#because there’s no reason to use that word at all

[trans-emet-selch]

I have always found it interesting that the WoL refers to Emet-Selch as not Emet-Selch but as Hades.

Sure, the journal entry is named Emet-Selch. But the first thing written there is that his true name was Hades. You also see this when you describe him to the Minstrel for his extreme trial.

Additionally, the description of the trial alludes to this as well. As when we talk about those we have faced in the First. We talk and refer to him as Hades. Which is also written similarly to the journal. Both of which were described/written by the WoL.

"Hearken unto a requiem for a hero fallen. A man who lived a thousand thousand of our lives clinging desperately to faint hope, never shirking his sworn duty to his long-lost brethren. A man who stood proud and did avow his true name on the threshold of the battle that would see him fall to his rival—the light to quench his shadow. Borrowing liberally from the funereal rites of the Night's Blessed, the minstreling wanderer weaves an elegy in that hero's honor—the tragic-yet-triumphant tale of a man and a battle that ne'er shall be forgotten."

You can also see this in the quest dialogue and while we cannot know the exact words the WoL used (as it is your own intrepretation of it) it is still clear that the WoL didn't refer to Emet-Selch as Emet-Selch they call him Hades.

For the WoL, this is about honoring the man who held steadfast to his ideas. Who fought for his loved ones just as much as the WoL does. Not the Ascian Emet-Selch. To honor and remember Hades as he once lived.

There is however, the matter brought up by the Minstrel: Why did Emet-Selch reveal his name to the Wol?

We do have a simple meta reason why: Hades is a recurring Summon across the Final Fantasy games. Using the name Hades is just natural to do so.

However, let's look at this from an in-lore perspective as well. For which we can look to what he says and speculate.

In the quest, Return to Eulmore, before leaving to Wright you can question Emet-Selch over the information he gives in the cutscene before. Revealing to us that Emet-Selch, along with the rest of the ascians encountered, is merely a title inherited. Their true names are hidden to take up the name and position of their seat.

You can, upon hearing this, ask him for his true name:

His reply to this is rather interesting:

There are a couple of things to note from his response. Firstly, he doesn't outright dismiss telling you his name, only says that eventually he'll reveal it. Of course, this hinges upon you living through your trials in putting down the Lightwardens and containing the light within, or simply dying from other matters.

But this would be disappointing for him. This dialogue ties into what he proposes to you later in The View From Above. To stand with him as allies. He doesn't propose this to the rest of the Scions, just the WoL. He dangles these threads because he wants them to reach back as Azem would. The WoL dying would be disappointing, and he would have to begin his search anew for Azem's soul.

We don't know if Emet-Selch has encountered Azem's shards before the WoL. Maybe he had or maybe he didn't. But it wouldn't change the fact that the WoL's death would have him searching again.

Even as he hurls insults upon the WoL for once more disappointing him, that is still Azem's soul in there. After all, his invitation to seek him out in the Tempest allows you to die with dignity. Everything he ever does is not let himself be alone and reach out to an old friend.

He wants someone else to remember it all. Who is more worthy of remembering it all than Azem?

Emet-Selch is a man of many masks. It is true, and his emotions are ever cloaked, but there are ever glimpses of them throughout Shadowbringers. Especially if it's Azem's soul prodding at him to reveal the layers underneath.

So in his final confrontation, when either the WoL dies or he, wouldn't it not be disappointing to leave the question of who the man underneath is all truly is? Perhaps even this even the last-ditch attempt to have the bearer of Azem's soul remember before either of you dies.

Emet-Selch yearns for his old friend to come back to him and remember. Just as much as he wishes shoulder the burden of remembering all of those that lived before. The WoL bears that last wish and remembers the man who fought for it all underneath as Hades. A man who once lived.

[kekewrites]

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

[triassictriserratops]

I'm fucking furious. Absolutely furious.

Look. I have accepted that the movies removed the racial implications in the storytelling from the first. If it wasn't clear in the main character casting, it was certainly clear in the shot of that first reaping scene in District 12 where there isn't even a single HINT of melanin.

I've accepted that the relevant themes of racial subjugation were removed not just from Capitol to District but also within classes in the districts themselves.

But the ONE case in which the movies maintained the racial themes in their storytelling? District 11. Across FIVE movies it has been made clear through FILM CANON that District 11 is predominately black. And the characters we have known by name from 11 have all been black. And their blackness has always been a part of their kindness, their heroism, their rebelliousness, their community, their bravery, their sacrifice, and their mercy.

To cast a white girl as Lou Lou (and by extension Louella) is so cowardly I don't even have enough words to express it.

"But Katniss reminded Haymitch of Louella and movie Katniss is white."

FUCK YOU

Rue reminded Katniss of Prim. That is the SINGLE argument people have used for AGES to justify the argument that Rue should have been white.

As if skin color had anything to do with how young and vulnerable and GENTLE she was. As if all of those reasons weren't ENOUGH reasons to have Katniss be reminded of Prim when she saw Rue.

If you can't look at a child and be reminded of the spirit of another person because of their skin color - that's a skill issue, I don't know what to tell you. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Choosing to cast these girls as white is a very specific backtrack on the ONLY racial commentary we EVER got in these films and everyone who had a decision in it is a COWARD.

(and, to be VERY clear, I'm certain these two kids are going to be incredible. I don't want to hear a single thing about them or see anything directed towards them. ALLLLLLL of my smoke is for the decision makers. Cowards, every single one of them.)

[luna-azzurra]

10 “There’s Only One Bed and Neither of Us Is Saying Anything About It” Moments

(because silence is a language, and tension is an electric blanket set to HIGH)

❥ One of them casually says “I don’t care where I sleep,” but spends the next ten minutes folding their jacket like it’s a pillow audition.

❥ They lie back-to-back with six inches of cold air between them like it’s a chasm and somehow still don’t sleep all night.

❥ Someone offers to sleep on the floor. No one lets them. No one explains why.

❥ The mattress dips when the other gets in, and they both pretend not to notice.

❥ Waking up tangled together and going still, like moving will make it real.

❥ One of them sleeps on top of the blanket “for boundary reasons.” We all know what that means.

❥ Accidentally brushing hands in the dark. No apologies. Just silence.

❥ One of them whispers something in the middle of the night, and the other pretends to be asleep, but remembers every word.

❥ “It’s fine. We’re both adults.” Cut to: neither of them moving a muscle all night.

❥ When they get up the next morning, they avoid each other’s eyes, but their hands brush as they pass. And this time, nobody pulls away.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Can’t live without your love inside me now

Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation.

Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.

An: Was really on the fence about posting the first part to this series. i’m glad most people seem to be enjoying it though :) so sit down and let sextherapist!nanami be your comfort for today

Part one. | Part two. |

‘I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.’

Those words burned Nanami’s ears. He knows it’s only your first session, but he can see that there’s already progress being made just by having these discussions of sex out in the open..

It reminded him just why he was so passionate about safe sex measures.

“I was only going to take the tea to placate you…”

Even if he knew that was the truth behind your answer, it still left a heavy somber feeling on his heart. He nodded, keeping his face trained on an empathetic expression.

“Do you do that often..? Put your needs behind the wants of others..?”

God, why was he reading you to filth right now? You took a deep shaky breath, reaching for more tissues because you’re definitely going to need them.

“It’s just easier..” Your throat feels like it’s trying to close as you’re attempting to force back your tears.

“Shh, let it all out..” Nanami knows that he shouldn’t be taking this tone of voice with you. He shouldn’t be shushing you and cooing to you that it’s okay, but he can’t override his innate biological need to protect and nurture.

The tears begin falling down your cheeks once again, and your shoulders shake with each small sob that wracks your body.

Nanami can’t resist himself. He leans over, and his big thick palm rests on your shoulder, feeling like a secure anchor out in the middle of the ocean.

“Such a kind, caring soul..” he whispers to you, using his hand to rub on your shoulder soothingly.

You feel the urge to press your face into his chest and vent out all of your innermost feelings and thoughts to this man while he strokes your hair lovingly, but you hold yourself still in your chair, knowing it’d be highly inappropriate.

Soon, your tears dry and you take a sobering breath. That was a lot, and the session isn’t even over yet.

“So, what do I do about.. him hounding me..?” For some reason, you still can’t come to terms with using the word coercion. It feels like a betrayal to your marriage, even if you do implicitly know that he’s been coercing you to get what he wants.

“Well, what can you do?” Nanami asked softly. He eased back into his chair, preparing himself mentally to get back in his counselor mindset.

“I guess I could…” you search your mind for answers. The only obviously wrong answer is to continue giving into him. “I could tell him how it stresses me out when he does that.”

Nanami nods his head. Inwardly, he doesn’t think that’s going to be enough. If your husband was anywhere near a halfway decent person, he would be able to understand how asking multiple times is inappropriate.

“What do you think will get in your way from telling him about how it makes you feel?”

You imagine telling your husband and how he’d react. “I guess I can be scared of him going in the complete opposite…”

Nanami’s eyebrows furrow, and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. “What do you mean by that?”

“Like… I imagine telling him, and he’ll probably respond by saying that he’ll never ask again and that I’ll need to initiate sex anytime I want it.”

Nanami can feel his eye twitch. Is there any manipulation tactic that your husband isn’t using? “I can see how that’d be discouraging. You unfortunately can’t control how your husband responds, but you can control how you phrase the question. Let’s roleplay this conversation if that’s okay. Pretend I’m your husband.”

Your face heats a bit. A tiny voice in your head tells you that if Nanami was your husband, you wouldn’t be having this issue. After taking a deep breath, you try and pretend that you’re speaking to your husband.

“When you ask me to have sex with you multiple times in a day, it really stresses me out and puts a lot of pressure on me.”

“So? What do you want me to do, Y/n? Am I suppose to read your mind and know when you want it?” Kento’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp and irritated. He watches your eyes widen in response, hurt coils on your face. “Is that how he’d respond?” he adds in a much softer tone, trying to remind you that this is just a roleplay exercise.

After a long pause, “Yeah, you got it spot on somehow…”

Because I know how narcissistic assholes act, he thinks to himself.

“Let’s try that question again, but this time, I want you to phrase your statement so you put blame on the questions and not your husband, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, trying to find the words to say. “Those types of questions make me feel really pressured and make it hard for me to feel ready for sex.”

“Perfect. You did so well,” Nanami praises you with a warm smile.

Butterflies swarm your stomach. It’s not often you hear those words instead of hearing more things you need to work on. A small, timid smile curls on your lips.

“Do you think he’ll react poorly to that too?” you ask, wanting to know Nanami’s opinion.

“There’s no way for me to know how he’ll respond, but there’s only one way to find out, right? If we get no where with this plan, we’ll do something else,” he assures you, sitting back in his chair.

His eyes flick down to his watch. The session needs to come to an end soon, but the thought of you walking out of his home makes his stomach feel tight. He’s not ready to let you leave yet.

“Let’s briefly touch on the second thing—“

Your phone’s ringtone interrupts Nanami’s words, and you quickly apologize before fishing your phone out of your purse.

“It’s my husband. He’s probably wondering how much longer I’ll be.” You click the reject button and lock your phone, but Nanami can see how the simple act of rejecting his call makes you feel nervous. Your fingers shook lightly, and you gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“That’s okay. We can wrap it up here for today… During our next session…”

The sound of vibration fills the room this time.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Nanami. He gets worried..”

More like controlling. It’s just barely been one hour.

“Send him a small text and let him know we’re almost done.” Nanami gives a kind smile, even while he’s having violent thoughts about your husband.

He watches as your fingers fly across your keyboard, quickly typing out a small message. You then lock your phone again, stow it away in your purse, and you return your gaze back to Nanami.

If you keep your husband waiting too much longer, you’ll hear about it later today.

“During our next session, I want you to tell me how it went with your husband. I also would like to touch base on the next thing you said while we talked about your lack of sex drive. You mentioned that you try to cater to him, but it’s never enough. We’ll get into what that means next time, okay?” Nanami says, finally getting his words out without an interruption.

You swallow thickly, immediately feeling nervous for the next session. You’re not sure if you’re ready to talk about the act of having sex, but you knew it’d come up eventually.

“Okay… I’ll see you then, Mr. Nanami. Take care,” you wish him farewell before rising from the small couch. Nanami rises with you and guides you toward his front door.

His eyes can’t help but glance down towards your figure, and he feels his hatred for your husband grow. He must not truly understand how lucky he is to have a wife like you.

“Take care, Y/n. You have my number if you need to come in earlier than scheduled.”

As soon as the front door closes, you dial your husband’s number, ready to explain that the session went over in timing.

Meanwhile, Nanami also picks up his phone, and he dials a peer’s number, Atsuya Kusakabe. Nanami’s known Kusakabe since they were in graduate school together. They often shared phone calls with each other and their other friend, Hiromi Higuruma. While Higuruma wasn’t a therapist, he did work in legal, which helped Kusakabe and Nanami out a lot with legal questions.

After a few rings, Kusakabe answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, you’re not in a session, are you?” Nanami asks, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. He pours water into his kettle to start on some tea.

“I wouldn’t have answered if I was in one. I only do intakes today, and I finished those up hours ago. Why? You needing to talk?” Kusakabe’s voice sounds even more gravely over the phone than it does in person. Nanami imagines he’s probably enjoying a cigarette right now.

“Yeah, I just got out of a first session with a female patient. It’s weighing on me.”

“I don’t know how you do what you do, Nanami. You know, you’d probably have a better quality of life if you focused on something else.”

“Not an option. I didn’t spend years of my life researching to do something else. This also isn’t weighing on me like my other cases do.” Nanami leans against one of his kitchen counters, looking up towards the ceiling. He debates on not telling Kusakabe at all about how your case. If he tells him how he feels, that means he has to acknowledge that it’s teetering on breaking ethical code.

“Well? Go on.”

“My client has a piss poor excuse for a husband, and I’m pretty sure the story runs a lot deeper than what is being said.”

“Jeez Ken, you said this was her first session, right? Of course there’s more to the story. That’s a given. You think there’s abuse going on?” Kusakabe flicks his cigarette, looking out into his property. He always enjoyed the quiet life way more, which is why he did career counseling. It was way less stressful.

“I know there’s at least emotional abuse going on. I can tell she’s not even aware of the levels of manipulation her husband is using. I had to bite my tongue several times throughout our session.”

A chuckle sounds from the other side of the phone.

“Don’t tell me you’re already partial to this woman, Ken.”

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately. His jaw tenses slightly. Luckily, the tea kettle whistling breaks the slight tension. “I just care. That’s all.”

“You wouldn’t be doing this job if you didn’t care, but do you care too much to do your job effectively?”

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @aldebrana @pandabiene5115 @petrichorvzlia @stargirl-mayaa @simssssssss5 @des-todoroki @nevvynev @dysphxriaii @rjreins @sukunawhores @nanamin-chan @mullermilkshake @thelostkira @anuncalledbridge @elliehenry24 @williamafton26 @ambiguouslady42 @airandyeah

[tojisteddy]

how would Simon react if you safeworded out?

would he be gruff but still sweet and soft and apologetic? would he fuss over you or play it cool while taking care of you? (“oh, lovey im so sorry…” or “its alright, thank you for telling me, i wont push you so far next time, kiddo…”)

why would blackcat!reader safeword out? stress? just not feeling it? maybe emotional?

I think there are two things in this world that Simon Riley is (and always will be) very serious about and that’s aftercare and your safety.

Like yeah he’s an asshole and gruff guy but when it comes to you, he really is a big softie at heart. So when he tells you off when you get back after not texting him back all night or gently making sure you walk on the inside of the street when your with him, it’s for good reason, he’s showing he cares. He loves you to pieces. Will do any and everything for you. So if he’s pushed too far, he makes mental note of it. And if he wants to push that far again, he’ll end up doing a check. Making sure you know your safeword, or right before he knows you’ll ‘give’ he’ll tap you out himself.

So when he hears you say the safeword, he doesn’t hesitate. He knows the first thing you need is comfort and reassurance. So he pulls out, and holds you in his big arms. Kisses you all over while you cry, getting you to calm down and listen to his words because he means them, truly.

“Simon was too mean, yeah? I Shouldn’t ‘ve pushed you like that, doll.”

“Dad’s sorry kitty, you were perfect, did everything I said so well. Always so good f’me.”

And if you refute his words, too in your own head, he’ll hold you just a little tighter. So you can hear his heartbeat, rocking you in his arms,

“You’ll never be the one at fault baby, ‘ts on me. My job to watch over you, right kiddo? Thanks for tellin me Princess, love you so much.”

Blackcat!reader would safeword out from stress or better yet, Simon just instinctively knows you’re off. Sad to say but I think blackcat!reader has been through a shit ton and can be pushed (and has found comfort in Simon pushing you to the limit). You’re the type to hold shit in like a tower until someone knocks it all over. let’s say a day where the cards just were not in your favor. It was terrible day at work and both of your dogs were acting up when you got home and you yelled at Simon, like really yelled at him (which is something neither of you do). Simon would be 10 spanks to thirty and either you grip at shirt and tell him you ‘give’ already sniffling or he notices you’re not crying. You’re just trembling, taking everything he’s giving you. And Simon will sit up you, ask you what’s wrong and then the dam in your eyes just breaks.

Choking on your own sobs,

“Pa I- I-“ boo-hoo, snot everywhere, clutching onto him, balling your eyes out till their puffy.

Simon doesn’t hesitate to pick you up, he lets out a soft sigh in his head because he hates to see you like this. And he hated that he always has to be the one to push you to cry (of all people). But he’s working on it, working on getting you to communicate and doing so makes him want to get better at communicating for himself too. He wants to be his best for you.

He coos, “Let’s give the princess a bath, hm kitten? Gonna get ya nice ‘nd clean ‘nd then get you in bed with that little Sanrio rabbit. Then we can talk tomorrow.”

You nod, taking a shaky breath followed by a hiccup. You manage to squeak out a ‘sorry’ halfway through the bath, and that’s when Simon gets playful, he boop your nose or tickles right under your chin making you squirm.

“What’s there to apologize for? Used your safeword like the big girl I know you are. Couldn’t be more proud ‘f you honey.”

He’ll nibble at your jaw and rest his head atop of yours while he rubs your back after getting you in bed.

“Just a bad day gorgeous, you’re not bad. Tomorrow’ll be better.”

a/n: I think crybaby, feenin & a little comfort are like prime examples too. Thank you so much for asking anon!!! I fuckin love with ppl ask questions!!

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @nightfwn @mims900

most recent masterlist

[creativitycache]

Ok but no joke we live in a hellscape now so this is now ACTUALLY applicable advice. Let me explain.

You see a job on Indeed, you apply. Clearly this place is hiring, it’s posting on Indeed!

We live in a hellscape now.

They’re not ACTUALLY hiring.

Why do they post fake openings on job boards?

Gathering a talent pool. There’s no actual open job you can take immediately. They want a list of qualified candidates in case someone drops dead of a heart attack. They waste your time so they don’t waste theirs in an emergency.

Tricking their employees. (Look we’re hiring! This current workload won’t be forever! Keep it up it’s just the short term!) (Don’t worry about getting laid off, we’re actively expanding so we’re doing great! Don’t look for better jobs and figure out if the grass actually is greener- it’s fine here!) (Keep on your toes, we might be looking to fire you and replace you! Work harder or we’ll do it!)

Using you as a guinea pig. Who applies when we put the salary this high? This low? How low is too low? How high stops yielding better candidates? How many people are desperate for this job? What happens if we tweak the description this way, do different people apply if we describe the job differently? How high quality of a candidate can we get to agree to do the maximum for the lowest amount?

If they take government contracts they need to give a certain number of people an interview just to prove they didn’t hire a nepo baby and genuinely tried to find an unrelated great candidate. They hire the nepo baby anyways.

How do you spot a fake/ghost posting and make sure you’re only applying to an actually open job?

It’s hard as fuck to spot these bastards. There are some warning signs but it’s not foolproof because they’re literally paying people to try to make these look as realistic as possible.

The job is always posted. You’ll only notice this if you’ve been looking a while. Sometimes it may be taken down but posted back up quickly with different wording.

