d never raised his voice while talking to you, even that time when you almost damaged his gaming console. Not even by an octave when he was upset or fazed.

 And now he was yelling. You couldn’t help it. Fat, angry teardrops fell from your eyes. You didn’t want to cry, but your heart loved him a little too much to go down without a fight.

 “Please don’t do this to me, to us. We can make it work. We will.”

You were begging him at this point, but you couldn’t care less about it. You were willing to get on your knees if he would change his mind.

But Felix just roughly swallowed, his words forgotten.

He couldn’t do it anymore, he told himself. Not when you were crying, begging for him to stop. You were his, and he was yours, he knew he’d be damned if he hurt you willingly.

But he had to, there was no other plausible option when the both of you would never ask of the other to do something so …accommodating, like leaving one’s career for the other person.

You would never forgive yourself if he derailed his entire life, his passion just to be with you. And he knew.

But it still hurt. That’s how pain is. It pricks you anew every time, even though you know what is it that’s going to happen. So, he bit the bullet and landed the final blow.

 “But I don’t want to make this work. I don’t want to lead you on with false hope when I have no intention of returning” To you.

The unspoken words rang clear in the air.

 He whispered them like a forbidden curse, like a nightmare that cannot be controlled as it forcibly claws out sleep from the innocent hearts of children. You felt as though your entire being was doused in ice-cold water.

That evening, you were anxious for the first time in years when he told you to meet him at an empty park, not at your home, to talk about something important.  That anxiety grew stronger with his words, about how it was right all along regarding the fact that he was leaving you.

You still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that Felix, your soulmate, your one true person was leaving you because he had to move somewhere else where his work was entailed. It took a second to fully sink in, and when it did, you physically heard your heart shatter. Now you understand.

Why he was so insistent on ending it.

Because it was inevitable that it would end. He might have been the only person you envisioned yourself with in the future, but for him, you were only a memorable lover. Not easy to forget, but not impossible to move on from either. 

“Okay,” you said, voice weak. 

What else were you supposed to say? You’d promised to never come in the way of each other’s successes. You had to keep that promise, it was the only one that mattered now. Because it was the only promise still holding true, binding him and you when there was nothing else between you two. 

“Okay,” you say again, voice unwavering this time. “I’ll let you go now” and you walk away, just as thunder sounds in the distance and raindrops start pelting down on you harshly, like a thousand arrows aimed to pierce you apart. But there was no need for that. You were already in shreds. 

As you walk further, hands slightly shivering from the cold of the rain, you hear something faint. Felix was saying something. You turn around and he catches up to you, breathing heavily. 

“At least let me take you home. You’ll catch a cold.” Your heart, your stupid, traitorous heart actually stutters for a second even though it was him who wrecked it. 

Closing your eyes, you breathe in the scent of rain and him, for the last time.

 “No Felix,” you tell him and he winces at the use of his full name. It sounded so distant, and joyless. “If I’m letting you go, let me do it fully.”

 And as much as he would like to disagree and tell you to mull it over in the warmth of his car, he knows you need the space. So, he stays rooted on the spot, as you slowly turn around and go far away, until he can’t see you anymore. He stays where he is, to let you walk away from him. To let you think that you were leaving him and not the other way round, so you’d have a choice in this too. 

He was so thoughtful, even in this, and you wanted to collapse and cry on the spot, with your tears camouflaged in the rain. You wanted to stay that way for as long as possible and just melt away. But you couldn’t. Your pride, something small and cracked from everything but still solid, wouldn’t allow for it. 

No more damage, it said. But what’s left? You ask. Nothing. Everything’s gone, so why does it matter now? Why does anything matter now?

You don’t know how you make it back to your apartment. You don’t recall anything about your walk back home in the rain. 

Going in, you settle on the marble floor and stare at the clock. It’s late, you note and get up to ready yourself for bed.

You weren’t going to think, you’d done enough of that. Your brain would hurt if you did any more of it.

Mechanically, you change out of your soaked clothes and get in the shower. The view of an array of his shampoo bottles is what greets you. Resisting the urge to stay in there, you quickly wash up with warm water that’s soft on your skin. You relish the comfort it gives you, if only for a few seconds. You get out and change into your nightwear. Brushing your teeth and washing your face, you’re careful not to face the mirror.

You can’t do it. 

You make your bed and sink into it, but it feels too large, without him in it. No, you stop yourself. Dragging your thick comforter to the living room, you sit on the cold floor and lean against the wall. You can handle it, the cold numbing your feet. You weren’t sure if you could handle warmth, you’re afraid you’d succumb. And so, you sit there all night, crying, as you listen to your love go down with the rain. 

The next morning is unpleasant but bearable. Your eyes are bloodshot, both from crying and from the lack of sleep. That and you can’t feel your feet. Last night’s haze has evaporated, leaving the rational you of the new day to deal with the aftermath. 

You thank the heavens it is a Sunday. At least he broke your heart on a Saturday, to sober up and collect yourself for work on Monday. You bitterly chuckle. Growing up meant work was way more important than your broken heart because well, you were an adult and you had to suck it up and go on.

 Life had a way of proving you wrong when you thought it couldn’t get worse. You hated everything in that moment, the sun shining brightly like your world hadn’t been torn apart, the noises of the people who carried on with their lives, the voices in your head telling you to do the right thing. 

What was the right thing to do, when what you wanted didn’t exist? It was too much, and you let out a choked sob, tears running down your cheeks. Regulating your breathing, you were doing a lot of that, you calmed yourself down. 

Despite your current state, you try to pick yourself up and try to go about your day normally. But it was a Herculean piece of work when he had embedded himself so deeply in all of your routines too. 

When you both were together, you’d wake up and kiss him on the cheek if he’d slept over, or you’d send him a text wishing him a good morning. He’d then call you as you brushed your teeth and he did the same on his side. You’d talk about your plans for the day until you had to go get ready. You would have breakfast with him or send him a picture. Then, if he was feeling particularly energetic, he’d pick you up and drop you off at your workplace.

When you came back home, he’d be there to welcome you, to the home in his embrace. How would you forego all of that, years of routine, and go about normally? You didn’t think you had the strength it required. 

I’ll be okay on my own, I always have been, you remind yourself.

You decide to focus on one thing at a time. You brush your teeth, and after you’re done, you look at yourself in the mirror. The person staring back at you was someone new, someone unfamiliar. Someone you had wished to never meet. But you faced yourself. It was progress compared to yesterday. 

After washing your face, you turn your attention to your hair. Blowing out a breath, you remind yourself that punishing yourself wouldn’t help, in any way.

Slowly, with patience you didn’t know you possessed, you began untangling the strands. Every time you feel like tugging at your scalp until you bled, you slow down and deliberately brush your hair with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Breathing in and out, you finally managed to untangle all the knots and pulled your hair into a neat ponytail. What was next? Food. Right, you needed food. And so, you got to work. 

You work task by task until you feel pieces of you returning, making their way back to you. Some pieces are stubborn and don’t give in. You manage to put yourself back together, and you want to cry all over again.

Not over him, but the fact that it took you an entire day to come back to yourself, after so long. You sober up and feel yourself craving snacks. You’ve always been responsible and very meticulous, thinking hard about each decision big or small. But then, you decide to be impulsive for once, to make yourself happy, no matter how small the happiness, and you grab your keys. 

Dressed in pyjamas and a puffer jacket to keep out the cold, you enter the convenience store and quickly pick up some snacks. As you go to the checkout line, you find Changbin, one of Felix’s best friends.

 “Hey you”, he greets you enthusiastically and you realize that Felix must not have told him about you two. You don’t know whether to feel grateful or saddened. 

“Hello Changbin” you greet him back, and he asks you about your choice of snacks. Soon, easy laughter is shared between the two of you and he tells you he needs to hurry home. 

“I have to go pack, but text me later, okay?” he tells you, eyes suddenly intently watching you, and you know he suspects something. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be with him, considering we’ll be taking off in such less time?” and you sigh, having expected it.

“We parted ways,” you tell him, not having the courage enough to say that you two had broken up because saying those words felt real. 

Changbin understands, and he squeezes your arm.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m always here if you need me, okay?” he tells you and you feel like crying, again, because he’s being so nice to you. You assure him that you will contact him later and go back home. 

You let out a long breath, just the thought of starting all over tomorrow felt like hell. You give in to sleep, as a certain person keeps appearing to haunt you even in your dreams. 

The next morning you wake up and do the same thing, all over again. Days pass by, and your nightmares become less frequent and you get enough sleep. Some days, you can confidently look yourself in the mirror, other times you can’t even lift your head. Still, you get better each day, the ache in your chest fading to a numbness that won’t go away. 

Five months, that’s the amount of time it takes you to go an entire day without thinking about him.

But him, oh he wasn’t even trying to go a day without thinking about you. He didn’t want to. 

From the moment you left him, taking his heart with you, he was destroyed. He thought the miles of distance between the two of you would make it easier to stay apart.

He was wrong. Every day, he cracked a little, all his love that he had kept just for you, chipped until it was a semblance of what it was. His friends, especially Changbin urged him to try talking to you again, but he refused. 

“She hates me, hyung. I don’t think she wants to talk to me after everything.” Changbin could only watch helplessly as his two best friends struggled. 

-2 Months later-

You had become a workaholic, with nothing else other than work to engage you and keep you distracted, and it had paid off in ways. You got a promotion, to a position you could only dream about before, but you’d worked harder than ever to achieve it. However, one thing that came with the position was the numerous galas and parties that you had to attend. 

You initially thought it would be fun to dress up nicely and meet new people, but reality was quick to burst your bubble.

You had to engage with all sorts of people, even some who didn’t work in your fields, which led to lots of awkward conversations, and random creeps whose personalities were not half as interesting as your neighbourhood’s resident cat.

It was tiresome in ways that sometimes you had to take a plane just to attend a stupid party and socialize when all you wanted was to snuggle into your bed and not meet people for another week. 