There’s different versions of this job slightly tweaked all posted from the same company.

The job isn’t actually on their website and is only on the job boards. Companies will often have sections of their website where they list the jobs they’re seeking to fill and sometimes will also have a place to submit a resume. If the job isn’t listed on the website, ESPECIALLY if it’s a large company with a big staff dedicated to managing hiring, that job board posting is probably fake.

What’s actually useful to do?

Make a list of companies you want to work for. Go directly to their website and apply there if you can.

Talk to your friends and previous coworkers. If a real life person looks you in the face and says they know a job opening in their office, it’s legit.

Read the job posting carefully. Too vague? Reads like ChatGPT? Salary wildly all over the place? Either it’s a fake or these people suck so much you don’t want to work there anyways. Apply to listings that look legit now that you know some warning signs. It’s not perfect but if you spot even one fake job posting you’ve saved yourself time.

This is the shortest number of bullet points for a reason. It’s hard to find anything actionable and useful to offer because these things are infestations in every job board.

It’s a damn hellscape out here and I hate it.

and i know people mean well when they give employment advice but god damn some of them its like "did you try submitting your resume to a place that is hiring" fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck no kidding. shit. ive just been printing them out and eating them. yeah thanks i'll try that

[trashytracktales]

i know we've talked about lando's freaky things a lot, but i want a T's Freaky Lando Agenda too! maybe you have new updates about it 😋

I love how dramatic y’all get the second it takes me a bit longer to come up with these (I know I am slow though, forgive meee), but it’s honestly so endearing to see. I hope this one lives up to expectations, because after all the waiting, you freaks deserve it 💋

With the mention that I might repeat myself here and there, I finally present you:

𝗧’𝘀 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘆 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼 𝗔𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗮

𝗜𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗱

✦ Lando’s very versatile, cocky, and driven by validation. He gets off on your reactions, praise, begging, and moans.

✦ Mouthy; he talks you through it a lot, whether it’s praise, filth, and especially teasing. As expected, he doesn’t stop at words. He kisses like he needs it to breathe, and he eats like he means it. Because your pleasure is something he devours, literally and verbally.

✦ A pleaser, sure, but also a menace. He’ll edge you on purpose, pulling away right as you’re about to finish. If he lets you gather your senses, it’s because he wants to do it all over again.

✦ Those damn hands. Everywhere. The man can’t and won’t stay still. He’s like a hyperactive kid on a sugar rush (must be the Kinder), and needs to touch, grip, and hold like it’s second nature.

✦ Eye contact ends him in the best way possible, but he’s even worse about your expressions. Will even pause mid-thrust just to tell you that “There it is. That’s the one.”

✦ He likes it messy. Saliva, sweat, the slick sounds of skin. Finishing on your chest or stomach is a must. If it’s your back, he’ll trace it with his finger after, because he has no shame when it comes to claiming.

𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻-𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ As mentioned, the good ol’ eye contact. The wheels inside his head never stop spinning, and if you hold it for long enough, he’ll know. Loves it especially when you look UP at him (preferably from your knees).

✦ Moaning (his name). Say it sweet, say it sobbing, but most importantly, say it repeatedly when you’re clenching around him; he will rampage. Bonus points if you’re loud.

✦ Messy kisses.

✦ Neck kisses; while he’s a pro at devouring, he’s as obsessed when you kiss or suck on his neck while riding him.

✦ Since we’re on riding, power dynamics shift. Take control and TRY TO pin him down. Drives him insane if he doesn’t see it coming.

✦ Slight bratty behavior, because he lives for the challenge.

✦ Physical contrast; being shorter/smaller awakens something inside him. His hand is double the size and loves watching how his fingers slide in and stretch you out, because he knows exactly how to use them. One hand can cover nearly all of your lower back, and his palm wraps around your throat with ease. All these make him feel more in control (and he’ll absolutely tease you about it).

✦ Wearing his clothes, but in particular you in his hoodie (and nothing else). Walk into the room like that and he’s already pulling the hoodie up from behind to see your ass jiggle. This man has no peace in his soul. Also, sundresses, tennis skirts, crop tops and anything that ride up. You wore that knowing I’d see you, yeah? 🙏🏻🧎🏼‍♀️

✦ When you’re enjoying yourself (and he’s the reason why). Drives him insane when he realizes how close you are. Like, hand over your mouth, shit, that’s it, don’t stop now insane.

✦ Any accidental touches. I love this in particular, because it’s so innocent. Until it isn’t. Hand on his thigh, brushing fingers during gaming, laying on his chest and your lips graze his neck etc. He might act cool, but he gets hard so quickly, it’s embarrassing.

✦ Playful arguing, because it gives him a reason to put you in your place.

𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀

✦ Let’s pretend y’all didn’t see this coming: praise kink. Because your approval is a drug. Call him a good boy and he’ll do anything to prove you right.

✦ Size kink but both ways (ik, shocking). You straddling him and calling him too deep while he insists you can take it.

✦ Jealousy kink (he’s a bit toxic, I ain’t gonna lie). Hates when someone else flirts with you, but finds ways to use that as ammo. He’ll give you that look, then make you sit on his face like it’s a punishment. To remind you exactly whose you are.

✦ That being said, face riding. His favorite meal, actually. He’ll grab your thighs and pull you down with no hesitation, eating you out like it’s his last time.

✦ Overstimulation. You beg him to stop and he coos, Just one more, baby. I promise. Be good for me.

✦ Recording you. Do I need to elaborate?

✦ Mirror sex, because he loves to watch and loves watching you watch.

𝗙𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Cowgirl & reverse cowgirl, because he’s the biggest fan of watching you take what you need from him. This comes with a warning though: he’ll let you take the lead unless you start teasing too much.

✦ Doggy when he’s feeling rough. One hand pressing your back down, the other fisting your hair or rubbing your clit.

✦ Against the wall, while keeping eye contact. This is unplanned sex, therefore his patience is nonexistent.

✦ Missionary but make it nasty. Legs over his shoulders, face buried in your neck etc.

✦ Side position. His dirty talk is extra sweet in this one, aw.

𝗘𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗰𝗲

(things people usually overlook)

✦ Loves when you tug his curls, especially when he’s eating you out. Grind on his face and moan his name while at it.

✦ He’s very vocal.

✦ Fan of mutual stripping.

𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲

✦ Cleans after himself, no debate.

✦ Big spoon mode, while he kisses your shoulders and whispers how good you were. Tangles you up in his limbs, one arm under your neck, one leg thrown over your thigh. Just so you know, you’re not going anywhere, and he makes sure you feel wrapped up and safe ♥︎

✦ Falls asleep so quickly.

✦ Check-ins the morning after.

[sparkles-rule-4eva]

Thinking about this scene again, because do y'all understand??

This scene is one-of-a-kind.

This scene will never happen again.

And we could never, I mean never, get a scene like this in the games.

Because what do you mean Sonic and Shadow sat quietly together and genuinely talked about their trauma?

There was none of the banter that the game versions typically share. None of the pettiness or trying to outdo one another. None of the preconceived notions of each other's personalities that barred their potential friendship.

This scene, and those that followed, was what made the movie dynamic between these two my favorite, tied only with Sonic Prime.

This scene is quiet, tranquil, surprisingly so; considering only moments before this they were fighting to the death and Sonic nearly beat Shadow to death with his bare hands, and Shadow had wanted him to do it.

This scene is haunted with grief. But it's also brimming with raw, honest emotion. Seeing that kind of mood in a scene with just these two is absolutely amazing.

However talkative our little Sonic Wachowski can be, it was Shadow who broke the silence here. Sonic was understandably shaken by his own behavior, but still. He told Shadow the one simple thing, the reason he hadn't killed him when he easily could've: "There are no winners with revenge." And then he fell silent.

The way they sat silently, each lost in their own memories and grief, either staring at the ground or the stars.

Shadow broke the silence. It had provided the opportunity for open, honest communication. He was already his own mess, having seen what Sonic was going through. He'd initially used it to justify his own behavior, saying that Sonic had no right to fault him for dealing with his pain the way he was, since Sonic was making the same choices. Except in the end, when it really mattered, Sonic did make the right choice. He set the example on accident.

Completely isolated from anything that could possibly interrupt them, in literal space, Shadow finally had the freedom to share his trauma with someone who understood. Someone who'd lost his own loved one, and was in the position of possibly losing another. Shadow didn't ask for answers at first. He simply shared the memory of sitting with Maria under the stars, like they were in the present. He expressed his side in a way that no longer tried to justify it. He just said it as it was.

"I've felt this pain for so long... it's all I know."

Sonic didn't immediately try to correct him. He didn't even say that there was a better way, in that moment. Instead, he empathized with him. He understood. He validated him, without justifying all the violent things Shadow had done.

"When I lost Longclaw, I felt the same way."

And with that, Shadow had it in stone that Sonic had been through the same thing. So he asked a simple, quiet, invisibly desperate question.

"Did your pain eventually go away?"

They still weren't looking at each other. They were sharing some of the deepest, most painful parts of themselves with one another. The words were vulnerable enough, to the point eye contact would've been too much. But the words were the most important part.

Sonic barely hesitated when he replied, "No." He wasn't going to pretend or lie. There was no reason to, no point, and all the walls he'd previously had up were torn down by the day's events. But he did have something to share. It had been likely around 12-13 years since Longclaw died, and even though Sonic had been so young when it happened, he had taken something away from it all. To the present day, he had continued to honor her memory by trying to make her proud in how he lived.

He expressed that in the beginning of the second movie. He timidly asked Tom if she'd be proud early in this same movie. It had never stopped being important to him.

Because he'd loved her. And that was the lesson he shared with Shadow, pulled straight from his own painful experiences. It wasn't even a "live the way she would've wanted" type of encouragement. It was "you loved her and she loved you. So focus on that. Hold onto that memory." He didn't give false reassurances by saying the pain would eventually fade, because he knew firsthand that it wouldn't. He simply gave him a different focus.

And Shadow listened. He took it silently, and just as he was processing the new perspective with a kind of wonder in his eyes, the sun rose.

This kind of honest, deep-seated conversation could've only happened in this universe, simply because Game!Sonic doesn't have a confirmed backstory and isn't really allowed to open up like that. This is where the lack of mandates on the SCU makes for beautiful opportunities like this.

This wasn't an exchange between rivals. This was a heart-to-heart between two young boys with similar trauma. Something that connected them and became the foundation for their friendship.

The idea of rivalry is barely addressed in this movie, and I love it. Whatever banter they share as they fight alongside each other later is all friendly and lighthearted, paired with smiles and excitement.

Shadow confessed that he'd felt like he had no choice in the things he'd done, but he phrased it in a way that made it clear that he knew now he'd been wrong.

Even so, Sonic— in classic fashion— extended an open hand to him and told him the simple, profound truth: "You always have a choice."

Better yet, even though they still had a mess to clean, neither of them would be facing it alone. And with their friendship finally established, they were able to move forward.

Again. This scene was perfect. The honesty, raw emotion, open communication, and shared past between these two, as opposed to their strained dynamic in other universes, will always stand out to me, and among many reasons will always be a reason I love these movies so deeply.

don't tag as ship or i'll sell your elbows to the dark web

[unrequi]

I woke up this morning to the same notification I would get when she sent a text, I changed the notification on my phone so I would know when it was her, but the app I used had that notification all throughout. Someone texted me, and it was that same notification. I did not receive the same dopamine rush, but part of me opened my phone hoping it was her, it was not. I thought of her, and how it felt to receive her texts. Some moments, I think it was wrong to confess because I didn't use the right words, and crush was not the right term to use, but then I realize that if I didn't, I would be left in a state of torturous limbo. I would continuously be wondering what she felt, if she felt the same, or if she didn't and not knowing was just as painful as knowing, being in delusion was just as painful as knowing the unfortunate truth, that I was just an intellectual partner to her and nothing else. I miss the moments we would text back and forth, but I do not miss the moments when she would not, I do not miss the moments I would wait a while before she texted back, though she always texted back. I wonder what her reasons were, I wonder if she suspected what was and wanted to pull back as a form of indirect communication, or was it that life just got in the way. That is not something I will know. I may change the notification sound on my phone so I am not reminded of her every time someone individually texts me on that app. This morning I still ache because she is no more a part of my life, but I will continue on. One day, I may stop feeling this way but that day is not today.

Somedays I want to pull my heart out of my chest just so I can stop feeling this way.

[strawberryblue-blog]

Look at me and say it —Pedri González.

Summary: At the Barça victory celebration party, you have an argument with Pedri and it ends in what you both most desired.

Warning: Yes. +18. Smut, Pedri being an idiot, enemies to lovers, cursing, p in v, unprotected sex, sex in public.

Words count: +2.2k.

The music thundered off the walls of the elite disco, the lights burst into fleeting flashes as bodies adorned the place in their expensive and glittering attire.

It was Barcelona's «Copa del Rey» celebration party and as Fermín's best friend and Barça's number one fan, you were a VIP guest tonight and you couldn't be enjoying this more than ever.

It wasn't your first time hanging out with the guys, you had a good relationship with most of the young men and their girlfriends and had become a great group.

Just now as you were dancing and drinking with Maria, laughing while having fun for quite a while already. The guys are some around drinking or chatting, others are dancing with their families or partners and your gaze falls on one of the younger players. He looks at the dance floor with some shyness and barely smiles towards the guys, as if he wants something more.

On impulse, you approach Pau, the shy guy in the group, the one who always looks down when you talk to him and you think for some reason this is a good time to make him feel good. You try to ask him to dance, you take his hand and gently pull him towards the dance floor. He smiles at you and your body vibrates. He's cute and cuddly and really is a nice guy but his shyness and determination won't let him go any further, so you feel the need to help him.

You drag him to the dance floor even though he whines in embarrassment but you know that deep down, he wants this, to have fun. You smile encouragingly and twirl with Pau until you both laugh as you move your bodies. He touches you gently and warmly, as if he's afraid or cautious or maybe because he's a gentleman.

But a hand grabs your arm with sudden force. He holds your wrist tightly and begins to drag you away from the people, dragging you away. Pau looks at you in sorrow when you give him one last look before you are violently pushed away. You try to pull back but you are already too far away and you see no one to excuse you. Your eyes see the dark-haired man walking in front of you as he keeps pulling your arm and you do nothing to stop him. It's as if you have no choice.

He drags you down a dimly lit hallway until the music is drowned out by the large walls and the remoteness of the hallway. You stop him with a thud and manage to break free of his grip as he corners you against the hallway wall. You see him out of the corner of your eye, tall, with that hard expression he always wears when he looks at you.

"Really?" Pedro says, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Pau?"

Your blood boils. "What the hell do you care? We were having fun"

He leans in, his smile crooked as if he knows something you don't. You shake your head, trying to dodge him to leave but he takes your hand again.

"I know exactly what kind of game this is" he mutters harshly. "And I'm not going to let you use him for your whims"

Anger pushes at you. You take a breath and walk towards him, standing firm, not caring that their noses almost touch. You're enraged and you'll let him know it. Who does he think he is?

"You're an idiot, Pedro. I just wanted him to have fun. It's not all about you, even if you love to believe it"

His laugh is low, almost a growl. His face reflects an air of superiority that makes you shiver. Before you used to think that gaze was catching and deep, that it somehow called to you and enclosed you in its aura. But now you know it's the look of just another idiot.

"Have fun? Sure. It's always a game with you, isn't it? You tease, you smile, and then you play innocent" He spits angrily.

His voice is firm and he seem to speak suspiciously. As if you owe him something. You don't respond. You just raise your head to face him. Many say that to be silent is to be granted. But you won't give him the pleasure of talking nonsense about you, much less lower yourself to his level.

"You look like you're looking for attention" he says mockingly, his gaze sweeping down your body, scanning you slowly and completely.

You roll your eyes, letting out an overwhelming sigh.

"What about you, are you the vigilante of the group now?" you spit, crossing your arms. "You can't live without meddling in what you're not supposed to"

Pedro takes a step towards you, closing the distance all at once, more than you had done before. Your back brushes against the hallway wall and the air between you becomes heavy, suffocating.

His hand doesn't touch you, but rests right next to your head, enclosing you without giving you space. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips for a second that makes you swallow saliva.

"Maybe I can't" he whispers. "Maybe I can't stay out of your business"

His words break but he emphasizes the word 'your', as if he wants to generate something in you and you feel the heartbeat accelerate in your throat. You don't want to give in, you don't want to give him that power. But your body burns with that damn attraction you've been denying for weeks.

"Admit it" he murmurs, his breath brushing against your skin. "You follow me like I follow you. You want my attention but when you don't get it, you look where you shouldn't be looking"

An unhinged laugh escapes your throat as you listen to him. Maybe this could go far but you're not afraid, not at all. In fact, you like to provoke it. You like to tease him. You've done it ever since you've known him, since then you've been a back and forth of intentions.

"You're good at creating stories in your head, Pedro. You should have been a novelist before you were a footballer, you're much better at it, believe me" you pat his shoulder mockingly, his jaw tightens and he clenches it.

"And you're good at being a bitch" he spits angrily, getting defensive.

Ouch. It's supposed to hurt you to hear him say that, yet you smile at him. Honestly, you care more that you hit him in his superior, spoiled child pride, checkmate. His brow furrows in anger, his eyes are darker and his breath hitches as you smile victoriously.

"You are..." he says in his hoarse voice.

"I know, an attention-seeking bitch because I can't live without you" you mock, interrupting him in a fake voice, grimacing.

Pedri swallows saliva, tilting his head to one side, narrowing his eyes. Rage can be seen in the edge of his eyes fighting against yours. The air is suffocating. The distance is overwhelming.

And then, without further ado, his mouth collides with yours. It's a fierce kiss, without sweetness, like a battle neither of us wants to lose. The hand that was on the wall around your head, grabs you by the neck and kisses you wildly, guiding your mouth on his. He is dominant, he marks every move before he makes it, as if he had planned it and maybe he has. But you've dreamed of kissing him too, you can't deny it.

Every time you fought with him, every time you argued or teased each other, you wanted to hit him and kiss him at the same time. Just like now.

His other free hand runs up your legs, caressing the beginning of your thighs slowly. Your air is cut off for a second, your body goes into a general spasm and you can barely move. His mouth never stops mauling yours as your tongues caress each other in the heat. His fingers sneak into your skin and begin to work their way up your thighs, caressing you. A gasp escapes your lips as the heat begins to release from your body.

Your hands refuse to touch him but it is inevitable when his hand moves up to your crotch with a sharp touch, as if following an invisible line down your body. Your fingers move tangling in his hair as he finally touches you, his hand warm on your hip, pulling you closer, as if he needs to feel every line of your body against his.

The kiss is deep and hard, with some hatred but a lot of desire. Repressed desire that was burning your hearts from the moment you met until just now. The sudden desire to feel his hands roaming your body and his lips devouring you as they are doing.

The music dies out in your ears. The world is reduced to this, his mouth, his hands, the desperate heat between you. It is a war and a surrender at the same time.

When you separate, you both breathe hard. Your foreheads lean against each other, your lips swollen, and still you say nothing, because any word would break the spell.

Your hands on his chest push him away as a seductive smile plays on your lips and with a single push, you push him away from your body and turn to walk away.

However, as your body turns his hand takes yours quickly and with enough force, he pushes you over the cold wall.

A startled and surprised gasp comes out of your mouth but is almost mistaken for a gasp of pleasure. His chest sticks to your back and presses you against the wall as your face leans against it. Another gasp comes out of your mouth. But this time it's at the feel of his swollen cock in your ass, rubbing you desperately.

His hands circle around your belly and up your body, to the hollow of your breasts. You swallow saliva as his hands encircle your breasts clothed but bare with the simple silk fabric of your violet dress. Your nipples harden at his touch and he laughs teasingly but you can't respond but moan and give in.

Damn. He's not even really touching you and you feel your crotch moisten. In fact, you're pretty sure you were already aroused before you came down this hallway. Yes. When you saw him on the dance floor dancing and playing with his friends or when he gave you a murderous look from his place while you were chatting with Ferran.