Now, you had another party to attend, except it was being held in Korea, and you had to fly all the way in a single day after your work was finished. 

Stepping out into the airport, you quickly unlock your phone and text Changbin. He was the only one you could rely on, especially when you didn’t know the language all that well. He had kindly agreed to help you navigate your new surroundings. Except he didn’t tell you that he’d be bringing Felix along.

The guy had hoped that an impromptu meet would lead to the two of you resolving your (still very much alive) feelings. What he didn’t expect though, was for the freckled guy to flee. 

Felix had no idea as to who Changbin wanted to pick up but reluctantly tagged along when the latter had asked him, persistently. His breath is knocked out of his lungs after seeing you for the first time in 7 months and 2 days.

Was he counting? Yes.

Did he care that it made him look like a lovesick idiot? Hell no.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, busy animatedly explaining something to Changbin. The moment he sees you, his first instinct is to tug you into his arms and rest his face in the crook of your neck.

But he stops himself. He couldn’t even greet you, he didn’t think he would survive seeing the hate in your eyes directed at him, so this time he runs.  

Changbin has a suspiciously bright smile aimed at you when he meets you at the airport. He grins so much, you stop even as he keeps walking forward, unaware that you’re no longer walking with him. When he realizes that you’re not walking with him, he turns around and scowls.

 “Hey, you can’t abandon me in my own country,” he says dramatically.

You roll your eyes,” Try me.” You challenge and his scowl deepens. 

“Now, cut to the chase and tell me why you’re smiling”. 

Changbin swears that it’s nothing but after a minute of your intense staring, he breaks and smiles bashfully, “There’s someone I want you to meet-“ 

“I knew it! You had that shit-eating grin on your face and I suspected something. I’m not socializing with more than twenty people in the next two days, thank you very much” you quip before he can go on and on. 

He snorts at your comment. “Oh come on, he’s handsome.”

 “SO WHAT! So are you and you’re being extremely annoying. My eardrums need a break” you say, more to fluster him and get him to shut up rather than to stroke his ego and keep struggling to get out of his plans.

 “Nice try, but just for that I’ll buy you breakfast, to avenge myself” he says, eyes crinkling.

 “Can you avenge yourself all the time?”

 “Oh for heavens’ sake.” He mutters and you giggle.

 Even when you step out of the airport terminal, Changbin keeps looking everywhere, like he’s searching for someone.

“Who is it?” you ask, and he sighs “No one.” 

You get to your hotel room, and relax, trying to ignore the jet lag and not fall asleep. You successfully manage to do so by busying yourself with more work and the evening rolls by, faster than expected. 

You pick out a casual ribbed, black dress and some earrings and call it a day. The company had provided a driver who took you to the venue. Unsurprisingly, it was held in a hotel whose hall was large enough to qualify as a ballroom. 

Stepping in, you think to yourself ‘Let’s get this over with’. Before you know it a familiar pair of muscled arms pulls you in and you laugh.

 “Hello to you too”. Changbin escorts you over to his team, whom you’ve met a couple of times. Except they’re still as unhinged, in the middle of a business party, talking about …whose butt was better to slap? You stop yourself there. 

Felix had come over, intending to speak to you, but his throat ran dry upon taking a glance at you.

Holy fuck. You were breathtaking, and suddenly he had no memory of what he wanted to say to you. Seeing you laugh and make small talk with his team, his heart swelled, but you didn’t glance at him. At all. Not even once in passing. 

You on the other hand were hyperaware of his presence near you. Suddenly your skin was on fire, his gaze never leaving you. You knew he was watching you, and you let him. 

Felix realized that it was the first intimate moment you’d shared in months, just you and him, no one else existing then. He comes forward and puts his hand out for you, but just that second you turned around the corner to greet someone else.

 He’s hurt by your actions. There was no need for you to have done that. His mind reasons that you probably didn’t want to talk to him, but he just couldn’t stomach the hurt.

 For the second time when he sees you, Felix runs. But this time you catch him in the act. He discreetly excuses himself and gets to the entrance, but you follow closely behind him.  

Felix bolts through the set of wide oak doors at the entrance of the hall and doesn’t stop even when his lungs start burning. He keeps going until he hears a faint voice which sounds like …yours. And he stops.

 “Christ, I’m not athletic enough for this” you mumble trying to catch your breath, and he laughs.

 He full-on laughs until his head is thrown back and his hands clutch his stomach. He laughs so much tears stream down his face. 

“Hey! Don’t laugh at me, it’s difficult to run when you’ve eaten two bags of chips by yourself on the same day” you attempt to explain, and he understands your need to deflect with humour and he turns around. 

“Felix” you call him again, and despite you calling him by his full name, unlike last time there’s a trace of warmth in it. He clings to that warmth like it’s his lifeline as he wipes his face with his slender fingers. Your eyes follow the movement like nothing ever happened between you. 

Felix grins at you, his face transforming with the curve of his lips. Not finding any hate or hurt in your eyes, he visibly relaxes. After both of you are breathing normally, less than six steps between the two of you, he summons his courage and asks you the one question he’d been itching to ask you for months. 