Neither of you say anything, you just stand there, glued like chewing gum, as you touch each other. Your hands wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you and your back rubs against his chest, seeking friction to feel his cock in your ass. His hands keep squeezing and circling your nipples, as you both gasp from the friction.

Curses come out of your mouth in whispers as he keeps touching your desperate body, his lips attaching to your neck and kissing you hard. You don't mind at all being in the middle of the hallway, it's not like so many people walk by. And anyway, this is a restricted area.

So you don't waste time touching each other. His warm hands encircle your waists and help you turn and you look at the image in front of you. His cheeks are red, as if he had run 90 minutes in the game, his skin glows in the darkness of the place and you can barely see his black eyes under the flashes of the neon lights. You bite your lips as his hands delve into your dress, you're thankful it's loose enough for him to pull it up and you're also thankful you put on black lace panties, as if you knew this was going to happen.

With your hands you take the belt of his dress pants and undo it, pulling his pants down just a little, making room for you to stroke your hard member inside his boxers. Pedri gasps, resting his head on your shoulder and biting your neck hard, returning your surprise.

His hands wrap possessively around you and you rise from the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your back slams against the wall and you gasp as you feel your abs rub against your damp panties. His eyes search yours hungrily and furiously, your mouths say nothing to each other but at the same time your gazes speak too much. His hands position themselves on your ass, squeezing you and his fingers run down the side of your panties, caressing your center as you did before, preparing you.

He sighs settling into your center, his cock eagerly jumping out of his pants to have you and who are you kidding, you can't wait to feel him inside you. You close your eyes and bite your lips as he gently slides inside you, in a delicate, smooth motion, opening your hot walls.

"Oh god" you say as it hits you completely.

"No babe, it's not God, it's me" he murmurs in your ear as he begins to penetrate you hard.

Your moans become uncontrollable as the stimulation begins to take over you. His cock hits just the right spot while his hands grip your ass possessively. Your hands take his shoulders trying to hold on, this position is not the most comfortable but it is the hottest and most pleasurable. He's in control, he always was. He lets you know it as he fucks you against the wall again and again, you're even afraid your dress might rip completely. Shit, this is heaven and he's god.

"Look at me, babe" He groans. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you make the effort. "You're my bitch, say it"

His deep voice makes you feel like you're on the verge of orgasm, or maybe because you really are.

He don't have to ask again because you are at his feet. You can't ignore the fact that he's fucking you like no one else has, smashing you against the dirty club wall. That he has your soul as his own and that you want this as much as he does.

"I'm your bitch, Pedri" You say with your gaze on his.

His smile appears on his face like another victory, while he continues to fuck you hard and passionately as if it were just another game. And in that charged silence, you know you've just crossed a line from which there is no turning back.

And you don't regret it at all.

[mwphisto]

an s/o who wakes up nonverbal sometimes?

ANON I feel so seen cuz I wake up nonverbal some mornings and people just don’t get it lmfao. That’s part of the reason I love working early morning, I’m the first one up and out the door so I can get ready in silence

Xavier gets it because he wakes up nonverbal too. Something about waking up just shuts his brain off too and he struggles to say a real word until 1-2 hours after waking up. He appreciates that you get it, a simple look upon waking up tells him where you are at and he respects it. Sometimes you two have nonverbal days, lounging around in his apartment just enjoying the company with no words spoken between you two at all.

Rafayel was a bit lost the first time you woke up nonverbal. Initially he thought he did something wrong and you were mad at him. You ended up sending him a text, explaining that your brain was simply not allowing your mouth to work for the time being. He sort of got it after that, deciding to just exist with you in silence while he worked. When you finally got around to saying a word or two, you explained that sometimes you just can’t talk when you wake up.

Zayne doesn’t mind the silence, he remembers you used to be like that as a kid. Caleb had mentioned it off-handedly one time and Zayne did a little more research when he got home. He realized that he was a bit prone to waking up nonverbal himself some mornings. He’ll never push your limits and he’ll let you come out of it when you are good and ready, even if it’s after he leaves for work. A simple text is all he needs, a little voice memo is a plus.

Sylus was a little confused when you first told him, he simply thought you just like being quiet in the morning. He never intended on questioning it either, content in letting you be however you wanted to be. He found it oddly cute as you explained to him that sometimes when you woke up your brain just refused to cooperate. Sometimes it was just that, sometimes you were just a tad irritated by it. Which now made more sense to him why his kitten was sometimes feisty.

Caleb has always been used to it. He assumes it stemmed from the memory loss with all the lab experiments and other horrid things. So he just lets you be, he’d speak for you when granny would ask questions and even if she gave him an odd look, he’d still stand up for you and save yourself from having to talk. Caleb is just a gentle, reassuring presence. Easily able to pick up on when you’re okay with him talking to you and when you need the silence. You know very well that he doesn’t expect a verbal response.

[envy-of-the-apple]

Dangerous Men

(Yandere!OC x reader)

note: getting back to my yan roooots. oc is kinda supposed to look like Norra von Nürnberger. i wrote this a while ago and have no plans of continuing it buuut i didnt have the heart to just delete it so out it goes

Word count: 2.8k

(Warnings: implied slut shaming, highschool-level drama, implied torture ,yandere, character is accused of incest lmaooo)

Nuyan didn't really know you. 

He thinks he's seen you once or twice. You're in the same year as him, so he kind of knows of your existence. He's also pretty sure you've spoken to him once, when you scooted past him to get to class, muttering a timid 'excuse me'. Other than that, Nuyan really doesn't remember you. You and he run in different circles. You take school a little too seriously, preferring to keep your grades up for college. Nuyan's honestly thinking of just dropping out, grades won't do him any good, not with his future 'career'. 

He doesn't even blink when the rumors about you start. It's normal, he's used to something or another creating a buzz in this suffocating school. Honestly, it's not even one of the worst ones. To him, you got off lucky. It was something about you sleeping with a sleazy soccer player. He knows it's fake in a heartbeat. It's really not that interesting. It doesn't do a thing to cure his boredom. He doesn't really care. 

You do, though. 

"Why?" 

He didn't mean to eavesdrop. If anything, this was your fault. Maybe you should have dragged that guy somewhere else rather than his favorite place to smoke. Now you have a slightly bored audience, forced to listen to your soap opera. 

"Why?" You repeat. You're angry. He guess he understands. Though he'd probably handle his anger a bit differently than you. When he got angry he uses his fists, weapons. When he got angry he uses blood smeared on walls, broken limbs as paintbrushes. 

You don't have the luxury to do that. So instead you're pathetically using words. Reason. 

"Why, what?" The other guy responds.

He looks bored. Nuyan's seen him around. The dude's in the same grade as him tallish, a little lanky. He's talked to him before but Nuyan forgot his name. One thing he didn't forget was the guy's notorious obsession with spreading rumors about girls he's interested in who rejected him. Looks like you were his latest victim. 

"Don't-don't do that," You weakly say, "Why'd you spread those rumors? Is it-is it because I didn't go out with you? I said no? And because of that, you ruin my life?" Nuyan tsks a little at that. Now, you're being a little dramatic. 

The guy next to you seems to have the same reaction. He crosses his arms. He keeps his gaze dull but Nuyan can see the spark of amusement in his eyes. He gets off to seeing you like this. 

"Calm down," He says, "Are you seriously blaming me for all this? It's not my fault my friends took a few things out of context. How am I supposed to do anything about it?" 

"How do you take 'I slept with you' out of context?" You're barely hiding your tears now, "How-how could you I-"

You chuck a hand over your mouth, like you're trying to stop yourself from really screaming. 

The other upperclassman sighs, like he's giving you more attention than you're worth. 

"Okay fine. I'm sorry. Happy now?" He shrugs, "Look I really don't know what else to tell you. You know how rumors are? It'll probably die down in a few days," You're silent, "And I guess we could go around and say we didn't do anything but people aren't really gonna believe us." 

He's walking away, patting your shoulder. 

"Again, sorry," Giving another insincere apology, he disappears behind the building, leaving you alone. 

Nuyan watches as you stare at nothing. You're still crying, but your eyes look a little dazed, like you still can't believe this is your life. You hiccup a bit. He cocks his head in mild interest as you try to reel in your tears, angrily wiping at your eyes. 

In his eyes, you only have two options; crack under the pressure and leave, or stay until the rumors die down. Again, they're not that bad, he's heard way worse. You've heard way worse. You'll get through it, probably. 

 Nuyan drops the cigarette, crushing it under his foot. He leaves before he sees anything else. 

Good luck. 

_ 

The family business is keeping him a little preoccupied lately. 

He curses his grandfather at these times. Why hadn't the old man considered starting a career in fishing? Carpeting? MLMs? At least it'd be a little less messier. 

Nuyan sighs, wiping a clean hand across his sweaty forehead. He really hates the Circle Room. He always gets so hot in here. He prefers the cold, the type of cold that makes his brown skin twinge the tiniest of red. The type of cold that bites, just a little. 

But no, he's stuck in the Circle Room. At least until the guy wakes up again. 

He considers washing his hands, the one covered in blood and god knows what else. The idiot was struggling before, so he was forced to get a bit handsy. Why can't people just stay still when he says stay still? It'd make their lives a whole lot easier. 

"He's already out?" A voice hollers. Nuyan cringes. 

Rhys is already halfway down the steps. He whistles at Nuyan's work. Nuyan ignores his cousin, focusing on his dirty hand. He really should have worn gloves. 

Used to his aloofness, Rhys presses on. 

"How far did you get with him?" 

This time Nuyan is forced to answer. Both with Rhys technically being his higher up and just because he just wants the man to stop pestering him already. 

"Not much," He replies, "He did rat on some other guys though. Here," He tosses a piece of paper with messy handwriting. Nuyan didn't really have time to find a pen so he kind of forced the guy to write the names with cracked fingers and  blood. It was a little gross, but it saved him time from trying to find a writing tool. 

Rhys doesn't even blink, snatching the paper to glance at the names.

"Oh hey, I know this guy," He points to the third line, "He owes me money." 

Nuyan's pretty sure everyone under Rhys owes him money but he doesn't voice his quip. He's more than happy to silently nod back, pretending he's somewhere else, not stuck in the Circle room. Bored. He's always bored these days. His job is nothing like the movies. There's no excitement, no run-ins with the police, not when they're all paid off by his family. All the 'fun stuff' is handled by his grandpa's underlings. Even his job in the Circle room is starting to get a little tedious. 

It's not much to ask for a little excitement in his life, right? 

"Aw, what's wrong?" An arm is slung around his shoulder. Nuyan scowls, "Are you feeling down? Did your girlfriend dump you? Don't feel bad. Your big cousin is here." 

"Get off," Nuyan groans, "You reek." 

Rhys obliges, slipping off to meddle with some tools. 

"You shouldn't be here all day, you know." His cousin is piping up again and Nuyan wonders if the guy has an off button. 

"Your eyes will go bad." 

Nuyan isn’t disagreeing. His eyes do feel a lot more tired these days. It’s probably because he refuses to turn the lights on, his eyes burn when he’s in the sun for too long. That probably isn’t a good sign. It’s just a lot easier to work in the dark. His ‘clients’ are more talkative if they can’t see him, can’t see anything except silhouettes. The monster you know is better than the monster you don’t. 

"Maybe I'll get glasses or something." He responds, cracking his knuckles. 

Rhys is humming, going over the list again. He's smiling, but there isn't a hint of mirth in his eyes. Nuyan is scoffing. His clients should be grateful. Between Nuyan and his cousin, Nuyan is the nicer one. When Rhys gets serious, he gets messy. The blood takes days to get off. 

His mind wanders, thinking to what Rhys said. A girlfriend could be nice. A boyfriend, too, just someone to keep him company. Though it's kind of hard to find one, especially in his jurisdiction. Most people aren't keen on dating someone who threatens people with knives, and apparently, 'they owed me money' isn't a sufficient response. Most could also never handle the Circle room and, to him, it's kind of a rite of passage at this point.  

He thinks he’s smiling. If you could barely handle a rumor, you definitely couldn't handle the Circle room. It was built to mess with people’s senses, the room itself was a torture to be in. He could barely stay for an hour, maybe even less. 

He'd give you a minute, maybe two.

Then he's scrunching his nose. Again? Why was he thinking of you? Looking back, you weren't really all that eye-catching. Pretty, sure, but not enough to really get his attention. Was he horny or something? Or was it just the conversation he heard, replaying it over and over in his head. 

He'd been wrong before, you wouldn't be able to handle it. Not someone like you. Timid. Weak. You seriously thought you could talk to the guy who-in your words- 'ruined your life'. You didn't even understand why he did it. It wasn't out of revenge. The guy was probably a little angry, a little drunk, a little less controlled. He didn't spread those rumors out of retaliation. He spread them because he could. 

There's a tiny whimper that catches his attention. Nuyan is turning around, seeing the man finally start to move again. In hindsight, he could have just shook him awake, it might've made things move a bit faster. His grandpa would have appreciated his efficiency but Nuyan liked being lazy. 

Rhys is noticing the man stir, too. 

"Back to work," He roughly claps Nuyan on the back. 

He nods, "Yeah yeah," 

Back to work. 

-

Nuyan thought you only had two options: endure or leave. 

He'd forgotten one more: retaliation. 

'Apparently, he kept calling out his cousin's name' 

'I feel so bad for her. She had to go through so much.' 

'he's such a freak.' 

Each one is getting more and more ridiculous. Each one is getting more fake, but the school is eating it up, gobbling up each lie like it's the last thing they'd ever consume. It's so jarring how quickly the stories turned from a slut who slept with a guy on the soccer team, to a poor victim that accidentally gave a pervert a chance. Within days, the guy turned from proudly walking around to timidly slinking around corners, avoiding as many eyes as he could. 

And you? 

You're practically basking in the new attention. 

You play the part beautifully, feigning as the innocent, little, hopeless-romantic, not knowing how much of a freak the guy who asked you out was. You just wanted to give him a chance. You were curious. You didn't know. 

"I hope he doesn't hate me because of this," You're softly telling your new group of friends, "I tried to keep it on the down-low but I couldn't help but think it's a little strange. I just wanted to know if those...things were normal to ask of a partner, that's all." Your eyelashes flutter down, and you look so cinematically sad, that he almost can't blame the girls for buying your act. They crowd around you, giving you quips of sympathy. No, this is not your fault. You shouldn't feel bad about this. He was such a weirdo. You didn't deserve any of this. 

It's amazing. 

He feels a little less guilty about eavesdropping this time, more intent on listening in on the discussion. After days, the senior had finally managed to get you to come with him alone, to that same spot he'd left you crying just a week ago. Nuyan isn't worried about being spotted. He's high enough to where you won't see him unless you know where to look, yet close enough to hear every whisper. 

Now he's the one who looks nervous. The guy is shuffling under your passive gaze. You're waiting for him to speak first. So is Nuyan. His heart was pounding in anticipation. He wonders if the senior will snap. He wonders if he'll hit you, draw blood. Nuyan knows he wants to, but he's too much of a coward. He can't. Not with this many eyes on him, watching him like a hawk. Waiting for a wrong move.

"What the fuck," He starts, "Seriously, what the fuck?" 

You tilt your head innocently and Nuyan stifles a laugh. 

"What?" You ask. 

He curses, running a hand through his hair. He looks stressed, like he hasn't gotten sleep in days. His eyes are wild, desperate. 

You look so fucking pleased. 

"You-you fucking bitch, you know what," He's laughing, more out of stress than actual joy, "The entire fucking school is talking about how I have a fetish about my cousin. What the fuck?" 

Nuyan notices you flinch a little at that. You look a little guilty, a part of you thinking you may have gone too far. He's glad when the look is quickly washed away by cold steel.

"Wayner," Ah, there's his name, "Are you seriously blaming me right now?  It's not my fault my friends took a few things out of context. How am I supposed to do anything about it?" 

Your voice is soft, understanding, but it doesn't match your face. You're smiling and Wayner is paling because of those oh-so familiar words. Words he'd said to you not too long ago. Words he's probably begging to take back. 

You sigh, pulling your hands up in mock sympathy. Your lips open in a dramatic pout. Nuyan noticed how soft they looked. 

"Fine, I'm sorry, okay?" Your apology is just as fake as his once was. And you're sighing, like you've given him more time than he's worth. 

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. You know how rumors are, right? It'll probably die down in a few days, anyways," You're waving your hand dismissively. 

"If you want, we could go around and say they're fake, but it'd be a waste of time. No one would believe us," You pause. 

Carefully, you examine your dainty hand. It's so small. Nuyan imagines it'd fit perfectly in his. 

"No one would believe you." 

Your smile is friendly, but there's no warmth. Nuyan wouldn't call you tall but you're towering over the bastard, looking down at him like he's pure scum and Nuyen feels his heart beat a little faster. 

"You-you wanted an apology right?" He's stumbling over his words, "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. God I'm so fucking sorry. Just please-" 

"I did want an apology," You're correcting, "You humiliated me, for nothing. The worst part is...this isn't even the first time, is it? How many other girls have you bullied like this?" 

You're stepping closer, Nuyan is drinking each action, each expression from your gorgeous self. 

"Ever wonder how it was so easy to convince everyone? Because no one fucking likes you. They don't care if you did it or not, it's just funny. They don't care about your dignity, just how you didn't care for mine." 

You're turning around to head back in. Your hair looks so pretty today, Nuyan wants to touch it. 

"Maybe you should taste your own shit every once in a while."

You're practically glowing as you turn away, leaving the guy to crumble, and Nuyan is pulling away out of earshot. 

He was laughing. Fuck fuck fuck. You were so smart. You were so beautiful. So elegant. This entire stunt was so perfectly concocted, each step leading you closer to your malicious revenge. And you barely lifted a finger, just letting everything rot, fester, boil. Nuyan had no idea someone so average could be so ferocious. So vindictive. 

You were dangerous. 

He's sighing breathily, tracing his finger against the railing. His hands are covered in dust but he doesn't care. 

Fuck. 

Nuyan was in love.

[artesque]

Just because someone deems themselves “educated” (we won’t say highly) and has the intellectual wherewithal to use language sprinkled with mental health buzzwords to structure their rants to almost seem insightful to someone who doesn’t know better.. doesn’t make them actually insightful. Nor does it make them correct or valid. Anyone can use manipulation paired with an educated (and silver) tongue to make anything they say sound insightful or valid. They can use trauma to garner sympathy and make excuses for their behaviour, while further using it against people to shape anything someone else does or says into a reason that hurt them. It isn’t difficult when you’re intelligent to find parallels and connections that can get you around nearly anything.. some of us just don’t have minds and hearts with the will or desire to do it. But isn’t that what you do? Talk and fluster and redirect until they become confused and lose ground? Trip them up in a web of pointed and accusatory language that leads them right out of their own valid upset and into the role of the villain? The role you have crafted solely in order to maintain control and the upper hand? A spider can weave their web in a way that can trap anything that wanders into its path.. and sure, you can blame the fly for walking that path, but at the end of the day you will always be the spider. Always the constructor of that web. Always spinning with the intention to catch. And when you speak enough in circles, you’re bound to make anyone dizzy. Weave enough threads and, in the struggle to free themselves, someone will do the job of wrapping themselves up for you. And with no out in sight, they will give up.

Emotional and mental manipulation and always making others “the bad guy” will always be a form of abuse, whether you are willing to take accountability for it or not. So I just want you to know this: someone with a trained eye, someone who lived amongst spiders, can see right through you. Your stories are impressively creative, but they lack depth or a sense of a reality. They are constructed in a way that allows for you to shift accountability and always make yourself the victim. An entire life of woe is me; just an injured baby bird that needs a gentle touch.. oh but careful, because any movement outside of what you personally want can further harm those broken wings, right? And in that, you get to freely choose what is a thorn. You get to choose that any friendship you don’t approve of, any word you don’t agree with, really anything is a thorn in a careless hand, re-puncturing the wounds of that baby bird. And it might have been brilliant.. if you didn’t fail to understand that humans are multi-faceted, complex creatures capable of both good and bad, of shades of grey. We aren’t all victims 100% of the time and the people who hurt us aren’t all abusers 100% of the time. It’s time to craft a better web.. I mean.. “story”. I’ve heard this one before.

just because someone can articulate their point better doesn’t make them right, it makes them articulated. 

[pixiefelixie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ where i land.

: ̗̀➛ pairing — volleyball player!hyunjin x reader, university au : ̗̀➛ word count — 19k : ̗̀➛ content — angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, MDNI due to very mature themes (smut warnings below the cut), underaged blogs will be blocked, mentions of an injury, grief over identity loss, lots of crying and kisses, they're in love your honour

you’re dating the university’s best right-side hitter—hyunjin, best of the court, all instinct and fire. volleyball is everything to him. has been since before you met. but when an injury cuts his season short, hyunjin’s forced to face something he’s never had to before: a future without the one thing that’s always defined him. now, with his knee and his heart barely holding together, he has to figure out who he is off the court—and what it means to still be worthy of love, purpose, and you.

author's note: i had way too many of these long fics collecting dust in my drafts so i figured… might as well post this one! volleyball is everything to me so this one’s super self indulgent and written straight from the heart 💔🏐 i hope you enjoy it <3

: ̗̀➛ smut warnings: two sex scenes, oral (m. receiving), cw! safeword (used, respected but late; very very mild nonconsensual elements, not glamorized), piv, protected sex, dirty talk

volleyball was everything to hyunjin.

not just a sport. not just a hobby. it was the pulse in his fingertips, the reason he got up in the morning, the way he measured time—not in months, but in seasons. you met him at one of those tournaments, back in high school, when your team had already been knocked out and your friend dragged you to the other gym to “watch the boys play.”

you’d rolled your eyes. “what, like for fun?”

but then you saw him.

and suddenly, it was fun.

you’d never seen a guy move like that before. there was something different in the way he played—like every step was instinct, like he knew where the ball was going to be before it even left the setter’s hands. he played right side, but there was nothing “side” about the way he commanded attention. his hits were vicious. his blocks were surgical. and when he smiled—after a perfect kill that sent the crowd erupting—you felt it all the way in your ribs.

you’d played too, but never like that. never with that fire. you had enjoyed the sport. he loved it.

somehow, he noticed you that day.

maybe it was because you were still in your jersey. maybe because your friend was not-so-subtly pointing at you while whispering. maybe—he’d later tease—it was because you didn’t look impressed, and that irritated him just enough to want to change your mind.

from there, things moved fast—faster than either of you expected. a few exchanged dms turned into late-night facetime calls, which turned into weekend meetups halfway between your schools. it didn’t take long for hyunjin to ask you out officially, nervously gripping the edge of his gym bag like it might shield him from rejection. you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence.

after graduation, the decision was easy. he got a scholarship for volleyball—a full ride, no surprise—and you got accepted into the same university for a program that made your high school guidance counselor say, “you sure about this?” you were. you always had been. smart, focused, maybe a little stubborn—your idea of a challenge was enrolling in the hardest courses they offered, just to see if you could survive.

so there you were. two years into university. him, chasing championships. you, chasing equations, reports, exams you barely had time to breathe through. but somehow, it worked. you studied while he practiced. he came to your presentations in a hoodie and brought you bubble tea after midterms. you helped him stretch when he was sore. he held you when you broke down from stress.

you both had it all sorted out.

the alarm blared at 7:00 am, dragging you out of a dream you barely remembered. you groaned, buried under a mess of tangled blankets and limbs. hyunjin mumbled something incoherent beside you and flopped onto his stomach, arm stretching across your waist, pulling you closer without even opening his eyes.

you lay there a second longer, eyes still shut, nose tucked against the side of his neck. he smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and something warmer underneath—something you’d learned to associate with safety.

“i have weights in forty minutes,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“and i have a chem lecture in thirty,” you mumbled back.

“skip.”

“you skip.”

a pause.

he peeked one eye open. “can’t. game tonight.”

that made you smile. because even now, even half-asleep, his entire face changed at the mention of it. his mouth curved up automatically. his eyes lit up, even through the haze of grogginess.

tonight’s game was big.

hyunjin had been talking about it all week—hell, for the past month. their rivals from the west coast were flying in. undefeated so far, just like his team. he’d been studying footage of their right side like he was prepping for an exam.

“it’s gonna be a bloodbath,” he’d said last night, lying back on the dorm floor, tossing a stress ball in the air while you highlighted your textbook. “in a good way.”

“is there a good way for a bloodbath?” you’d asked without looking up.

“for the winners, yeah.”

he was so ready. sharpest he’d ever been. his vertical had improved, his timing was better, and he’d finally stopped complaining about the weird new brace he had to wear on his ankle. every time you saw him walk out onto the court, you swore he looked taller. like something about it gave him a new center of gravity.

and now? now the alarm was screaming, and still—neither of you moved.

“five more minutes,” you muttered, curling into him.

hyunjin groaned into your hair. “ten.”

“we’re going to be late.”

he exhaled heavily, like the weight of responsibility was something he could blow off with enough dramatic flair. but he didn’t let go. his leg was tangled with yours. his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, just resting there, warm against your skin.

“whenever you sleep over, i can never get up,” you murmured, voice still scratchy with sleep.

your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair—soft and messy from the pillow, a little damp at the nape from how warm it had gotten under the covers. he sighed, melting a little under your touch, his whole body relaxing like you’d pressed a switch.

hyunjin shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck as he spoke, voice muffled and boyishly whiny. “well your bed’s comfier than mine.”

you smiled, still playing with his hair. “it’s the same mattress, genius. university-issued.”

“yeah, but yours also smells like vanilla and detergent.” he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle under your chin. “mine smells—not like this.”

you groaned, the alarm still blaring beside you like an obnoxious countdown to responsibility.

“okay, that’s it,” you muttered, reaching out with one arm and slapping the snooze button harder than necessary. silence, blessed and brief, fell over the room.

then you turned back to hyunjin and gave him a shove. “up. seriously. we’re gonna be late.”

he grunted dramatically, refusing to budge. “just a few more—”

“no,” you said, already halfway untangling yourself from the sheets. “we're not doing this again, hwang hyunjin.”

but before you could escape, he hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you back in with one quick tug, your back flush to his chest.

“hyun—!”

he was already on the attack, pressing quick, fluttery kisses against your cheek. “you’re so mean to me in the mornings,” he whined between kisses.

you squealed, squirming as his lips trailed toward your jaw, tickling your skin with every dramatic pout he planted there. “hyune—stop, i’m gonna be late—!”

“you say that every time,” he said, voice smug now, lips brushing just under your ear. “and you’re always exactly on time.”

you were laughing now, full and unfiltered, even as you tried to wriggle free. “that’s because i sprint across campus!”

“good cardio,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth like punctuation. “you’re welcome.”

you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, grinning as you pushed at his chest.

“dick,” you whispered under your breath, eyes narrowed but your mouth twitching with a smile.

his jaw dropped. “me?”

you shook your head, biting back another laugh as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching with a small groan before grabbing the t-shirt draped over your desk chair. you tugged it down over your sleep shorts and ran a hand through your hair, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

“i swear,” you muttered, turning toward the door, “when i come back, you better be gone.”

hyunjin was already spreading himself out dramatically across your bed, arms tucked behind his head, hair fanned out against your pillow like he lived there. he rolled his eyes with the laziest grin.

“yeah, yeah. kick me out of my own second home, why don’t you.”

you chuckled, shaking your head as you opened the door. “i’ll see you tonight.”

“six p.m.,” he said immediately, eyes flicking toward you like he’d already counted the hours in his head. “stadium.”

you nodded, one hand still on the knob. “wouldn’t miss it.”

a pause, just long enough to make the next part soft.

“love you,” you said.

hyunjin didn’t even hesitate. “love you too.”

you smiled, small and real, before pulling the door shut behind you.

the hallway was already buzzing—dorm doors cracking open, slippers shuffling against linoleum, the distant hiss of a kettle in someone’s shared kitchen. you padded down toward the shared bathroom, toothbrush in hand, weaving past two girls arguing over whose towel was dripping onto the floor.

the mirror was still a little foggy from someone’s shower, but you wiped a stripe clear with your palm and leaned in.

you knew today would be a good day.

it always was when it started with him.

the sky had started to dip into that golden haze that only showed up right before sunset, warm and honey-colored, stretching long shadows across campus as you and your friends made your way toward the stadium.

you were ready, as always.

university tee half-tucked into your jeans, a hoodie tied around your waist just in case it got cold later, and two neat stripes of your school’s colors painted on your cheeks. your friends had done them for you in the dorm bathroom twenty minutes ago, giggling the whole time and arguing over whether the stripes should be angled or horizontal.

they settled on angled—“for spice,” someone said.

now, the group of you walked in a loose formation down the path that led toward the stadium, sneakers scuffing pavement, laughter bouncing off the brick walls of nearby buildings.

hyunjin had texted you an hour ago: you better be loud.

you chuckled to yourself, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your friends kept chatting, loud in that way they always were before a big game.

“i can’t believe the season’s only just started and we’re already undefeated,” one of them said, adjusting her hair in a compact mirror before snapping it shut. “like, they’re actually insane this year.”

“did you see the last match? they crushed them. that one guy on the other team literally fell over trying to block hyunjin.”

you bit back a smile. “he just… misjudged the angle.”

“mmhmm,” another friend teased, bumping her shoulder against yours. “downplaying your man like he doesn’t hit like a cannon.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks warming just a bit under the paint. “i’m just saying. he doesn’t try to humiliate people.”

“sure, but he still does,” someone laughed. “he’s too good. honestly, the whole team is stacked this year. if they keep this up, they’re gonna make playoffs easy.”

“maybe,” another added cautiously, “but tonight’s gonna be rough. the other team’s no joke.”

you glanced over as she pulled up a screenshot from their athletics page, stats already loaded. “their outside hits like a monster, and their libero—what’s his name again?”

“bang chan.”

everyone groaned in unison.

“that guy’s insane,” someone muttered. “like, literally everywhere at once. how does someone cover that much court?”

“i know,” your friend said, squinting at the screen. “his defense is gonna be annoying as hell. they’re never letting the ball drop.”

“but hyunjin’s a smart hitter,” one of your friends chimed in, shifting her tote bag higher up her shoulder.

“he’s been studying chan for weeks,” you said, a little proud, a little breathless just thinking about it. “like, frame-by-frame footage. movement patterns, positioning, even how he transitions between zones.”

“god,” someone groaned, “that sounds exhausting.”

you shrugged. “not to him. he actually gets excited about it.”

“of course he does,” another one laughed. “i swear hyunjin would analyze a toddler’s footwork if it helped him.”

“we shouldn’t even be worried,” one of them said, pushing open the stadium door as the music grew louder, brighter. “this is our court. we got this.”

you stepped into the arena, and the atmosphere hit you all at once—bright lights, echoing shoes squeaking across the court, the rhythmic thud of volleyballs being peppered back and forth. the crowd was already buzzing, rows of students and alumni piling in, decked out in school colors and face paint, waving foam fingers and handmade signs.

your eyes found him almost instantly.

he was across the court in his warmup jersey, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back loosely. he looked focused but relaxed, like his entire body was vibrating with anticipation. his approach was clean even during warm-ups, like he didn’t know how to give less than everything. you watched him leap—effortless, practiced, beautiful—and send the ball flying just inside the corner line.

you smiled, already feeling your chest tighten.

“seats there!” one of your friends pointed, already heading toward a row just off center court, a perfect view of hyunjin’s side.

you all squeezed in, tossing bags under the bench and adjusting your hoodies as you settled. 

hyunjin was locked in.

even from the stands, you could see it—that razor-sharp concentration that settled over him like armor. he moved with precision, muscles coiled and ready, every jump timed to the millisecond, every swing calculated. he jogged to the sideline to grab a water bottle, tilting his head back for a quick sip. his coach leaned in, already pointing toward a clipboard, going over rotation tweaks. hyunjin nodded, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the notes and the court.

then, just for a second—his gaze lifted.

he scanned the crowd like he was looking for something he already knew would be there.

and when he found you, his lips curved, small but unmistakable. the kind of smile meant for one person only. quick, careful, just enough to say hi.

your heart did a little flip.

you raised your hand in a tiny wave, fingers wiggling, trying not to grin too hard.

he held your gaze for just a beat longer, then dropped his eyes back to the clipboard, nodding again as his coach spoke.

“gag, you two are so gross.” your friend beside you muttered.

you rolled your eyes, leaning on her dramatically. “shut up.”

the other team began filing in from the opposite tunnel.

their uniforms were sleek, crisp white and navy. they looked good—annoyingly good. confident. sharp. a few of them glanced toward your team’s side of the court as if sizing them up before the first whistle.

your heart was racing.

it wasn’t nerves—not exactly. more like adrenaline, like your body already knew something big was coming and was bracing for it. you crossed your arms loosely over your chest, trying to play it cool, but your knee bounced under your seat.

on the court, the other team began their warm-up routine.

clean, practiced, ruthless.

their libero—bang chan—moved like he was born there, gliding from one end of the court to the other, dropping into receive like it cost him nothing. the way he read every toss, every angle, every fake-out—it was unreal. you watched him dive for a pancake save that should’ve been impossible, only to bounce back up like it hadn’t even winded him.

their outside’s swing was vicious. quick wrist, sharp cross. every hit landed with a smack loud enough to echo through the gym.

your friends went quiet. no more teasing.

“okay… they’re kind of terrifying,” someone finally whispered.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. not with how your chest had gone tight.

across the court, your team was finishing their own lines of warm-ups—hyunjin among them, focused, shoulders rolled back with that quiet confidence he always carried on game days. but even so, you could see it in the way his brows furrowed for just a second after the opposing outside hit another brutal cross.

he saw it too.

the competition was real.

ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. the music cut.

a few quick announcements echoed through the gym—rosters, school chants, the referee’s name, the starting rotations—but it all blurred in the noise, the kind that made your chest vibrate from the inside out.

then the whistle blew for real.

first serve: one of your team’s middles. he bounced the ball twice, exhaled, and sent it clean over the net.

the other team received it smoothly, the pass was perfect. set. attack. your team scrambled into defense. a diving dig from the back row saved it just in time.

quick set on your side. middle hits—blocked, but avoids it.

the rally built fast, back and forth, clean hits and sharper recoveries. you were already on the edge of your seat, watching the ball blur between teams like it had a mind of its own.

and then—finally.

another pass. another set. this one floated just high enough, just fast enough.

hyunjin’s.

he was already moving, feet thudding against the court in three quick steps, arms swinging back. you knew that approach—the precise angles of it, the sheer snap in his body as he launched into the air.

once he hit it, the ball shot across the net, slicing through space and aiming dead for the back corner, right where he mastered it.

“mine!” someone from the other team yelled—too late.

the ball hit the floor with a smack so loud it echoed in tangible vibrations.

the stadium exploded.

cheers erupted around you—students jumping to their feet, fists thrown into the air, stomping and shouting. the first point was yours.

you and your friends jumped up instantly, yelling over the chaos.

“let’s go!” one of them screamed, cupping her hands around her mouth..

you clapped hard, heart pounding, adrenaline syncing with the rhythm of the chants echoing through the stadium.

then the next serve from your team came—and the other team answered.

quick pass, faster tempo. a sharp hit split the seam between your blockers. the ball slammed into the floor with just as much force, just as much precision.

point: theirs.

a collective groan rippled through your side of the gym, but no one sat down.

and your team didn’t back down.

the pace picked up fast, every point earned with blood and sweat. it was a tug-of-war. one point for you, one point for them. hyunjin hit clean again. bang chan dug it up like it was nothing. then another rally—your setter faked to the middle, backset to hyunjin again, and he threaded the ball through hands that never even touched it.

then they answered with a kill off the block.

it was a beautiful game.

terrifying game.

every serve, every swing, every dive left you holding your breath. you could feel the pressure mounting with every passing minute, the margin for error shrinking. both teams were reading each other too well.

before you knew it…

your server missed. an ace from the other side. another tight roll shot that just barely dropped over the net. and all of the sudden—

they were pulling ahead. by four. and not fluke points—smart ones. high digs. strategic hits. they were pulling ahead with control, and you could see the frustration start to creep into your team’s side like a slow leak. a few mistimed passes. a block that wasn’t there fast enough. a shake of someone’s head. it was all piling.

your friends tried to keep the energy up—clapping, chanting, yelling encouragement—but you could feel it. the shift.

and suddenly to you, it wasn’t just about the game anymore.

it wasn’t about the scoreboard or the rally count.

it was about him.

when hyunjin played well—really well—it was electric. he’d leave the court flushed and buzzing, body thrumming with victory, adrenaline humming through every cell. he’d throw his arms around you in the hallway after and talk a mile a minute about everything—the timing, the blocks, the play he almost fumbled but didn’t. he’d be unstoppable.

and sometimes—more than once—those were the nights you’d end up in his dorm room, down on your knees before he even got his jersey off, just because you were both so high on the win it didn’t make sense to stop. you loved seeing him like that. weightless.

when he lost, you also knew him. sometimes, sure, he’d shake it off. crack jokes in the locker room, say stuff like we’ll get them next time, tug you close and act like nothing had ever gone wrong.

but other times…other times it hit him like a brick wall. you’d seen it. after certain games, he’d shut down completely. he wouldn’t want to talk. wouldn’t want to eat. wouldn’t even want to be touched—not even by you. and not out of anger, but out of guilt. out of this impossible pressure he carried like it was stitched into his skin.

tonight felt like one of those times. you could already feel it closing in around you.

he was playing well. that was the worst part. he was moving sharp, hitting smart, putting everything he had into every point—but it wasn’t enough. not yet. and you knew exactly how much harder that would be for him to swallow.

the whistle blew, cutting you from your thoughts. timeout—your side.

your team gathered near the bench, forming a loose huddle around the coach, towels slung over shoulders, water bottles passed down the line. from the stands, it was hard to hear what was being said, but you could see it all in their faces—tight jaws, shallow breathing, sweat glistening down temples.

hyunjin was the last to step into the circle.

he ran a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose as if he couldn’t stand it anymore. it flopped down messily over his forehead, but he didn’t bother fixing it. he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, listening, nodding occasionally.

the coach was gesturing rapidly now, drawing imaginary lines in the air, shifting pieces they couldn’t afford to lose. you could practically hear the urgency just from the way he moved—faster than usual, clipped and sharp.

one of the middles clapped his hands, trying to hype the group up. another player tapped his chest twice, mouthing something. the timeout ended with one last sharp clap from the coach, and just like that—they were moving again.

your team filed back onto the court, more focused now, like something had shifted in those sixty seconds. you leaned forward in your seat, hands curled tightly in your lap as your friends whispered around you.

“what do you think they’re trying?”

“i don’t know—but they’ve switched completely.”

and they were.

it wasn’t obvious at first, but then you saw it—hyunjin wasn’t starting from his usual position. the setter had shifted too. your middle blocker was crouched lower than usual, almost like he was prepping for a sprint, not a block.

and then the whistle blew.

the serve flew over—clean, controlled.

your team received it smoothly, but instead of setting to the outside or middle, the setter jump set backwards across the court—a full-speed, cross-body set with almost no telegraphing.

it landed perfectly in hyunjin’s zone.

he wasn’t even fully visible to the blockers until the last second—disguised behind the rotation shift. he came flying in from the back row, not where they expected him, soaring with his body stretched out like a missile.

the crowd gasped before the ball even touched his hands.

you sat up straighter, brows furrowed. “wait—what are they—?”

hyunjin launched from the back row like it was second nature, legs slicing through the air, body twisting mid-air to angle the hit just right. and then—

crack.

he didn’t go cross. he didn’t go down the line.

he hit straight into the softest, most empty pocket on the entire court—dead center, back row, right behind their setter. not even bang chan could cover it.

the ball smacked the floor.

perfect. no touch. clean.

you didn’t even have to wait for the whistle.

point. yours.

you were on your feet in an instant, mouth wide open, cheering at the top of your lungs, barely hearing yourself over the roar around you. your friends were jumping, grabbing each other, laughing in total disbelief.