“How have you been?”.

How have you been? You think back to the months you’d suffered and the predicament you’re in. 

“I’ve been well”

 He looks down at your reply, eyes shining with tears. “Wish I could say the same.”

 He smiles again, but it’s full of sadness. You want to kiss it away until he never feels the same way again. 

“But above everything, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. I’m sorry it had to end that way, even if I didn’t want it to end. I’m so fucking sorry love.”

He says, lovingly explaining to you even though he didn’t have to, trying to be gentle, and unknowing tears stream down your cheeks at the endearment. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong to me, which is why it makes it so much harder for me to accept the fact that we-we have-“ he stops, hand raised to his mouth, muffling his words as he cries harder.

 “You broke me to pieces without meaning to, because you were doing what’s right for yourself; by leaving someone who wasn’t right for you. By leaving me.” You smile sadly at his words.

 “You were the best, God, I thought I didn’t deserve you. You were it at one point, you know?” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

“I don’t like how you used past tense there. It makes it hurt much more and makes things… worse. It makes things so much more real.” 

“Yeah well, it’s the truth,” you say bitterly and at that point, the clock strikes twelve and you’re reminded that you have to go back to your hotel, except you’re no Cinderella and he’s not your prince who can come after you.

 “This is it then, I guess. I’ll see you around Felix” you finish, as your heart sinks at the fact that he didn’t even protest at your words.

 Maybe it was all in your head, maybe you were assuming, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Your heart beats alarmingly fast at the last thought, feeling it slowly come true. Felix just raises a hand and waves you off in a soundless goodbye, a spring in his step, that you eye before you turn your back and go. Unbeknownst to you, he walks briskly until he reaches a corridor no longer visible to you and he runs, but this time, he’s running to you. 

You go back home and try as you might, you can’t sleep. The thoughts in your head, which you’d buried down months ago, surface and leave you anxious. You wake up hours before your alarm and finally conclude. You are still very much in love with the guy who once baked you brownies in the middle of the night because he hadn’t been able to in the morning. The same guy who had taken a piece of you and had never returned it. 

After an hour of rehearsal, you finally pick up your phone with shaking hands when there’s a knock on your door. You open it and immediately think ‘What a pleasant surprise’ because in front of you is a (once-again) sweaty Felix who looks like he’s been running.

Fuck your pride, you were both adults, if you want to, you can try.

 “Let me in, the hotel staff are chasing me.” You laugh and pull him inside, shutting the door. 

Felix properly looks you in the eye and he smiles, unhesitatingly saying the words he came to say to you.

 “I came here to ask you to give me another chance.” 

“But I’m not sure if you do, Felix. What changed?”

you ask, your face neutral, even as butterflies go into a frenzy in your stomach.

 Once is a mistake, twice is a choice, and you’d be damned if you let him break your heart again. 

“Well, I want to make it work this time. Every time. You’re it for me, and I was reminded of it yesterday. I’ll fix it, all the parts I broke and I vow to never break them willingly again. If I do, punish me to spend all of eternity with you, grovelling for my mistake. Do we have a deal?” he spills in one breath, his eyes shining, the same eyes which brought twinkling lights into your life again. 

You don’t hesitate this time. “We do.” You whisper, careful not to disturb the tranquillity of that moment. And he comes closer.

 “Can I kiss you?” he asks, as he brings his thumb to rest on your lower lip, the cool metal of his rings, leaving you shivering.

“Yes.” You whisper.

 And yet he keeps staring at you. “What? Are you not going to kiss me now? Have you forgotten?” you tease him lowly, and his answer leaves you breathless. 

“I am, but before that, I’d like to show myself everything I’ve been missing out on.”

 His lips meet yours and it is the Fourth of July again, as he kisses you like a man starved. He chases your lips, uncaring of all the breaths you had to take, chests touching until you can feel each other’s heartbeats. When you finally come up for air hands pushing against his chest, he brings you closer by your waist. 

“Hello,” he says like he’s seeing you for the first time again, both your foreheads touching. “Hi” you say, unable to hide your excitement.

 “I’m home, love.” he announces, “And I’m never going away again.” 

“Promise?” you hold out your little finger.

 “I promise” his digit curls around yours and you acknowledge how happy that sight leaves you.

 “I’m happy if you are, but first let’s get breakfast.”

 “I’m swooning here and you dare to feel hungry?” 

“You can swoon over me all you want when we’re both stuffing ourselves with food.” You sigh, and he knows he’s got you. 

“That was the excuse I was going with if you were to shut your door on me. Food.” He confesses, eyes caressing your face tenderly.

 “…You really think that I, a perfectly moral person, would stoop that low just for food?”

 “Yeah”

“You’re right. I would” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Of Blue Skies and Sparkling Eyes

A Kim Seungmin Fanfic

m.list

A/N: I don't know what prompted me to write this, this fic wrote itself, faster than my other ones. Maybe my bias is showing. It's embarrassing how I become shy, reading my own writing. Like what the heck!

WC: 2.09k words

Characters: All of Skz and their S/O's.