“holy shit!” someone yelled beside you. “that was insane!”

but just as quickly as it started—the noise stopped.

like someone hit mute.

a chill crawled up your spine.

you turned back to the court—confused, heart already thudding for a different reason—and your eyes locked on the place where hyunjin should’ve been standing.

he wasn’t.

he was on the floor.

no.

he was clutching his knee. his fingers were digging into it, and his face was twisted in something you’d never seen on him before.

not pain from a cramp or a bruise.

something deeper. sharper.

you felt the blood drain from your face.

his teammates were already moving—rushing to him from every side, their celebration cut off mid-cheer like someone had yanked the breath out of the room.

the setter dropped to his knees beside him. the middle crouched low, hands hovering like he didn’t know what to touch. 

and hyunjin wasn’t getting up.

you couldn’t even hear the crowd anymore.

just the dull ringing in your ears and your heartbeat thudding somewhere too high in your chest.

“no,” one of your friends whispered beside you, voice tight. “no, no, no…”

you couldn’t move.

you were frozen in place, staring at him through the blinding white of the stadium lights, through the sea of players gathering like a wall between him and the rest of the world. you could barely see his face anymore—but you remembered the way it looked.

like he knew.

like in that one second—he knew something was wrong. something bad. something he couldn’t walk off.

suddenly, the crowd shifted, murmurs rising like smoke. they were carrying him.

two staff members on either side, arms looped under his shoulders, another holding his leg steady as they carefully lifted him off the court. hyunjin’s face was buried in the crook of his elbow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension from where you sat.

you stood halfway out of instinct, trying to follow him with your eyes, but the mass of movement on the court swallowed him up. the trainers led him to the far corner near the benches, behind a curtain.

and just like that, he was gone from view.

your stomach dropped.

on the court, your coach looked stunned—frozen for a second too long, his clipboard limp in his hands. he blinked hard, almost like shaking himself out of a daze, and then turned, his voice barely carrying over the now-muted stadium.

a sub scrambled to his feet, face pale as he stripped off his warm-up jersey and jogged toward the line. no one looked ready. no one was ready. the rotation was lopsided now. the rhythm shattered.

they had to play without him.

your team returned to their positions like ghosts, stiff and quiet, eyes flicking toward the sideline every few seconds.

you didn’t even realize you were walking until your feet hit the concrete stairs of the bleachers.

one step. then another.

the sound of the game behind you dulled into nothing. cheers, squeaks of sneakers, whistles—it all faded into a low hum, like your ears were full of cotton. you pushed past people in the aisle without meeting their eyes, murmuring apologies you didn’t really mean.

you couldn’t stay in there.

not with the scoreboard still ticking. not with them still playing like everything was normal.

you slipped out the side exit of the stadium, the heavy doors swinging shut behind you with a thud that echoed down the hallway.

the air out here was colder. sterile. the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you moved past storage closets and empty water coolers, the polished floors squeaking under your shoes. no signs. no directions. just your gut pulling you forward.

you passed the locker rooms. the hallway turned narrower, less familiar, walls a little grimier, like you weren’t meant to be here without a staff badge. but you kept going. past laundry carts and low murmurs behind closed doors.

and then—around a final corner—you saw it.

the door leading to the first-aid clinic. you moved closer, careful, heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs.

you reached for the handle.

it didn’t budge.

locked.

from inside, you could hear muffled voices—the medic speaking low and even, someone voice barely audible in return. you leaned in instinctively, trying to catch a word, a phrase, anything that would make this feel less terrifying.

but you couldn’t make anything out.

your fingers stayed wrapped around the doorknob for a second longer, trembling slightly, and then finally dropped to your side.

you backed up a step. then another.

your back hit the cold concrete wall behind you, and you slid down slowly, knees folding until you were crouched there in the hallway like you’d forgotten how to stand.

you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes.

everything felt warped, like the fluorescent lights above you were humming louder than they should, like the cold of the floor had sunk all the way into your bones.

you didn’t hear the door open. you only saw it move.

a creak. a shift. then a sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

someone—one of the medics, probably a student trainer—poked his head out. young. clipboard in hand. his brows knit as he glanced down and saw you there, curled up in your hoodie and university tee, the stripes of face paint still smudged across your cheeks.

you blinked up at him, dry-mouthed.

“hi,” you said.

it came out too soft. like a question you weren’t sure how to ask.

he stared for a second, taking in your whole mess of a posture and game-day colors, your trembling hands and your knees drawn up to your chest. his eyes flicked to the crest on your shirt, the one that matched the jersey hyunjin had been wearing.

“were you trying to open the door?” he cleared his throat. “can i help you?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. you looked down at yourself—still dressed like you were going to war for school spirit, like this was just a fun night out.

you felt ridiculous.

you looked up at him, throat tight. “is hwang hyunjin in there?”

the man nodded slowly, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “yeah. he is.”

something in you relaxed at the confirmation, just for a second—but it didn’t last.

the guy looked over his shoulder, then back at you, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, i get it. i do. but you shouldn’t be here.”

your stomach twisted.

you nodded, more out of instinct than agreement. “i know,” you whispered.

“it's nothing personal. he's just not in great shape right now,” he said, more gently this time. “they’re still figuring out the damage. trying to keep things quiet. we don’t want anyone back here yet.”

you nodded again, this time more shakily, pressing your fingers into the hem of your sleeve just to feel something solid. the man lingered for a moment, still halfway in the doorway, like he didn’t want to be the one to push you away completely.

then, after a beat, he sighed. “but i can check.”

your head snapped up.

“really?” you breathed, eyes wide.

he hesitated—then gave you a look that said don’t make me regret this before slipping back inside and gently shutting the door behind him.

you stayed frozen in place, heart in your throat, chest rising and falling way too fast. you stared at the door like you could see through it, like if you just focused hard enough, it would let you in.

seconds passed. maybe a minute. it felt like an hour.

then the door creaked open again.

the man leaned out and gave a slight tilt of his head. “come in,” he said quietly.

you didn’t even hesitate.

you scrambled to your feet, legs still shaky, and followed him inside.

the room was colder than you expected. colder and too bright.

it smelled like antiseptic and old sweat and something metallic, like the sharp edge of panic that hadn’t quite left the air. you stepped inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the stark contrast between this place and the roaring stadium just minutes ago. the walls were a dull gray, the floor scuffed with years of cleats and court shoes. it didn’t feel like a place where someone like hyunjin should be.

he sat on the padded table, jersey still on. his left knee was wrapped, elevated on a foam wedge. his face was pale, damp with sweat, lips parted like he’d been breathing through pain for too long.

the doctor stood beside him, glancing at a clipboard. “alright, hang tight,” she said gently. “we’ll be back in a few with imaging details, okay?”

hyunjin nodded slowly, not quite meeting her eyes.

then she turned to leave, pausing only to give the trainer a quiet nod. they both slipped past you, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.

you stood there.

for a second, hyunjin didn’t move.

then his head turned toward you, slow and heavy like it took effort just to look.

his eyes found yours—and they weren’t the ones you knew.

this was something else entirely. empty. distant. like he was still falling, even now.

he didn’t say anything.

his jaw was tight. his hands rested stiffly at his sides, like he didn’t trust them to hold anything—not even his own weight. his shoulders were tense, his posture too upright, like the pain was the only thing anchoring him.

you took a few slow steps forward, hesitant like you were approaching a stranger.

“hyune,” you said softly.

nothing.

just the faintest twitch of his fingers.

you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the way his lip wobbled for a half-second before he caught it. he blinked—once, then again—and looked away, back down to his knee like if he stared at it hard enough, it might undo whatever had just happened.

you took another cautious step toward him, watching him crumble in slow motion.

your voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath. “one to ten?”

it was a thing you always did—after tough practices, late-night cramps, bruises from blocked spikes. you’d ask it with a smile, even when he was clearly hurting, and he’d roll his eyes and say two or four, just to seem tough. sometimes he’d lie and say ten, just to make you laugh.

but this time, he didn’t answer right away.

he let out a sharp breath through his nose, almost like a laugh—but there was nothing funny in it. his hands finally clenched into fists at his sides.

then he looked at you, and something behind his eyes snapped.

“it doesn’t matter.”

his voice was flat. cold. shaky with everything he was trying not to feel.

you froze.

“i’ve seen this,” he said, more to himself now. “i’ve seen guys go down just like this. same way. and just like that—” he snapped his fingers harshly. “they’re done.”

you shook your head instinctively. “no, hyun—”

“it’s over,” he said, cutting you off, voice cracking around the edges. “do you get that? and i felt it the second i landed.”

he paused, shoulders rising like he was trying to hold himself together with just breath. you stepped closer, barely breathing, your hands aching to reach for him—but still unsure if he’d even let you.

“i know,” you said gently. “i know it feels like that right now. like everything’s ending. but it’s not—hyunjin, it’s not over.”

“no,” he said sharply, voice rising, fraying. “y/n, don’t—don’t say that.”

your heart splintered.

his hands trembled on the edge of the table, clutching the vinyl padding like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“you don’t get it,” he said, turning his face away from you, eyes glistening. “you’re brilliant. you’ve always known what you’re doing. everyone on my team does too,” he kept going, his voice shaking harder now, barely holding together. “they’ve got degrees lined up. internships. backup plans.”

his chest rose and fell faster, his breath uneven. he finally looked at you, and the heartbreak in his face knocked the wind from your lungs.

“i don’t,” he said, quietly, helplessly. “i don’t have anything else.”

his chin trembled. and then—just like that—he broke.

tears welled in his eyes too fast to stop, slipping down his cheeks before he could even wipe them away. he tried—he really tried—to hold it in. but it was no use.

“this sport is all i have,” he whispered again, voice barely there, shattered between sobs.

you didn’t say anything.

you couldn’t. there was no fixing this with words. no comforting lie that would make him believe it wasn’t happening. so instead, you stepped closer, so gently, and reached a hand toward him.

fingers threading through his hair—slow, steady, soft.

he flinched at first, like touch would be too much, but the second your hand settled there, something in him caved. his shoulders dropped. his head tilted forward into your palm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

your other hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him forward.

he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently into your stomach, his whole body folding inward. you wrapped your arms around him, holding his head like something precious—like you were trying to shield him from the weight of what was happening.

and for the first time since the fall, he let himself be held.

it had been a few days. to no one’s surprise, the other team took the win home.

the official word came down two mornings after the game: full acl tear, grade three. complete rupture. months of rehab. no return this season. no guarantees beyond that.

you’d been there when they told him. sat beside him in the tiny office with the blinds drawn, the doctor’s voice steady and clinical as she read off the report. hyunjin hadn’t said a word the entire time. just stared down at his hands, jaw locked, expression unreadable in that terrifying way it gets when he's not okay but refuses to show it.

since then, everything had been... quieter.

the news spread fast, of course. the university’s athletic account posted an official update—“wishing a full recovery.” his teammates rallied around him publicly, reposted the announcement with hearts and strength emojis. but under all that noise, in the places that mattered, it was like someone had pressed pause on hyunjin’s whole world.

and your friends never asked either.

not really.

they gave you the space to bring it up first, which you hadn’t. a few of them texted to say they were sorry, or that they’d heard and were thinking of you both. but no one asked how he was holding up. no one pushed.

you appreciated it more than you could say.

because honestly, you didn’t even know what to tell them.

he’d texted earlier this morning to let you know he was in his dorm room when you asked him where he was.

he hadn’t wanted to talk volleyball. at all. the day after the diagnosis, he shoved his gear into a box and pushed it into the back of his closet. he didn’t even watch the next game. 

so he tried something else.

a distraction. something that didn’t involve courts or rosters. something that felt like anything but the thing he loved most.

you found him in the corner of his dorm room, tucked beside his desk where the late afternoon light streamed in from the window. his crutches leaned against the wall beside him, forgotten for the moment. he was sitting on a low stool, hunched over a sketchpad with a charcoal pencil in hand, his left leg extended stiffly in front of him in its brace.

you paused in the doorway for a second, just watching.

there was smudge on his cheek. a little streak of black where he must’ve rubbed his face without realizing. his hair was pulled back in a messy bun. there were shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he ever said it out loud.

he lifted his head when he heard your footsteps.

you softened instantly. “hi, hyunjin.”

he gave you a small smile—barely there, but real. “hey.”

you made your way over, sliding onto the empty stool next to him, careful not to bump his leg. up close, you could see more of the charcoal dust on his fingers, the soft curve of concentration still lingering in his brows.

“whatcha working on?” you asked gently, nodding toward the sketchpad in his lap.

he looked down at it, then tilted it slightly so you could see.

it was a portrait—stunning, honestly. still unfinished, but already detailed enough to recognize the profile, the emotion, the shadow work. you blinked at it, impressed.

“is that…?” you started.

“one of my favorite movies,” he said, lips twitching up just a little. “it’s the scene i always liked.”

“it’s really good,” you said honestly. “like… really good.”

he gave a little shrug, wiping his thumb along the side of the paper to soften a line. “i still remember a bit from when i used to do it. a few years ago. took a class once. my teacher said i had a gift.” then he smiled again, sheepish this time, “and i ignored her and spent all my time elsewhere.”

you knew what elsewhere meant.

volleyball. always volleyball. 

but you didn’t push.

instead, you just nodded softly, watching the way he blended the shadow near the jawline with a precision that felt both practiced and instinctive.

“how’s your knee?” you asked after a quiet moment.

without looking up, he murmured, “honestly? it hurts pretty bad.”

your chest tightened.

he shifted a little on the stool, trying to get more comfortable, but winced when his brace caught against the edge of the table leg. “the meds help a little, but the brace is stiff as hell. and i keep waking up at night.”

he rubbed his palm over his knee gently, not like it helped, more like it was habit. a quiet frustration simmered beneath his words—one you’d come to recognize too well. the kind that wasn’t about pain alone.

you reached over and brushed some charcoal dust from his wrist.

“i'm sorry,” you said, softly.

he looked at you, then—not just glanced, but really looked. eyes a little red, a little tired.

but grateful.

you let your fingers linger just a moment longer against his wrist, feeling the faint tremble in it even as he tried to keep his hand steady over the page.

“when’s surgery, again?” you asked gently.

he looked down at his knee again, then exhaled slowly through his nose. “this weekend.”

you nodded, the word settling heavy in your chest even though you’d known it was coming.

“saturday morning,” he added. “they want me there by seven. it’s at the ortho clinic just off campus.”

“are you nervous?” you asked.

he didn’t answer right away.

then, with a voice so quiet it barely made it to your ears, he said, “yeah.”

you nodded gently, already a step ahead of him.

“i’ll borrow my friend’s car,” you said. “to come get you that morning.”

hyunjin looked up, surprised.

“i talked to her about it already,” you added with a soft smile. “it’s all set. i’ll drop you off and take you home after. whatever you need.”

his eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders melting just slightly. “thank you, really.”

you didn’t look away.

“of course,” you whispered.

there was a pause, a quiet beat that hung between you like a thread.

his eyes flickered to your mouth—slowly, deliberately.

and before you could even catch your breath, he leaned in.

the kiss wasn’t rushed. it was careful, like he was trying not to break something fragile—like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly become unsteady.

his lips lingered on yours for a breath longer, then another—like he didn’t want to let go. when he finally pulled back, it was just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, breath brushing softly against your skin.

he didn’t say it. just stayed there, breathing quietly, forehead against yours.

trying not to think about how it used to feel to have you underneath him. or how badly he missed it.

because this wasn’t how it used to be.

whenever you two made out, i would get…physical. you used to kiss like you couldn’t get enough. tangled limbs, rushed hands, mouths colliding again and again between laughs and gasps. he used to grab you by the waist and lift you right into his lap, pin you to the bed. you’d end up flushed and breathless, clothes half-off, his hands under your shirt, yours in his hair.

but now…

now there was no way he could move like that. couldn’t let things get wild or fast or messy. his knee wouldn’t let him. the brace made everything stiff, every shift a risk. he couldn’t even kiss you too hard without pain flaring through his leg.

his breath hitched.

still close, still barely touching, but something in him had started to tremble. not from pain—at least not just pain. his skin had gone hot. your mouth had been so soft against his. your fingers, gentle on his wrist. the warmth of your breath, the kindness in your voice—it stirred something in him that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with need.

real, aching, quiet need.

and you hadn’t noticed yet. you pulled back just slightly, blinking at the way his face had tensed, how a sheen of sweat had started to rise along his brow.

“hyunjin?” you asked softly, brows drawing together. “are you okay?”

he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes for a second, jaw tightening as he breathed out slow through his nose, like maybe he could will the heat in his body to disappear.

you leaned in, frowning, thumb brushing a bead of sweat off his cheekbone. “what’s wrong?” you whispered, more worried now. “what do you need?”

you started to move—maybe to grab water, maybe just to give him space—but his hand shot out and caught your wrist before you could stand. not rough, but firm. stronger than he’d touched you all week. his eyes met yours then, wide, dark, burning in a way you hadn’t seen since before the injury.

“you,” he breathed.

you blinked, breath caught somewhere in your throat. “what?” you asked, voice small, barely more than a puff of air.

hyunjin didn’t answer right away.

instead, his gaze held yours and then he guided your hand down, slow, deliberate, until your palm met the heat between his legs. his fingers curled lightly around your wrist, pressing, just enough for you to feel it.

hard.

you froze.

he was already so hard it pulsed beneath your touch, straining against the soft fabric of his shorts, hot through the cotton. your lips parted in a quiet, startled breath—eyes flicking up to meet his again, searching, questioning, caught between confusion and something much heavier.

he swallowed.

and then he was looking at you differently—like he couldn’t stop. like he’d forgotten everything else. the pain. the brace. the sterile clinic room with its sharp fluorescent lights. all of it faded as he stared at your face now, your wide eyes and parted lips, your fingers still resting right over his cock, uncertain but not pulling away.

you looked so soft. so concerned. so painfully beautiful.

too good for him.

too gentle to be caught up in whatever this was trying to turn into.

the image of how you used to look beneath him—hair spread out on the pillow, flushed cheeks, that gasp you’d make when he kissed your neck just right—it slammed into his chest so hard it almost knocked the air out of him.

and still, your hand stayed

you didn’t even realize your thumb had shifted slightly, tracing the heat through the fabric without thinking. you could feel how hard he was now, pulsing against your palm like his body was begging without him having to say a word.

but your heart was racing, chest tight, torn between the rush building in your core and the sting of guilt that came with it.

“i…” you started, voice catching, eyes flicking down, then back to his. “i can’t—hyunjin, you’re hurt…”

the words felt wrong even as you said them. his leg. his knee. the brace locked stiff across the line of his thigh. he couldn’t move the way he used to, couldn’t roll you under him, couldn’t press his weight into you like before. and part of you was terrified of doing anything that might make it worse.

but hyunjin didn’t flinch. didn’t let go.

his fingers tightened around your wrist, just a little. his throat worked around a thick swallow, adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to speak.

“we don’t have to…” he started, voice hoarse. “go all out,” then he exhaled—long and slow, jaw clenched like it physically hurt to hold the words back—and the sound that came with it wasn’t just breath. 

it was a moan.

and it hit you somewhere deep.

your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up—heat blooming between your legs. his voice always did that to you, but hearing it like this—like he couldn’t even help it—made something tighten hard in your belly.