Genre: A little bit of angst, but mostly fluff

Triggers/Warnings: Mentions of overthinking and spiralling, implications of anxiety.

It was a pleasant day, the sky fully clear and the air cool. You weren’t surprised, you were in Paris, after all. You would believe anyone if they said that the weather was a reflection of your current mood, and you wouldn’t mind either.

You were meeting your friends, eight of your closest companions. Thinking about it, you laugh. With how much you know them, the word “friends” seems to poor a substitute to describe them. After a gruelling two years of being apart, the causes being responsibilities and work, all of you were finally going to assemble under one roof for the holidays. Even if all of you talked over the phone, it didn’t suffice.

God, you couldn’t wait. You missed your friends and their significant others too. You were surprised how quickly you bonded with all of your friends’ partners. Well, all except Seungmin’s, because he didn’t have anyone. Whether you were relieved or disappointed because it was only a matter of time, you didn’t know. Not then. 

The moment you step into the vacation house that they’ve rented for the holidays, you're pulled into a hug by Chan, words unnecessary, and nothing matters except your little world. All of you retreat to the living room and they resume their game of Uno. You grin seeing Chan’s wife beat him minutes later, Felix and his girlfriend cackling with his defeat. Chan just meets your eye and smiles, looking to his wife. You smile back, and let them know that you’re going to freshen up. They wave at you and make your way down the long corridor, into one of the bedrooms, the door wide open.

 Han, Hyunjin and their girlfriends are taking turns to paint each other’s’ nails inside and they’re having fun, judging by Han’s loud voice and the sounds of laughter. As soon as Han’s girlfriend spots you, she drags you in, and without even waiting for your greeting, takes your hand and begins painting your nails. She finishes in record time, and now your nails have a shiny coat of black, applied so neatly you know you won’t be able to apply it even with all your best efforts.  Han splutters before saying, ”So you really do like her more than me. You didn’t even hesitate to ditch me when she came in” and dramatically starts sing “Goodbye, my love” and Hyunjin and Han’s girlfriend kick him from where they’re seated on either side of him on the bed. “Ow” he mutters, rubbing his side.

You giggle and fall into Hyunjin’s girlfriend’s lap and he sighs, “You’re really out here trying to steal all our girlfriends aren’t you?” he asks cheekily while his girlfriend hides her face behind him.

“I can’t help that I’m this charming now, can I?” you stick your tongue out childishly and get up patting the lap you were leaning on.

“I love you” you tell her, looking dead serious, “…more than I like him”.

“You little menace” he lunges, a minute too late as you throw yourself out that door and bolt towards the kitchen, which has been the biggest source of noise, since you’ve stepped foot into the house. Hyunjin thankfully gives up chasing you, and instead wraps his hands around his girl’s shoulders. 

 The kitchen was where actual chaos occurred. So, you weren’t surprised when Jeongin, his girlfriend and Seungmin are borderline being kicked out of the kitchen by Minho, while his fiancée tries to sneak in cookie dough for Changbin and his girlfriend behind his back. Minho stops pushing Jeongin, looks behind him and groans.

“There will be no more left if you do that. You’re supposed to be on my side”, he whines at her. You step in, already heady with the scent of the sugary treats wafting through the entire kitchen.

“Oh thank god you’re here.”, Minho says and pulls you until you’re left to stop Jeongin and his squad from stealing the cupcakes.

It’s a lost cause though, because you are no match for three people, two actually for, from the looks of it, Seungmin has stood still, like a statue.

You go forward and nudge him,

“Hey. You there” and he breaks out of his daze tickles you faster than you can blink.

Now you’re suddenly outnumbered six to one, Minho excluded. The guy was just happy his cookie dough was spared.

“Stop, stop-” you wheeze out between breaths, “Why can’t you guys just greet me normally for once? Every time I have to go through hell when we meet.”

But Seungmin doesn’t relent and neither do the five other people tickling you.

”And where’s the fun in that? It would get boring” he smiles mischievously.

After what feels like forever, they leave, bored after a while, and you breathe normally.

“Why am I the only one being bullied?” you ask, not at all bothering to hold in your whining.

“Because you haven’t gotten a boyfriend who can shield you from our tickling yet” Minho's fiancée says, and it scares you how eerily similar they are to each other.

Done with them already, you climb up the flight of stairs, until you reach the balcony, to get some fresh air. You push the doors open and breathe.

You weren't prepared to see him today, looking so good it hurt. That would explain your constricted chest and how you were not able to breathe properly since you saw him today.

Sitting down on the floor of the balcony, you push each of your legs in between the railings of the balcony and settle comfortably. The blue sky from earlier is still there, but now the sun is hidden under clouds. When you lean your head forward, and feel the cool metal,

Seungmin joins you, dangling his legs from the railings. You ask him how he had been, all the three months you couldn’t ask him that question, face to face. He tells you the days were so boring, he almost missed you and you hit him as he grins, wind ruffling his hair.

You talk and stop, and talk again, the conversation and the following silence comfortable, because it’s him and you have nothing to worry about except your painful knowledge of your love for him and how one question has been lurking in your mind all the three months you were away, and now he had changed. The question stays on the tip of your tongue and you bite down on it, hard enough to feel the coppery taste of blood in your mouth a little.