“just…” he breathed again, eyes dragging across your face like he couldn’t get enough, “just something.”

his gaze dipped lower. to your mouth. the flush climbing your throat. the way your thighs had pressed together just slightly as you sat.

and still—god, still—you looked at him with that soft, hesitant concern. the look in your eyes that made his cock twitch painfully inside his shorts.

for a second, you didn’t say anything—just stared at him, fingers still resting on the thick heat of him, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. the room felt too small, too quiet. you were straddling the edge of something, dizzy with want but scared to fall all the way in.

then—slowly—you reached behind you.

your hand found the door handle, turned it, and you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place.

hyunjin’s eyes tracked every movement.

you still didn’t look at him as you pulled your hand back, settling it in your lap. “i’m scared,” you whispered.

it wasn’t a plea. it was just the truth. raw. honest. the way your voice only got when you couldn’t hide what you were feeling anymore.

and he softened immediately.

not in his body—he was still hard, still aching—but in his face, in his eyes, in the way his hand slowly loosened its grip on your wrist and slid up to cup your waist instead. “don’t be,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your shirt. “you’re with me.”

you swallowed hard, then reached up and gathered your hair in both hands. twisting it quickly, you tied it into a loose knot at the top of your head—out of the way. practical. familiar.

his breath caught.

you didn’t have to say anything. he understood.

his cheeks flushed, mouth falling open slightly as he watched, and then—careful, slow—he rolled his chair back a few inches. the wheels squeaked softly against the floor, giving you more space, clearing the narrow strip between him and the edge of the desk.

then he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his sweatpants.

the fabric caught for a second on his brace, but he tugged gently, shifting the good leg first, inch by inch. down past his hips, baring the tight line of his stomach, then the hard length of him straining up against his briefs, thick and flushed and twitching where it pressed into the cotton. he pushed them down too, just enough, cock springing free with a soft thud against his lower belly.

he watched you the whole time.

like you were the only thing in the room. like every breath he took depended on what you would do next.

it took you a second to breathe.

the way he looked sitting there—back against the chair, legs parted carefully around the brace, chest rising and falling under his t-shirt, flushed and exposed and completely still except for the twitch of his cock—was enough to make your knees feel unsteady even though you weren’t standing.

god, he was beautiful.

long and thick, flushed at the tip, a bead of slick already welling there as if his body was just as impatient as his eyes. his body tensed when you leaned in, gaze flicking between his face and the heavy line of him resting against his lower stomach.

you reached out with your hand—no hesitation this time—and wrapped your fingers gently around the base.

he hissed through his teeth.

“fuck—” he breathed, head tipping back against the edge of the chair.

you stroked once, slow and curious, thumb brushing just beneath the tip. he twitched again, harder, a tremble running down his thighs as he tried to hold still. his hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

“is this okay?” you asked, voice low, thumb circling now.

he nodded, eyes half-lidded. “yeah. yeah, that’s—” he couldn’t finish. his head rolled back, dark hair threatening to slip free from the messy bun. it spilled around his shoulders as he exhaled, a shuddering breath that turned into a soft moan when your grip tightened just a little.

you did it again. squeezed at the top, slow twist of your wrist, then slid your hand back down. you couldn’t stop watching his face—the way it tensed, the way his mouth parted just slightly, the sheer effort it took for him to stay still in that chair.

and he was so warm in your grip. so hard. so desperately full.

you leaned in.

hyunjin’s eyes snapped down to you, breath hitching audibly. his fingers twitched at the edge of the chair arm, and then your mouth was on him.

he let out a sound—half-moan, half-gasp—as your lips slid over the head of his cock, tongue swirling to catch the taste of him. you moaned around him, soft and quiet, and the vibration made him groan aloud.

“ah, fuck—baby—”

you took him deeper, slowly, carefully, easing your lips down his length while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach. 

hyunjin’s breathing turned ragged, each inhale sharper than the last, his chest rising fast beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. you could feel him throbbing on your tongue, as your lips slid down again—deeper this time, slower, letting the stretch of him fill your mouth.

his moans were coming more freely now.

soft, broken things that fell from his lips with no control. his hand finally let go of the chair arm, trembling as it hovered in the air for a second before he reached out and touched you.

fingertips to your temple first. featherlight. like he was afraid he’d shatter if he took more than that.

then his palm curved behind your head. but it didn’t stay gentle. the longer your mouth worked around him, the more his grip tightened, his breath falling faster.

and then he started pushing.

harsh and mindless.

each time you tried to ease back, his hand would push forward again, holding you there longer, deeper, chasing the heat of you without any thought. his hips couldn't do what they used to—his knee locked him in place—but his hand compensated for everything his body couldn’t. and it kept pushing, guiding, pressing you down until you couldn’t take more without your throat burning and your breath catching.

you let out a muffled noise, hands bracing against his thighs, trying to signal to him to slow down—but he didn’t hear it. didn’t see. his head had dropped back, hair falling loose around his flushed face, lips parted in a moan that sounded more like a sob.

he wasn’t with you.

he was inside himself—somewhere dark, somewhere drowning—and using your mouth like it was the only way to claw back toward the surface.

you choked softly, eyes stinging, unable to pull back. your throat ached.

every push of his hand kept you down longer than the last—too deep, too fast. your jaw was sore, your eyes blurred, your lungs clawing for space that wouldn’t come. the weight of him, the pressure, the heat—it wasn’t pleasure anymore.

not for you.

it didn’t feel like him.

not the way he usually was. not your hyunjin, who used to check on you between every kiss, who held your face like it was something sacred, who used to stop even if you blinked too fast.

now it felt like he didn’t see you at all.

like you weren’t a person anymore—just something to forget the pain in his knee and the fear in his chest. he wasn’t here. not really. his head was thrown back, hair falling wild around his face, mouth parted like he was dreaming. his hips twitched and his grip only tightened.

and you couldn’t breathe.

you reached up blindly, panic crawling up your spine, and your fingers found his wrist. you squeezed—hard—nails digging in, not gentle. you tugged, sharp and clear, trying to break through the fog he’d sunk into.

he didn’t respond.

you let out a sound around him—muffled, choked—desperate, strained. the shape of your safe word barely formed against his skin, but you tried. a soft, garbled syllable that wasn’t a word but should’ve been enough.

he finally stilled.

right on the edge of another thrust, his body went stiff, lips parting like he was about to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but you beat him to it.

you yanked your head back with what little leverage you had left, slipping free from his grip, from his cock, from everything.

you coughed, choked, gasping as cool air hit your throat again, and then the tears came—hot, sudden, uncontainable.

“red,” you managed to say, voice cracked and hoarse. “red—red—”

the word hit like a gunshot.

hyunjin froze.

his whole face changed in an instant. every bit of color drained from his cheeks, and his hands, which had just been gripping the arms of the chair like a lifeline, fell limp.

“oh my gosh.”

you were already sliding backward, falling to the floor, knees knocking the desk leg as you curled in on yourself. your hands shook where they braced against the tile, and your chest heaved as you tried to pull in air that wouldn’t come smooth. you were crying now—no sound at first, just tears streaking hot down your cheeks, lips parted in a silent sob, your throat too raw to speak.

he scrambled, clumsy, heart in his throat. one hand yanked his sweatpants back up, barely getting them over his hips.

“hey, baby, i didn’t fuck, i didn’t know—i wasn’t thinking, i’m so—” his voice broke, and he reached for you with trembling hands. “i’m so fucking sorry—”

he touched your face, barely.

fingertips to your temple, your jaw, trying to check if you were okay, trying to wipe the tears that kept coming. his touch was gentle now. so different from how it had been minutes before, like the realization had shattered something inside him.

but you couldn’t look at him.

you were shaking too hard, too fast, every breath coming short, sharp, uneven. you curled further into yourself, arms hugging your sides, forehead pressed to your knees. you didn’t push him away—but you didn’t answer him either.

your skin recoiled under his fingertips.

even though his hands were soft now—so soft, barely brushing along your jaw like he was scared to break you—you still flinched. a subtle twitch at first, then a shiver so full-body it knocked your balance as you tried to push upright.

“don’t,” you rasped, voice raw and shaking. you didn’t mean to sound so small. so scared. but you were.

he froze.

you didn’t even look at him. you couldn’t.

your hands scraped the floor as you stood—clumsy, uneven, like your legs weren’t steady under you. you grabbed for your bag, for your phone, for something solid to hold onto. everything in your chest felt like it was spinning, tearing, trying to collapse into itself.

“i need to go,” you whispered, backing toward the door.

hyunjin’s mouth opened, but no words came. just a broken sound, breath catching, shoulders shaking like his whole body had stopped working.

“i didn’t know,” he finally said, voice cracking. “i didn’t mean to—i wasn’t—”

he was crying now. not quietly. not the kind of tears you hide.

they poured down his cheeks, one after the other, lips trembling, eyes wide and full of everything he couldn’t fix. “i’m so sorry,” he choked out, curling forward like the words hurt. “please, i didn’t mean to hurt you, baby—”

but you were already reaching for the door handle.

your hand shook as you unlocked it, chest tight, the cool metal grounding you even as the room blurred with tears. you still couldn’t look at him. not with how scared you still were.

the door clicked open beneath your trembling fingers, and cold air spilled in from the hallway—but it didn’t clear your head.

it didn’t make anything better.

you stood there for a second, caught in the threshold, chest still heaving, heart still slamming like it didn’t know how to stop. you didn’t look back. couldn’t. you could hear him behind you though, curled forward on the floor, gasping through sobs he couldn’t swallow down.

but that wasn’t him.

that wasn’t hyunjin.

not the one you knew. not the one who used to cradle your face between kisses, who used to hold your hand in the dark just because he liked the way your fingers fit his. not the one who used to whisper how much he loved your voice, even when you were only reading out loud from your textbook.

this wasn’t him.

and whatever this injury had done to him… it went deeper than you thought.

it had eaten something. hollowed him out.

left behind someone who could shut his eyes and chase comfort in your body without even hearing you cry.

you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but more tears came.

because you knew him. you knew his heart. you’d seen every soft piece of it. you’d held it. and even now, you wanted to believe that he didn’t mean it—that the real hyunjin was buried under all that pain and grief and fear of losing the one thing he’d built his life around.

but wanting to believe wasn’t enough. not tonight.

you stepped out into the hall. the door clicked shut behind you.

and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t feel safe with him.

it was still dark when you parked outside his dorm.

the campus was quiet—too quiet for 6:30 a.m., the sky barely touched with light, the windshield misting over with the last traces of night. you sat there in your friend’s borrowed car, engine idling low, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the front door.

a minute passed. then two.

and then—you saw him.

hyunjin came down the steps slowly, crutches under each arm, hood pulled up, sweatpants hanging loose over the bulky brace on his leg. his pace was careful, uneven, but steady. he moved like he didn’t want anyone to look at him too long.

you got out immediately, door creaking in the quiet. “do you need help?”

he looked up and gave you a small smile—gentle, so much softer than you expected. “no i’m okay,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “thank you.”

you stepped back as he opened the passenger door and climbed in, easing himself down. he slid the crutches into the backseat, shut the door, and settled in without a sound.

you walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and pulled your seatbelt over your shoulder.

as you started the drive, the streets still empty and blue-tinted with morning, he turned to you.

“you really didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something heavy.

and maybe he was right.

you shouldn’t be here. not after what happened. not after how he hurt you—physically, emotionally, in a way you still hadn’t figured out how to name. but you were here. because you loved him. because no matter how much pain there was, you couldn’t stand the thought of him going through this alone.

so you just said, “it’s okay. i didn’t want you to be alone after surgery.” you glanced at him, voice soft. “i know anesthesia can make you dizzy.”

he didn’t say anything for a moment. but when you stopped at the red light and looked over, you saw the way he was staring at you—like your care was something he couldn’t quite believe was still his to receive.

his eyes stayed on you, searching. you could feel the weight of it even in the stillness.

then, his voice broke through the quiet. fragile. raw.

“i’m sorry, baby.”

you didn’t respond right away. your fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, your throat catching.

“what i did… that day…” he shook his head, gaze dropping to his lap like he couldn’t even look at you. “it was unforgivable.”

you opened your mouth to say something, anything—but he kept going.

“are you okay?” his voice cracked. “did i hurt you?”

you didn’t answer immediately, and that silence alone made his breath hitch.

you wanted to say no. wanted to take his pain and carry it for him, like you always did. but you couldn’t lie—not about this.

so you whispered, barely audible, “a little.”

he flinched. your hands were still on the wheel, eyes locked on the road, but you could feel him unravel beside you.

you swallowed hard. “you didn’t mean to. i know that.”

“but i did,” he said, almost to himself. “i was so far gone i didn’t even see it.”

the pain in his voice made your chest ache.

and still, the car kept moving forward—two people in the same space, carrying wounds too fresh to fully name, but still choosing not to let go.

the clinic came into view faster than you expected—just a few more turns, a quiet lot, and a small sign out front that read orthopedics in clean, neutral lettering.

you pulled into a space near the entrance, engine humming to a stop. the sky was still a soft gray, the sun just beginning to push up over the horizon, casting a pale gold light across the windshield.

neither of you moved.

there was still time. maybe ten minutes before they’d call him in. enough to sit in the quiet. enough to say the things that hadn’t found a place yet.

hyunjin stared out the window for a moment, then turned toward you slowly. his face was pale in the early light, eyes heavy with everything he’d been holding back.

“i don’t even know how to start,” he said softly.

you glanced at him, your heart twisting. 

he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of the car like maybe it would offer answers. “i’ve never felt so… lost. i thought i could just push it all away. pretend like it didn’t matter if i played again. pretend like i didn’t care.”

“but you do,” you said.

he nodded slowly, eyes closing. “i do. i care so much it’s eating me alive. and i used you to make it stop for a second.”

you looked down at your hands, folded in your lap

“i don’t know what i’ve become,” he whispered, voice cracking like the words hurt more coming out than staying in. “i look at myself and i don’t… recognize it. the way i think. the way i treat you. the way i can’t stop being angry.”

he stopped, swallowing hard. 

“and even after everything,” he went on, quieter now, shaking his head in disbelief, “you still show up. at ass o’clock in the morning, no less.” he gave a broken laugh. “still with that look on your face like you don’t hate me.”

you looked up at him then, and he met your eyes, raw and stunned and aching.

“you’re still the sweetest damn thing,” he said. “and i feel terrible.”

he meant it. every word. you could hear it in the way his voice faltered, in the way he couldn’t even look at you too long without blinking hard, like he was afraid he’d cry all over again.

and in that moment, it wasn’t just guilt.

it was grief—for the person he used to be. for the person he thought he ruined. and for the fact that you stayed anyway. you reached over, gently placing your hand on his arm—warm, steady, grounding him in the silence between you.

“you’re going through so much right now,” you said softly. “more than i can imagine. and… i get it. i do.”

he didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the way his muscles tensed under your palm. like the weight of your understanding was heavier than blame.

“i’m not saying it’s okay,” you continued. “it’s not. what happened scared me. and i’ll admit that—because i can’t lie to you. it was scary.”

he flinched, but you squeezed his arm gently.

“but i still want to be here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “because i know your heart and what happened that day wasn’t you.”

he turned to you, eyes glassy. “i don’t deserve you.”

“that’s not for you to decide.”

he exhaled shakily, dropping his forehead for a moment like he needed to gather every ounce of control he had left. then, with his voice low and sure, he looked up and said:

“i promise… nothing like that will ever happen again.”

you watched him, holding your breath.

“i swear, y/n,” he said. “i’ll never put you in that place again. you’ve never had to say our safe word before that day, not once. and from now on… you won’t. you never will.”

you saw the guilt in his eyes. but more than that—you saw the intent. the need to mean it. to prove it.

you nodded slowly, your chest tight with everything you hadn’t said but still felt. and then, without overthinking it, without needing to say another word—you leaned in.

you kissed him.

his lips moved against yours with the same softness, like he understood exactly what you were offering. like he was afraid to take too much. one of his hands moved to your jaw, barely brushing your skin, his thumb trembling just slightly as it hovered near your cheek.

he kissed you like he wanted to be better. like he needed to show you that he could be.

you pulled back slowly, your forehead resting gently against his.

there was a beat of silence—just breath, just warmth.

then you whispered, “ready to get cut open?”

a huff of air left his nose, and he actually chuckled—a real one, small and hoarse, but real. “god, you really know how to set the mood.”

you smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting just enough to feel like hope.

without another word, you unbuckled your seatbelt and opened your door, the early morning air spilling in, cool and crisp.

hyunjin followed, slowly shifting forward and carefully maneuvering his crutches. you circled around the car as he swung the door closed behind him, crutches tucked under his arms, his weight shifting just slightly as he adjusted. you could tell it still hurt.

still, he looked at you—and you both started toward the entrance together.

click. you locked the car behind you, the sound echoing in the quiet lot.

the automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and the two of you stepped into the quiet sterility of the clinic lobby. the floors gleamed under fluorescent lights. 

hyunjin made his way to the front desk while you hovered just behind him. he gave his name, confirmed the time, signed a clipboard with a hand that trembled more than he probably meant it to.

the nurse behind the counter offered a polite smile. “we’ll call you when he’s in recovery.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

hyunjin turned to look at you then—nervous, but trying not to show it.

you reached out and gently brushed your fingers down his sleeve. “i’ll be right here when you wake up,” you said softly.

his eyes lingered on yours like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just nodded.

and that was enough.

the room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of a monitor and the pale light bleeding in from the hallway. hyunjin lay asleep in the recovery bed, his face slack with exhaustion, an oxygen clip on his finger and a thin hospital blanket draped up to his waist. one arm rested loosely at his side, the other still bandaged from the iv.

you sat quietly in the chair next to him, one leg pulled up to your chest, your phone dimmed low in your hand.

you hadn’t meant to look it up. you weren’t sure what made you do it—curiosity, maybe. restlessness. you didn’t want to call it masochism.

but there it was. the clip.

posted on some account. zoomed in.

you watched it with your stomach in knots, biting the inside of your cheek as the moment played out on repeat. the set. hyunjin’s approach. the jump. you already knew what was coming, but even bracing for it didn’t soften the blow.

then the landing.

your eyes flinched before your body could.

the twist of his knee was subtle—too fast, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. you hadn’t even noticed it that night in the stands. not like this. not with the slowed frame-by-frame and the awful, perfect clarity.

and then the collapse.

he went down like someone had pulled the ground out from under him. you winced, lowering the phone, suddenly too aware of the weight in your chest. 

you slammed your phone down onto your thigh, a little harder than you meant to. the sharp sound cracked through the stillness of the room like a drop of glass, and the screen went dark in an instant.

you exhaled shakily, your eyes finding him again—hyunjin, pale and quiet, the blanket pulled up to his waist, the brace peeking out from underneath. he looked fragile in a way that didn’t suit him. too still. too quiet.

and then—his fingers twitched.

you sat up straighter.

he stirred, eyelids fluttering once, twice. slowly, he blinked open one eye, unfocused and hazy.

“hi,” he murmured, voice low and rasped and soft as crushed velvet.

your chest squeezed.

“hi, hyunjin,” you whispered back, immediately leaning in.

you kissed his forehead gently, your hand brushing through the strands of hair damp against his temple. he smelled like antiseptic and warmth and something familiar underneath.

“how are you feeling?”

he blinked again, a tiny, tired breath escaping his lips. “fine.”

you smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek.

“i’ll get someone,” you said. “let them know you’re awake.” you said softly, and reached for the small remote clipped to the side of his bed. you pressed the call button, the little light blinking red.

you sat back a little, still holding his hand, your thumb moving in slow, absent circles against his skin. he was drifting in and out—still groggy, but awake enough to keep his eyes on you, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

there was something else you had to say. something you'd been told in the hallway an hour ago by a nurse with an apologetic smile and a quiet voice.

you waited, watching him breathe, steady and slow.

then finally—quietly—you said, “there’s something i should probably tell you.”

his eyelids lifted slightly, still heavy from the meds. “hm?”

you hesitated.

“i don’t think you’ll want to hear it,” you admitted, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “but… your coach is coming here.”

that got through.

his expression didn’t change much, but you felt the shift. a tension curled through his body—subtle, but there. like something bracing underneath the surface. his fingers tensed under yours.

“he called while you were in surgery,” you continued gently. “said he wanted to see you himself.”

hyunjin stared at the ceiling, his jaw tightening just a little.

you didn’t push him to respond.

you just kept holding his hand.

you were here. no matter who else came through that door.

hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment longer, eyes still on the ceiling like he was searching for something in the sterile white above him. then his grip on your hand loosened—not letting go, just… relaxing.

“it’s okay,” he murmured. “i need to talk to him at some point.”

you gave him a small smile, brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

a few moments passed in comfortable silence before the door creaked open and a nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand. she offered you both a warm smile as she crossed to hyunjin’s side.

“hey there,” she said gently. “how are we feeling?”