“You know”, you begin, unsure of how to say it but you try anyway. “They all glow, they’ve been glowing, they always do but even more so, with happiness from finding their people, you know? I guess that’s what happens when you fall in love.” You concede, looking at him.

Still unsure, you tread shyly, carefully landing your next words.

“However, I can’t shake the sense that, that you glow too….. even with no one by your side, yet.” you finish tentatively.

For a long while, neither of you say a word. But the quiet weighs down on you with each passing second and you don’t know what will become of you if it isn’t broken soon. The ticking seconds that pass by coincidentally draw a realization out of you, and you’re hit by an epiphany. Seungmin is in love. He hasn’t denied it, at all. Even in the past months when you’d only spoken to him over the phone, he seemed softer, more vivid. You’d almost driven yourself crazy trying to pinpoint what made him that way.

“Oh my god” you gasp, inhaling a big breath. “You’re in love.”

Seungmin just stays, eyes taking in the scene before him for eleven seconds, he counts, before he looks down at your eyes.

“Yeah”, he sighs softly. “I guess I am. I thought it wasn’t obvious” he laughs lightly, like he just read something off the back of a cereal box, and didn’t reveal an earth-shattering revelation.

You’re stunned beyond words. The Seungmin you knew wouldn’t have admitted to something so big, so easily, without persuasion. But maybe, it added to the fact that he really was down bad for that person.

“Oh”. After a beat, you speak again, ”Really?”. Your voice is small and you throat suddenly has a lump in it. 

“Guess you are”. You keep talking, because if you don’t, you know the fraying threads holding your composure will stretch and break. If you are given so much as a moment’s silence to let his words truly sink in, it seems like they will end you. 

With all the mental turmoil you’re going through, you miss the look on his face. The lovestruck expression, aimed at you. Suddenly he shifts and your eyes are on him, waiting and pleading for something you don’t know.

“It’s you”, he says after, gifting you with one of his rare smiles that threatens to split his entire face with the joy it’s trying to contain.

You didn’t realize how two words, only two words, strung together with less than ten letters, coming from one of the only people who matter, could build you and break you. You just sit there, being. 

It’s not monumental, the moment. Cars drive by, birds chirp and the sun still shines on your beloved. But there’s a heightened awareness of everything. How you can physically feel your heart trying to escape the shackles of your chest. How the lump previously lodged in your throat has gone, leaving no mark except a dry aftertaste on your tongue. How Seungmin knows, that you love him too, without you physically trying to say it back.

And then the awareness fades, leaving you with joy. So much joy, that you think you’ll combust if you don’t relay it to him.

And so you do, and he lets you.

You take his face in your hands, admiring the gentle slope of his nose. The glasses atop it, barely hanging on. You adore, with all the time in the world, his brown irises filled with barely concealed love for you, and his lips. His enticing lips which tether you to the ground and make you soar above the sky with all the enchantments escaping them. He lets you come to a million realizations about a million things in that instant. 

You kiss him tenderly, hoping and almost desperately, praying for him to feel the love you have, before it ends you. But somewhere, intermingled in that love and ecstasy, there was gratitude.

Thank you, you wanted to say. Thank you for being my person. Thank you for choosing me, over and over again. Thank you for agreeing to be mine, along with all the other countless wonderful things you are and will be. Thank you. Thank you, thank you thank you-

He’s Seungmin and he’s chosen to be yours and he understands. You know he does when he gathers you, holding the entirety of you, and brings you close until you can see the sparkles in the night reflected in them. You sit there, side to side, pressed up against each other, in the vicinity of him and his knowledge of your love and you of his. 

Still, you’re restless and not entirely convinced and suddenly you’re overwhelmed with the urge to move and mess up the carefully crafted lines, the cage of your mind being too much for you, and maybe you need to tell him so he can brace himself and perhaps go away before it starts and-.

Seungmin’s hand settles on yours, resting on your thigh. It’s warm, you note, and a little bit sweaty. You smile in spite of yourself, thinking about a fumbling Seungmin, even if he was in the state for only a few seconds.

And you smile wider imagining the look that must have been on his face.

You giggle and freeze, your thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. Whatever had been haunting you, threatening to taint this moment, had dissipated. Seungmin had banished it.

Oh.

Oh. 

You will yourself to stop thinking for once, and interlace your digits with his long ones, and squeeze his hand. 

He thinks life is worth living, if it’s going to be this way.

Slowly, you turn your head to his and look at him, properly this time. With no thoughts clouding your mind, you observe his sparkling eyes. 

“I didn’t realize it was night already”, you say, not averting your gaze from his in the slightest. 

Seungmin startles and looks at the sky. After a beat, he replies:

 “It’s not.”

“It isn’t? Oh” you flush and look down, suddenly shy. 

“Why’d you think so?”

“I got close to your eyes and saw stars in them. That’s why.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Coming soon...