“numb,” hyunjin deadpanned before breaking into a smile.

the nurse chuckled. “fair enough. let’s run some vitals, make sure you’re tolerating everything okay.”

he nodded, letting her work. blood pressure. pulse. pain scale. you watched as he cooperated without complaint, quiet and steady, his expression unreadable but calm.

just as she finished scribbling the last of her notes, she looked up. “by the way,” she said lightly, “your visitor is here.”

hyunjin stiffened for a half second. then he adjusted his posture slightly, pulling the blanket up a little higher, straightening in the bed as best he could.

“he can come in,” he said quietly.

the nurse nodded and stepped out.

the door opened again, and this time a tall man stepped in—mid-forties maybe, graying at the temples, weathered face, windbreaker zipped up halfway with your school’s logo printed over the chest. he paused inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room until they landed on hyunjin.

you started to rise, hand slipping from hyunjin’s as you moved toward the door, ready to give them privacy—space for whatever this conversation was going to be. but before you could even take a full step, his fingers tightened around yours.

you stopped.

his grip wasn’t firm, but it was certain. quietly asking you to stay with him.

so you stayed.

you eased back into your seat beside the bed, glancing up as the coach stepped further into the room. he was tall, broad-shouldered in a way that made the space feel smaller, more serious. but his eyes weren’t cold—just tired. like someone who’d been doing a lot of thinking.

you cleared your throat gently. “hi, sir.”

he looked over at you and gave a small nod, his voice low but familiar. “y/n.”

then his eyes returned to hyunjin.

“hi, coach,” hyunjin said, his tone polite, quiet. measured.

the man stepped closer, stopping just at the foot of the bed. “how’re you holding up?” he asked.

and somehow, the question felt heavier than it sounded. not just about recovery. not just about the knee. it was everything.

hyunjin didn’t answer the question at first. he just sighed—long and slow—his eyes falling to the edge of the blanket draped over his brace. the weight of it all was written in the slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers idly traced the seam in the bedsheet like he needed something to do with his hands.

the coach watched him for a beat, then took a breath. “i’ve been thinking about that last rotation,” he said, voice even but laced with something deeper—guilt, maybe. “i pushed for the shift. pulled you from front to back too fast. you were approaching from the wrong angle and i knew it. that back-row pipe—” he stopped himself, rubbed his jaw, “—that’s a brutal landing when your momentum’s off. you were running too shallow and i let it happen.”

hyunjin’s eyes lifted slowly.

“you’ve done it in practice, yeah. but not like that. not with the pressure we had. i was thinking strategy, not bodies. and yours paid for it.”

“it’s not on you,” hyunjin said, almost too fast.

the coach didn’t argue. he just gave a quiet nod and said, “things like this happen.”

but there was no ease in the way he said it. no comfort.

hyunjin went quiet again, his gaze flickering back to the ceiling, and you stayed still in your chair beside him, fingers curled lightly in your lap, unsure if you should say something or just keep breathing.

then, the coach glanced at you—kindly, not harsh—and said, “y/n, could we have a minute? just the two of us?”

you turned immediately to hyunjin.

his eyes met yours, unreadable at first… then, after a moment’s hesitation, he gave the faintest nod.

you nodded back, slowly rising to your feet. “i’ll just be outside,” you said gently, the words meant more for him than anyone else.

you gave the coach a polite bow before slipping out of the room, leaving the door to click softly shut behind you.

the hallway was quiet, cold, the kind of sterile stillness that made every sound feel sharper. you lowered yourself into the nearest chair just outside his room.

their conversation carried on—quieter now, more personal. you couldn’t hear the words anymore. just tone.

and then—silence.

you sat back against the wall, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, eyes drifting closed for just a moment.

whatever was being said inside that room… you hoped it was enough.

it had been a few weeks since the surgery.

the brace was still on, the crutches were still with him, and the follow-up appointments had become part of your shared routine. you’d bring him snacks while he iced his leg. he’d quietly wait for you outside your lectures, scrolling through his phone without really reading anything.

but something had shifted.

not physically—he was healing fine. but emotionally? that was harder to track. harder to measure.

because he hadn’t told you what his coach said that day in the hospital room. not once. not even in passing. you didn’t push, not after everything.

you didn’t know if it was good or bad. whatever his coach told him in that hospital room—it lived in the space between you now. not sharp, not violent, just… there. quiet. heavy. untouched.

he never brought it up, not even once. you never asked. not because you didn’t want to know, but because part of you was afraid of what it would mean if he told you. what it might take from him. from you.

still, you noticed the change.

he’d started talking to his teammates again. slowly at first. then it was late-night facetimes, low conversations on speakerphone while you worked next to him, laughter that didn’t sound forced.

and with you? he was closer.

he reached for you more now—your hand, your waist, your sleeve as you walked beside him. he asked you to stay longer, hang out more, nap in his room, sit in silence and just be. you figured it was because he wasn’t practicing anymore—because the hours he used to fill with drills and reps now echoed open and unstructured.

but still… there was something.

something you couldn’t name. like he was hugging you a little tighter for reasons you didn’t understand. like he was grateful in a way that didn’t quite match the moment. like every time you kissed him, he wasn’t just kissing you back—he was holding onto something.

and whatever it was, it all started the day you left him alone in that room. the day his coach walked in and closed the door behind you.

right now, you were walking beside him through one of the quieter buildings on campus, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the tile. the hallway was nearly empty—just the occasional distant echo of footsteps and the buzz of old overhead lights.

hyunjin moved slowly, carefully, but smoother than he had in weeks. he only needed one crutch now, swinging it lightly with each step like he was getting used to the rhythm. his other hand was in yours, fingers laced together, warm and easy.

you were telling him something ridiculous—some story about your friend’s disastrous attempt at making microwavable dumplings and accidentally melting the lid of a tupperware container into something that looked like abstract art.

hyunjin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “how is she still alive?”

“honestly?” you said, grinning, “i ask myself that every day.”

he smirked, then glanced down the hallway, squinting at a door at the end of the corridor.

“oh, hey—look,” he said, nodding toward the wide windows. “that’s the gym.”

you followed his gaze, eyebrows lifting. “huh. i didn’t realize we were near here.”

he leaned a little toward the glass, cupping a hand around his eyes. “looks empty.”

you looked in too—big open court, polished floor, no lights on but the sun slanting in through the high windows gave everything a golden glow.

“let’s go in,” you said, nudging him playfully.

hyunjin moved to the edge of the court, leaning lightly against the wall, one crutch tucked under his arm.

you peeled off toward the storage room, curiosity tugging at you, and came back a moment later holding a volleyball. scuffed, slightly deflated, but good enough. you dropped it to the ground and gave it a bounce.

thud.

it echoed through the empty gym, and hyunjin’s head snapped toward you, eyes lighting up with something close to amusement—maybe even delight.

he laughed, short and warm. “do you even remember how to play?”

you raised a brow, spinning the ball in your hands. “um, of course.”

he gave you a look. “you wore your kneepads under your knees.”

you gasped dramatically. “because all the girls did that! all the time!”

“yeah, and none of you could walk straight after practice.”

you grinned, bouncing the ball again. “listen, it was about the aesthetic, not the function.”

he shook his head, biting back another smile, and for a moment—just a flicker—something in his posture loosened. like this place didn’t just hold what he lost… but also what he loved.

you caught the ball, turning it over once in your hands, then glanced up at him with a little smirk.

“ready?”

hyunjin raised an eyebrow, still leaning casually against the wall, his crutch beside him. “you’re seriously gonna toss it to me?”

you shrugged. “you’re the one judging my form.”

without waiting for a response, you tossed the ball gently in his direction—a soft arc, easy and slow, aimed straight for the area in front of him.

he didn’t even shift his weight.

just lifted his hands, angled his forearms, and bumped it back with a crisp pop, so clean and precise it floated right back into your arms without even spinning.

you caught it, eyes wide. “okay, show-off.” you bounced the ball again, the sound echoing lightly off the gym walls. “wanna pepper?”

hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “you sure?”

you grinned. “i’m not that out of practice.”

he chuckled, pushing off the wall a little. “alright, but if you hit it like, way over there—” he gestured loosely to the far side of the court—“i’m not hobbling after it. i’m on injury probation, remember?”

you nodded solemnly. “deal.”

and then you tossed the ball up and bumped it gently, the pass floating toward him with enough air for him to set it.

he caught it with his fingertips and flicked it up with practiced ease—smooth, clean, almost too perfect. it dropped right above you, and you popped it back over with the heel of your hand.

he bumped it again—still sharp despite barely shifting his feet—and this time, you set it back high and slow.

and then—he slammed it.

not full power, but with that controlled snap of the wrist that made it drop out of the air like it’d been yanked by gravity itself.

you squealed, lunging forward with both hands out, managing to dig it just before it hit the floor. the momentum tipped you over and you rolled, laughing as you landed flat on your back, arms outstretched.

at least the ball floated back toward him.

he tucked it casually into the crook of his arm and grinned down at you.

“you’re mean,” you said breathlessly, still grinning, hair a mess, pride only slightly bruised.

he laughed, eyes crinkling as he looked down at you sprawled across the court.

“you’re still very good,” he said, voice low but honest, the kind of praise that didn’t feel like flattery—just truth.

you chuckled, brushing hair out of your face as you pushed yourself up to stand, brushing your hands against your jeans. “you’re just saying that because i nearly sacrificed my knees for your hit.”

“hey,” he said, the ball still tucked in one arm. “don’t complain about your knees to me.”

you rolled your eyes, walking toward him with a dramatic limp. “oh, i’m sorry. want me to tear the other one so we match?”

his eyes widened in mock horror. “you wouldn’t.”

you smirked. “i might.”

he shook his head, biting back a grin. “you’re evil.”

you chuckled, that warm kind that came from somewhere deeper, and leaned in before he could say anything else—pressing a kiss to his mouth, soft and sure.

he kissed you back instantly, instinctively. like it was muscle memory. like you were the one thing he never had to think twice about.

his hand slid up your waist, slow and careful, fingers curling around your side as if he needed to hold on to something real. you melted into him—every part of you relaxing, sighing against his lips like this was home, like he was.

when you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice was quiet, steady.

“i love you, hyune.”

his eyes searched yours for a moment, wide and open and impossibly full.

“i love you too,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against your side.

you stayed close, your forehead resting gently against his, his breath still warm against your lips.

but then he shifted—just slightly. his hand lingered at your waist, but something in the way his fingers curled changed. slower. hesitant.

“y/n…” he said softly.

you pulled back just a little to look at him.

there was something in his voice—something heavy. the kind of weight that made your chest go still before your heart could catch up. your eyes searched his, waiting, sensing it.

he was about to tell you.

about that day.

you could feel it in the silence that stretched after your name.

but then he blinked, looked away for a second too long, and his hand dropped back to his side.

“never mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “it’s nothing.”

you turned your gaze forward, toward the far wall of the gym, swallowing the ache in your throat.

because it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t. but you also knew he wasn’t ready.

not yet.

the room was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the bedside lamp. the sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed like they’d been pushed down in your hurry to get close.

hyunjin lay propped against the headboard, pillows stacked behind his back, his bad leg stretched out carefully. his other knee was bent slightly, his chest bare, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you—like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch again.

you were straddling his hips, thighs braced on either side of his waist, your palms resting gently on his chest. the stretch of you around him made your breath catch, and his hands trembled slightly as they found your hips, grounding himself in the heat of your skin.

his hands, still trembling slightly, smoothed up your sides beneath the hem of your soft cami, the thin cotton clinging damply to your back with sweat. you rocked your hips down again with a muted gasp, the motion achingly slow, the stretch deep and languid.

“ah fuck,” hyunjin hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat. his fingers dug into your hips, but not hard enough to hurt. just enough to keep himself tethered to the moment. “you feel so fucking good like this.”

your breath caught on a tiny whimper as you lifted again, the slick sound of him leaving you wet and open echoing faintly in the quiet room. you were trying to be gentle, mindful of the way his injured leg stretched out beside you, but each time you rocked down again, that careful rhythm unraveled a little more.

“hyune,” you breathed, voice shaking as you bent forward and braced your hands on either side of his chest. the motion pressed your cami tighter across your breasts, the thin fabric straining where your nipples peaked, soaked slightly where sweat clung. he looked up at you like you were something divine, dazed and reverent, his lips parted in awe.

“you’re killin’ me, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding from your hip up to the curve of your waist, fingers splaying under the hem of your shirt. he dragged it a little higher but didn’t take it off. “you’re gonna make me come just like this, fuck—”

you clenched around him, involuntarily, your thighs trembling. his voice cracked when he spoke again, rough and ruined and soft all at once.

“when my leg is healed” he started, mouth moving against your skin, teeth grazing lightly, “i’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you. i swear to god. gonna make up for every time i made you do the work. every single one.”

you whimpered, your whole body twitching in response, overwhelmed by the promise laced in every word. “y-yeah?” you managed to breathe, rocking into him again, the angle shifting just enough to brush something electric deep inside you. your legs shook harder.

he nodded, his hands gripping your waist now, steadying you. his eyes burned up into yours, pupils blown wide. “yeah. gonna have you under me, bent over. won’t let you move without feelin’ me deep. gonna fuck you ‘til you cry.”

his eyes, dark and glistening under the low light, locked onto yours like you were the only real thing in the world. his breath stuttered as he watched the way your face contorted, trembling with need, sweat beading at your temple, your thighs trembling against his hips. you rocked into him again, slow and deep, and he felt it—felt that flutter around his cock, the tight drag of your walls clenching just a little harder as the friction built.

“i love you,” he said suddenly, voice raw, breaking like a wave against your skin. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your cheekbone. “fuck, i love you so much—”

your breath caught, your entire body jerking with the force of it, the sweetness cutting right through the heat and making your chest ache.

“i—i love you too,” you whispered, voice cracking, every word ragged with pleasure and emotion. “i love you, hyun—i’m so close, i can’t, i need—”

he didn’t wait. his right hand slid down from your waist, fingers skimming over the curve of your stomach before settling between your thighs. the pad of his middle finger found your clit, slick and swollen, and began to rub slow, tight circles with practiced pressure.

“right here?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice shaking with restraint as he moved in rhythm with your hips. “right here, baby? gonna come for me like this?”

you moaned helplessly, louder now, no longer trying to hold anything back. “oh gosh—hyun, please—right there, don’t stop—”

his hips jerked beneath you, his control unraveling. “fuck, i’m close too—so close,” he gasped, his cock throbbing inside the condom, still buried deep, pulsing with every clench of your cunt around him. the way your walls squeezed him each time he rubbed over that spot—it was too much, too perfect.

you clung to his shoulders, nails pressing half-moon imprints into his skin as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably. you rolled your hips forward, just a little, and his finger pressed harder to your clit as he gasped out your name.

that was it.

your orgasm hit like lightning, white-hot and overwhelming. you cried out, your voice a broken sob of his name, your body locking tight around him. he felt every twitch, every contraction as you fell apart in his arms.

his hips bucked once, twice, and he buried himself as deep as he could, cock swelling, spurting into the condom as he came with a low, guttural groan against your neck. 

his hands clutched your waist as you both trembled through the aftershocks, breath mingling in broken pants and gasps, bodies locked together in a perfect, trembling knot.

you were still pulsing around him, thighs twitching, mouth open and eyes glazed, his cock softening slowly inside you. his hand lingered between your legs, rubbing you gently through the afterglow until you whined and squirmed from the sensitivity.

“hey,” hyunjin whispered, brushing your hair back with a hand. his other arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you close, eyes soft. “you did so well, baby. so, so good for me.”

you shifted slightly, thighs sore, core still pulsing. with care, you lifted yourself off of him, wincing just a little at the sensitivity. hyunjin’s hands steadied you as you moved, his eyes never leaving your face.

“i got it,” he said, sitting up slightly despite the stiffness in his brace. he pulled the condom off, tying it quickly before tossing it into the small trash bin beside his bed. then he reached for the tissue box on the nightstand.

his touch was gentle as he wiped between your thighs—tender, almost reverent, like you were something sacred. “still okay?” he asked, voice low and sweet.

you nodded, cheeks flushed. “yeah. i promise.”

he nodded too, lips pressed together like he was holding back something bigger than a smile. he cleaned himself next, wincing slightly as he adjusted his leg again, then tossed the tissues away and reached out for you.

“c’mere.”

you didn’t hesitate. you crawled back into his arms, your body folding against his like you belonged there—because you did. he pulled the blanket up over you both, tucking it behind your shoulders, then tucked your head under his chin.

he exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that let everything finally settle. his hand found your back again, drawing lazy circles as your breathing began to match his.

you yawned softly, the kind that made your whole body rise and fall with it, head burrowing a little deeper into his chest. the sound made hyunjin smile—tired, full, quiet.

he kissed the top of your head gently.

“y/n,” he murmured, his voice barely above the hum of the bedside lamp.

“mhm?” you replied, eyes still closed, voice muffled into his skin.

he paused. you could feel it in the way his chest stilled under your cheek—like something shifted. his fingers stilled too, resting softly against your spine.

“what would you say,” he said slowly, “if i told you volleyball isn’t my life anymore?”

your eyes opened at that, the sentence settling slowly into your sleep-fogged mind. you tilted your head slightly, just enough to see him. “what?”

hyunjin didn’t answer right away.

his eyes flicked toward the ceiling again, lips parted like the words were there, just stuck somewhere behind his teeth. you waited, watching the way his throat bobbed in a slow swallow, the way his arm tightened just slightly around your waist.

you blinked, still half-draped over him, heart starting to thud with a dull ache. “what do you mean?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “it’s always been your life.”

“i know,” he murmured. his voice was low—like he didn’t want to scare the words away.

his hand drifted slowly along your back, thumb brushing the curve of your spine. “it always was. volleyball… it used to be everything. but ever since this injury…” he paused, inhaling shakily. “i’ve come to learn things. about myself. about life.”

you looked up at him then, brows drawing together, curiosity flickering behind the sleep still clinging to your eyes. “like what?”

he didn’t answer right away. just stared up at the ceiling, as if the words were etched into the plaster and he was tracing them with his eyes.

“i’ve learned that it’s always been something else,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

you blinked. “something else?”

his eyes stayed on the ceiling, but you felt the way his fingers flexed gently against your waist, like he was anchoring himself in the feel of you.

“over the sport,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “even when i didn’t realize it. even when i said volleyball was my whole world.”

you shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow now, your gaze searching his face. “hyun… what could possibly mean more to you than volleyball?”

his eyes flicked down to meet yours.

he didn’t say anything.

not a word.

just looked at you—really looked—like you were the only thing that made sense in a world that had stopped making any. his lips parted like he might speak, but nothing came out. no dramatic confession. no flourish of words.

just silence.

and then, softly—so soft you barely heard yourself—you said, “oh.”

it hit you all at once.

you.

it was you.

you were the something else.

the thing bigger than the game. you were the only thing he was holding onto when everything else had slipped.

you laid your hand over his heart, feeling it thump unevenly beneath your palm.

you blinked hard, the weight of it pressing into your chest. “where is this coming from?” you asked quietly, eyes never leaving his.

hyunjin’s gaze dropped again, drifting toward the edge of the blanket between you. he swallowed.

“that day,” he said slowly, “when my coach came to see me after the surgery.”

you waited, heartbeat skipping.

“he told me something.”

you sat up a little straighter, heart inching into your throat. “what is it?”

he hesitated, like saying it out loud might split something wide open all over again. his fingers found the hem of your shirt and tugged at it absentmindedly, grounding himself in the soft cotton and your even softer skin beneath it.

“i was scouted,” he said finally. “before the injury.”

your breath caught.

his voice was steady, but quiet. “there was a team. a higher league. semi-pro. they were gonna offer me a spot.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“i didn’t know,” he added. “he was going to tell me after the game. but after i got hurt… they pulled the offer. said they couldn’t take the risk.”

you felt your heart twist, like something inside you folded over on itself.

“i would’ve said yes,” he admitted, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “if i hadn’t gotten injured, i would’ve gone. even if it was across the country”

the silence pressed in around you again—thick and heavy.