[booksndpoetry]

The Tortoise and The Hare

m.list

A/N: Something I wrote while listening to the Stray Kids song, 'The Tortoise and the Hare' and wanted it to be sweet but now I don't know what this is.

WC: 292 words.

Characters: Seo Changbin X Gender-Neutral Reader

Genre: Fluff, Humour

Warnings/Triggers: None I can think of- Oh! Changbin's biceps.

You squint and glare at your boyfriend, from your seat across the living room, both from being interrupted from reading a really good fic, and the fact that he basically roasted you after referring to you as the hare from the popular story. 

“You know”, Changbin begins, “If we were animals, you’d be a hare, and I’d be a tortoise.” 

“Please elaborate.” You give him a sickly-sweet smile while crumpling the empty paper cup you had just finished drinking from. Aggressively, to make sure he hears it.  

“Looking at it, you’re always chasing words and running so fast. Sometimes you run so fast I almost feel like I might lose you out of my sight. But, I’m a tortoise. And I’m nothing if not a winner. I will always be there to catch you. The world is round, isn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you just said something so sweet and here I was ready to throw hands with you”, you offer him a grin and saunter up to him to feel his arms. They feel nice. Amazing actually. 

“Sometimes, I think you spend time with me just for my arms.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Wait, only sometimes? You should know me better than that. I always spend time with you just for your arms.”

He shoves you off him like you’re nothing but a stick, and you fall from the couch. His eyes widen, and he immediately scrambles towards the door, holding it in front of him like a shield. You slowly stalk towards him, and he bolts out the door. Maybe you really were a hare, and he was about to be your prey.

“Hares are herbivores, right? Please don’t kill me.” Changbin yells, even as he runs farther from you. 

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© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.

[booksndpoetry]

Wristwatches and Hand Kisses

A Lee Minho Fanfic

m.list

A/N: Comments are welcome :)

Characters: University Student Lee Minho X Female Reader, along with a certain wristwatch.

WC: 1.6k words

Genre: Fluff

Triggers/Warnings: Too much fluff

Swinging your hands together, you joyfully skipped along the busy street with your best friend and roommate, Lee Minho after a long and tiring week of university as well as long hours in your part-time job. Not that it was very eventful, but because it was normal. It was normal for the both of you to hold hands like it was no big deal to you. It was very normal to long to spend time with your best friend and roommate, because you were in love with him who, very conveniently, didn't believe in love.

Smiling so hard your cheeks hurt you kept walking and unbeknownst to you; Minho secretly stole glances at your giddy smile. He couldn’t help it, the yearning expression on his face. Yearning for what? He didn’t know, at-least not yet. Despite the occasional stares from people at your boisterous figures, you prodded along to find what you both had come for:

To find a gift for cupid. No, not the real guy, but the matchmaker/ best friend who had coincidentally introduced the both of you to each other. The legendary Han Jisung.  It was only proper that he be paid his respects, in the form of his birthday gift. And so, the both of you went searching to find something that would catch his eye. 

About fifteen minutes later, you arrived at a small knick-knacks shop after finding “the gift”. Whilst paying, the shopkeeper asked you both if you’d like to check out the watches and without waiting for an answer, dramatically flourished around to reveal a secret rotating watch display.

 “Watches?”, you whisper-yelled.

Minho smiled, caressing your hand. He knew watches were your favourite accessories. Besides, looking down at your intertwined hands, he realized your hands looked a bit empty after losing your beloved former watch to damage. And by damage, he referred to the time you had carelessly broken into a dance while eating that one time, because your fries were so good. The dancing in question being so aggressive, that the loosely tied watch was sent flying out the café-window and that was the last that was ever seen of it. In your defence, the meal was too good to be eaten sitting still, but that was up for debate.

How you survived sometimes, and were still alive, the both of you hadn’t a clue.

Amidst all thoughts he was having about your watch, you were internally freaking out, all your thoughts about watches long gone. He was caressing your hand. Your hand. You were on fire, each caress of his thumb sending sparks up your arm. “I am a rock”, you thought to yourself. “I am a rock who feels nothing.” It didn’t work, unsurprisingly.

Meanwhile the shopkeeper was standing awkwardly in front of you both, unsure of what to do after trying to call your attention twice. Minho was the first to snap out of it, and pinched your arm.

“Ow, what was that for, you jerk?” you yelped, rubbing your arm. And here your heart was fluttering over him.

Rolling his eyes, he nudged you gently, “Pick a watch.”.

“I don’t-“ you started, but he shut you up as per usual. “I’m not asking dummy. Pick one”.

He had an annoying talent of being nice while managing to be mean. Huffing in annoyance, you let your eyes skim over the display. 

The watches were of all kinds, surprisingly of a large variety for a small shop. You certainly didn’t mind. Your fingers gently brushed on the watches. Some were made of ceramic, others of painted metal. Some have metal clasps and others magnetic straps. You insisted that you were just looking, but Minho gave you a look that said, “You literally earn money Woman. I will buy it for you if you let me to. Gladly.” But you pointedly ignored that look and explored.

After begrudgingly agreeing that you’d get one, you selected one. A navy watch with a slim, wide face and magnetic straps. But you didn’t trust the magnetic straps and changed your choice, thrice (“I panicked!”, you replied after he shot you his deadpan expression) before finally settling on one. It was a silver hue, its face embedded with crystals. The interface of it was black too. “Perfect”, you thought. ”It’ll go well with any colour.” But the process of getting the watch was a tad bit more lengthened. Since your wrists were so thin, you had to get two of the chain’s clasps off for it to fit you.

Minho laughed maniacally while you struggled to secure the watch and not having it slide across to your forearm. Giving him a pointed look, you flailed helplessly until the shopkeeper kindly helped you out. After the shopkeeper finally adjusted it and put it on you, you beamed. Now all was left was to pay. But your beloved Minho would not let you. Claiming that you never gave him a chance to pay you back for all the meals you treated him to, he brought out his puppy eyes, the look you could never resist and you sighed, giving in.

 After paying for your watch, the shopkeeper clasped the watch onto your wrist. Minho was glad he got to buy it for you. It was a watch you’d selected and he’d paid for. On all the days you’d spent together, you were insistent on paying for the both of you or, in the least, splitting the bill. So it was with surprise that you let him pay for you, that he paid for your watch. Meanwhile, you were internally berating yourself. “Seriously, that’s all it took for me to break?” you lamented. How he still did not know you were in love with him, you didn’t know. But you hoped to keep it that way. 

 Minho took it upon himself to initiate holding hands on the way back home. You were taken aback because he was never one to initiate affection first, even shied away from it sometimes. Slowly, like a butterfly perching on a newly-bloomed flower, a heartwarming realization settled in your chest. He was growing comfortable to be affectionate, he knew you wouldn’t judge him. Suddenly your heart was glowing as bright as a glass jar full of fireflies. Scared that if you broke the silence, the moment would cease to exist, you quietly revelled in it.

Minho was quite happy in the silence too. He realized how nice it was to be around you, even in silence. He remembered that song lyric, “There’s something more precious than words in our relationship”. He simply couldn’t stop smiling. Engrossed in each of your own worlds, you finally reached your magnificent abode (“Humble abode” was getting a bit old). “Ah! There’s nothing quite like going on home with your beloved after braving the day’s events” he relaxed. "Even if said beloved is oblivious about your infatuation?”, his brain quipped. “Oh Shut Up”, he thought to himself.

Breaking the silence he asked you “Are you not looking forward to the destination comrade?” he questioned dramatically.

You sighed again, “I would’ve, if you had let me pay. But anyway, the watch is so pretty, isn’t it?”. You coyly put your watch out on display to him, delighting in it like a starry-eyed child.

He found you adorable. Raising your hand, he seemed to inspect it before lowering your knuckles. “Everything looks good on you. But since you let me pay for it, it has come to my notice that the watch is quite magnificent. It suited you after all, didn’t it?” he raised a brow as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Getting flustered, you dragged him along so he couldn’t see your shy gaze.

Sometimes, when he made off handed comments like these, you didn't know whether you wanted to be only a friend to him. But a cliche never really gets old, does it? 

After finally reaching home, your shared apartment, Minho immediately went into the kitchen to make dinner. You were extremely hungry. And so, you went to the kitchen and asked what you had to do, whilst trying to be helpful, trying. Sure, you wouldn’t burn down the kitchen, but nothing you made would be remotely edible either. Minho brought out an apron, something pink and filled with strawberries, and tied it to your waist. Your breath hitched at the proximity and the touch. The tension would've lingered if not for his next words. 

 “Welcome maiden, I now proclaim you the sous chef of this restaurant” he gave a deep bow and looked you straight in the face seemingly unaffected, unlike you.

You held your composure for an impressive sixty seconds before you burst out laughing. In moments like these, you got why you both were such close friends, despite the short time you’d known each other. You were both extremely dramatic. You couldn’t hold in your laughter for the life of you, especially if the Minho was saying all of that with a straight face. The Lee Minho whose glare could melt glaciers. Luckily, it was pushed aside in favour of making supper.

Minho was visibly sulking though, he was trying to get your attention and all you were thinking about was FOOD? 

Noticing his expression, you nudged his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”.

He didn't even hesitate, “I'm entertaining you with my elite humour and all you think about is FOOD? You ungrateful brat”.

You weren't annoyed, it was him after all. He was the literal personification of a cat. “Well, I can't help that your cooking is so damn delicious now, can I?”, you grinned.

His eyes softened. Goddammit, he couldn't even pretend to be mad at you. Just what was this feeling? Suddenly you remembered you hadn't off your watch yet. “No, keep it on” he said. “For now” he finished, when he really meant “For Me”. The sight of your wrist adorned by your watch was too pretty to pass up.

“Okay” you agreed, not thinking too much. 

The rest of the night was spent in stuffing your faces full with food and gleeful laughter, in the lovely vicinity of the moonlight.

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© booksndpoetry 2024. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise, translate, repost or steal my works in any way. All idols used in this piece are just inspiration for characters. They do not reflect the real people in any way.