“but after everything that happened,” he continued, voice thinner now, like he was peeling something vulnerable straight off his ribs, “i don’t know if that choice would have been the same.”

you stared at him, your fingers tightening slightly where they rested on his chest. “what do you mean?”

hyunjin’s gaze stayed distant for a moment, somewhere just past your shoulder, like he was still watching a version of himself walk away without looking back.

“i mean…” he exhaled, slow and unsteady, “i used to think i’d drop everything if the opportunity came. no questions. i thought that was the only path that mattered. that if i didn’t take it, i’d be nothing.”

he looked at you again, and the rawness in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you.

“but then i got hurt. and everything stopped. and you were still there.”

you didn’t speak—just waited, the knot in your throat growing tighter by the second.

“and for the first time,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “i had to sit in the stillness. in the silence. and all i could think about was you. not the scouts. not the stats. not the path i’d worked my whole life for. just… you.”

his thumb brushed absentmindedly along your hip.

your chest ached.

not in the way it used to when he was on the court and you were in the stands, watching him soar.

this ache was deeper. heavier. like your heart finally understood the cost of everything he’d carried—and everything he was letting go of.

you leaned in slowly, your forehead pressing gently to his, your breaths mingling in the soft space between words.

“you’re everything to me as well,” you whispered, voice trembling slightly, “but… i prepared myself for anything, hyun. i always knew volleyball came first. i knew it was your number one. and i never wanted to be the thing that got in the way.”

his hands found your face, cupping your cheeks like he couldn’t believe you were even saying that.

“but it’s not,” he said, firm now. immediate. like the words had been waiting just beneath his ribs. “it’s not anymore.”

you blinked, lips parting, but he kept going—eyes locked on yours.

“it used to be. god, it used to be everything. but that version of me…” he exhaled, shaky but sure, “he didn’t know what it felt like to almost lose you. to really see what we have. what we built. that version of me didn’t know how much this—” his thumb brushed beneath your eye “—could wreck me in the best way.”

he leaned his forehead harder into yours now, eyes fluttering closed.

“you’re not in the way,” he murmured. “you’re the way forward.”

you let out a sound between a breath and a sob, something quiet and broken and whole at the same time. your hands slid up to hold his wrists, grounding him just as much as he was grounding you.

“i didn’t want you to have to choose,” you whispered. “but i’m so glad you did.”

“i didn’t choose because i had to,” he said. “i chose because i finally saw what mattered.”

and then you were kissing him—softly, slowly, like the words weren’t enough anymore.

because they weren’t.

not when your hearts already knew.

you breathe in.

let it out.

all you can focus on is the ball.

the sun’s high, white-hot above you, and the roar of the ocean fades into a blur behind the thud of your heart and the beat of your bare feet in the sand. everything else—voices, heat, even the sting of sunscreen in your eyes—melts away. you watch the opposing server toss the ball up. perfect arc. sharp spin.

and then—smack. it’s coming.

you move, knees bend, arms out. you bump it up to your teammate, the ball floating clean and high. she’s already there, ready. you sprint toward the net, muscles burning, the sand pulling at your ankles like it’s trying to slow you down but it won’t—not this time.

your friend sets. high. wide. just how you like it.

you jump.

arms raised, eyes locked on the ball as it hangs in that slow-motion drop of gravity.

and then—

hands.

fast ones.

hyunjin.

he’s already there. tall and smug and laughing as he blocks your spike like he was born to ruin your day. the ball ricochets off his hands with a satisfying smack, straight back into your side of the court.

point: him.

you groan, letting yourself fall dramatically into the sand.

“are you serious?” you yell, spitting a bit of hair from your mouth as you push yourself back up. “you couldn’t let me have one?”

he’s already on the other side of the net, grinning so hard his eyes crinkle.

you narrow your eyes. “oh, that’s it.”

he sees it—the shift in your posture, the way you start dusting sand off your knees with purpose—and his grin widens into something almost nervous.

“y/n,” he warns, backing up a step. “let’s not do this—”

you duck under the net without a word.

he yelps.

“you’re insane!” he shouts, already turning, already running—feet kicking up clouds of sand as you sprint after him.

“you’re dead!” you call back, laughter bubbling in your throat as your feet pound across the beach.

he’s fast, but you’re faster.

he bolts for the shoreline like it’s his last line of defense, chest heaving, arms flailing a little as he yells back, “you’re gonna ruin my hair!”

“i’m gonna ruin your whole life!”

by the time he reaches the water, it’s too late. you’re right behind him, and he dives into the shallows with a splash, trying to put distance between you like the ocean’s suddenly his new home turf.

you charge in after him without hesitation. the cold water smacks against your legs, but you don’t stop. 

you launch yourself forward, leaping onto his back with a triumphant shout. he staggers, arms pinwheeling as he lets out a loud, delighted, “agh!” before catching your legs instinctively.

“you menace!” he laughs, gripping your thighs to keep you from sliding off. “you were actually trying to take me down!”

“i succeeded,” you declare proudly, clinging to him like a backpack as he spins in a slow, splashing circle. “it’s justice for that block.”

“justice my ass,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning too wide to mean it.

you wriggle off his back and drop into the water beside him with a splash, waves slapping against your sides as you gather both hands full of seawater.

“don’t you dare—”

splash.

right in his face.

you’re already sticking your tongue out at him, playful and smug. “oops.”

he shakes his head, then tips it forward sharply, water flying off his hair like a wet golden retriever.

“ugh,” he says through the dripping mess, “i hate you.”

you raise a brow, wading back a step, hands spread in mock offense. “you do not.”

he glares at you—then ruins it with a grin.

“no,” he says, stepping closer, sloshing through the surf until he’s right in front of you. “i really, really don’t.”

you barely have time to breathe before he leans in and kisses you—warm and smiling against your mouth like he can’t help himself. you break the kiss with a grin, breathless and glowing, then splash one last bit of water onto his chest before turning to wade out of the surf.

“c’mon,” you call over your shoulder. “i need a towel before i start growing gills.”

hyunjin jogs after you, still dripping, grabbing your hand just as you hit the edge of the beach. the sun’s warm against your skin now, sticky with salt and laughter, and your friends are scattered across the sand—some sprawled out tanning, others still bickering over who’s winning the volleyball rematch.

you find your towel half-buried under a tote bag and collapse onto it with a happy sigh. hyunjin flops beside you with the grace of a man who has zero shame about tracking wet sand onto everything.

he starts towel-drying his hair while you lean back on your elbows. that’s when you notice the sketchbook tucked beside his bag, its pages curling a little in the heat.

“oooh,” you hum, reaching for it. “whatcha working on?”

he lifts his head, a little surprised, then wipes his hands on the towel and scoots closer. “you can look,” he says, reaching out to open it to the latest page.

you blink.

it’s the beach. this exact beach—down to the curve of the shoreline and the way the volleyball net leans slightly in the wind. but what gets you is the color. the emotion in it. the tiny splash of a figure in the water, mid-jump, arms outstretched like she’s flying.

“hyun…” you say, voice soft, awed. “this is beautiful.”

he shrugs, ducking his head a little. “just messing around.”

you look at him, fully. “don’t do that. don’t downplay it. this is crazy good.”

his cheeks flush, but he smiles as he flips to the next page—another sketch, this one of his teammates gathered around a bench.

“y/n,” he says, leaning back on one arm, gaze drifting out toward the water, “i’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

you glance at him, curious. “what is it?”

he bites his bottom lip, then says, “the university’s letting me switch my major. i’m going into kinesiology.”

your mouth drops open. “what?”

he grins. “yeah. like, officially. rehab sciences. sports performance. biomechanics. they even said i could tailor a track toward athletic recovery and art-based therapy if i submit a proposal.”

you blink rapidly, heart swelling so fast it nearly bursts. “hyunjin, that’s… that’s amazing. that’s so you.”

his gaze flicks to yours. “you think?”

“i know.” you reach out and squeeze his hand. “i’m so proud of you.”

his fingers curl around yours, warm and a little sandy.

“thanks,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “i didn’t think i’d ever get excited about a future that didn’t have a court in it.”

“you don’t need a court to make an impact,” you say, nudging him gently. “you just need a place to land.”

he smiles at that.

then he kisses the back of your hand, quick and bashful, like he’s still getting used to this version of life—one where he’s building something new, with you beside him.

you let the moment sit there, warm and full, before you smirk.

“a place to land,” you repeat. “y’know… preferably without tearing anything this time.”

before you can blink, his fingers are at your sides.

“hyun—” you shriek, twisting away as he pounces. “don’t you—ah!”

he tickles you mercilessly, fingers digging into all your worst spots as you writhe and kick, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

“say sorry!” he demands, grinning like a madman.

“never!”

he wiggles his fingers harder. “say it!”

“fine—fine!” you gasp, tears streaming down your cheeks from laughter. “i’m sorry! you’re a graceful athlete with good landing skills!”

he finally stops, letting you collapse against the towel in a breathless heap. you’re flushed, still giggling, your hand swatting weakly at his arm.

“you’re evil,” you mumble.

he stretches out beside you, completely at peace. “you started it.”

you glance over at him, watching the way the sunlight catches the curve of his smile, the softness in his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to see today—or maybe ever.

and somehow, with your hair a mess and your clothes damp and your skin covered in sand, it hits you all at once.

you’ve got it all figured out.

this boy. this life. this love.

you didn’t know if the pieces would fit—through injuries and arguments and fear—but they did.

they do.

hyunjin nudges you gently with his foot, still smiling. “what are you staring at?”

you hum, scooting a little closer. “just the rest of my life.”

he blinks.

then grins.

and says, “looks good from here.”

[thedensworld]

Lost Star | l.jh

Pairing: Producer Woozi x ex-trainee reader

Genre: First Love, Reunion, Second Change

Type: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 14k

Summary: Jihoon had lost the star of his heart a long time ago. However, 11 years later, his lost star appears, and his heart never feels more conflicted.

Jihoon counted his steps from his new apartment unit to the convenience store with a slow, measured pace. The clock pointed to four in the afternoon, and all he needed was a single pack of ramen—something simple to soothe his mind. Soonyoung had visited the day before and deliberately left it off Jihoon's grocery list, citing health reasons with a smug grin.

"We're in our thirties now. Let’s eat healthier, Jihoon."

Did Jihoon care? Not really. He’d been going to the gym religiously for years. Ate vegetables and fruits after every meal like some disciplined monk. But sometimes—like today, when his brain felt sluggish and creativity hit a wall—he just wanted to boil a portion of ramen. Let the MSG fill his kitchen, fog up his windows, and trick his dopamine into working again. Sometimes, that salty warmth was all it took to unlock a melody worth recording on his phone.

So now he had to get it himself. Again.

Exposing himself to the daylight wasn’t the worst thing, he figured. One of the reasons he moved to this new neighborhood was because it was closer to the company building. Seungcheol had said the area was peaceful, and Jihoon agreed—at first.

That was before he saw you again.

Before the surreal gut punch of recognizing you behind the counter at the convenience store.

Before the awkward silence that stretched too long between two people who used to dream under the same roof.

He could walk to that store. The one where you worked. Pretend to be just another customer craving the nation’s favorite instant noodles. But his heart wouldn’t let him. Not after that accidental reunion. Not after your eyes widened just a little, then dropped just as quickly. Not after both of you pretended it didn’t happen.

For the past two days, Jihoon had been walking around with this subtle ache in his chest—a kind of guilt he couldn’t explain. Maybe it wasn’t his fault you disappeared, but somehow, the silence that followed still made him feel like an asshole.

Meeting you again was never on his to-do list for the year.

Not after eleven years.

Not after your sudden disappearance during the trainee days—when everything had felt like it was about to begin, and then you were just… gone.

But who would’ve expected you to work there too?

The further convenience store. The one Jihoon deliberately chose to walk to—solely to avoid seeing you again.

“Is it possible to work in two different convenience stores?"

He found himself asking that question to his manager, offhandedly, while they were on the way to a schedule a day after he saw you for the second time that week.

It haunted him.

Not in a horror-movie way, but in that quiet, persistent kind of way that made his chest heavy and his mind foggy. So much so, he’d forgotten how to make music.

He couldn’t even count the hours he’d spent staring blankly at his studio screen, letting beats loop endlessly without direction. Every time he sat down, memories of the trainee days swelled like echoes in the room. His keyboard—usually his safe place—suddenly looked like the old one from the practice room.

And just like that, he’d be back in time. Sitting beside you, both of your fingers grazing the keys, your heads low in shared concentration while chaos unfolded around you—Soonyoung falling over, Seungcheol screaming his puberty out, the usual mess.

“I think it’s possible,” his manager said. “With different shifts, I mean.”

“Why? You thinking of working at a convenience store now?” his manager joked, glancing over while keeping one hand on the wheel.

Jihoon let out a small chuckle.

He had too many zeros in his bank account for that kind of lifestyle—and far too little energy to immerse himself in a brand-new job culture. Honestly, just the idea of small talk with strangers all day made him tired.

“If you were talking to Dino, he might say yes to your suggestion, hyung,” Jihoon replied, resting his head back against the seat.

His manager laughed. “I know, right? But still, it’s the first time I’ve heard you bring up something so... not you. Lee Jihoon, behind a convenience store counter?”

Jihoon grinned, a little more amused than he expected. “Hey, I might be great at it. I was a hard worker during trainee days, remember? You forgot already?”

His manager—one of the oldest on the team, someone who’d seen Jihoon through his fiery teenage years and his stubborn perfectionist era—just let out a warm, knowing laugh.

“Trainee days must’ve been tough, huh?” he said after a beat. “You did well, Jihoon. Seriously. Good job.”

And for a moment, Jihoon didn’t say anything. The corner of his lips twitching up. Compliments always made him awkward—but coming from someone who saw the whole messy journey? It settled differently. Deeper.

“Hyung… do you remember a female trainee named Ji Y/n?”

His manager glanced at him, then nodded. “Of course. She was an ace. Everyone thought she’d debut for sure. But she just... disappeared. I always wondered what happened. Did the company drop her? Did you ever hear anything?”

Jihoon slowly shook his head, eyes shifting toward the road outside. A convenience store passed by in a blur, and for a second, his heart clenched.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Everyone asked around back then. It was just the four of us at first—me, Soonyoung, Coups hyung, and her.”

His voice softened at the memory, almost reverent.

Jihoon hadn’t realized it until recently, but somewhere along the way—after he debuted, after the whirlwind of success—he had stopped questioning your disappearance. The noise of the industry had drowned out the ache. He buried it under practice schedules, tour dates, and deadlines.

But the truth was...

Somewhere deep inside his heart, there was still a space carved out for the quiet longing.

A small, unspoken ache that whispered, Where did she go? Is she okay?

And now, after seeing you again—after all these years—he wondered if that ache had never really left.

Maybe you were the ghost that had always haunted him.

*

Back then, small Jihoon didn’t know what to do with himself during his early trainee days. Everything felt overwhelming—the routines, the expectations, the constant pressure to improve. But he was quietly relieved to find comfort in two people: an older boy named Seungcheol, and a same-age friend, Soonyoung. The three of them stuck together, quietly enduring every class, never once daring to complain out loud.

Then one day, a new face entered the frame.

The vocal instructor introduced her as a transfer trainee—someone with experience from a major entertainment company. They were told to learn from her. Study her discipline, her skill, her presence.

And that’s when you, Ji Y/n, walked into the green practice room with an assertive smile painted confidently on your face. Like you had no doubts. Like you already knew your path. Like the stage was already yours.

You glowed.

It wasn’t just your visuals—though Jihoon would admit, even then, you were an eye candy in the middle of their hard, exhausting days. But it was more than that. You had aura. The kind that lit up the room. The kind that made people look up when you passed by.

You shared generously with them—tips, stories, encouragement. You could sing. You could dance. You even rapped with surprising ease. Every evaluation, you impressed the supervisors without fail. And of course, everyone expected no less from someone who had come from a bigger company.

Jihoon remembered watching you from the back of the room, sweaty from practice, trying to hide the envy in his eyes behind admiration.

You were everything he wasn’t yet.

And everything he quietly wished to become.

Jihoon clearly remembered the day you casually mentioned that you were learning how to produce music. You said you’d picked it up from an older trainee at your previous company, brushing it off with a humble smile. “I’m not that good,” you claimed.

But to young Jihoon, Seungcheol, and Soonyoung, you might as well have been a genius. The three of them watched you with stars in their eyes, completely captivated. It was their first time witnessing someone actually create a song—piecing together melodies, layering harmonies, experimenting with beats—and it lit a spark in them. In Jihoon especially, something shifted.

“Did you learn it from G-Dragon of Bigbang?” Soonyoung had asked with innocent curiosity, eyes wide.

Everyone laughed, but Jihoon didn’t forget that moment.

Looking back, he realized—

That was the exact point when he started seeing you as a star.

Jihoon leaned back in his studio chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as an old song played softly in the background. It was one he had produced years ago—rough around the edges, unfinished, but alive with memories.

He had sent nearly ten messages to Seungcheol earlier, pestering him about whether he still had the old folder filled with their trainee-day demos. And now, with the files finally playing through the speakers, Jihoon felt himself slipping into the past.

None of the tracks were perfect. Far from it. But each one carried a piece of who they were back then—ambitious, reckless, hopeful.

Seungcheol’s voice came in first, mid-puberty and full of effort. His rap stumbled a little, but the fire was there. Jihoon chuckled when he heard the word “Elevation” in one of the lines. How did teenage Seungcheol even know that word? Had he been reading dictionaries between dance classes?

Then came your voice.

Soft. Grounded. Not the kind of high-pitched perfection producers chased today, but something more—something real. There was honesty in your tone, a raw emotion that pulled him in even after all these years.

Jihoon closed his eyes.

Do you still sing like that?

*

Jihoon didn’t see you when he first stepped into the convenience store tonight. The last time he came, it was during the night shift—maybe this time, it wasn’t your turn. A small part of him felt relieved.

He walked through the automatic doors with the simple intention of grabbing another pack of ramen. A soft hum echoed faintly through the aisle, and as he turned the corner, he found the source.

There you were—crouched down, restocking shelves.

You flinched at the sudden awareness of his presence, nearly losing your balance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming,” you said quickly, bowing your head politely before walking away with a full restock basket in hand.

Jihoon parted his lips, wanting to say something—to stop you—but the moment passed too quickly. You were already gone.

He turned his eyes toward the rows of ramen, but his mind had long wandered. The image of you behind the convenience store counter was a stark contrast to the version of you etched into his memories.

You—once the ace trainee, confident and radiant, someone the instructors praised, someone the rest of them watched in awe—now stood beneath flickering fluorescent lights, wearing a clerk’s uniform and scanning barcodes. It was jarring. And it hurt in ways Jihoon couldn’t name.

“What is this?” Soonyoung pointed at the suspiciously large stack of ramen stuffed into one of Jihoon’s kitchen cabinets while he rummaged around for coffee.

With arms crossed and a judgmental stare, he turned toward the living room where Jihoon was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to his phone as he mindlessly scrolled through the webcomic he’d been hooked on lately.

“What?” Jihoon lifted his head lazily, following Soonyoung’s gaze toward the open cabinet.

“There’s like… fifteen packs of ramen in here. Do you even eat these?” Soonyoung asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.

Jihoon nodded, eyes flicking back to his phone. “I do. Sometimes,” he replied nonchalantly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Soonyoung tilted his head with a mix of annoyance and concern. “Didn’t I tell you to stop eating junk? What happened to eating healthy?”

Jihoon let out a soft chuckle, amused. “You sound like a wife.”

Soonyoung scoffed dramatically as he finally located the coffee powder and slammed the cabinet shut. “I’d make a great wife, thank you very much.”

He shot Jihoon a look as if daring him to disagree, but Jihoon just smirked, raising an eyebrow like he agreed—at least a little.

Soonyoung didn’t say anything after that. The kitchen fell into a soft quiet, broken only by the clinking of a spoon stirring coffee. Jihoon stayed on the couch, but his thoughts wandered.

He thought about his new, strange habit—buying a pack of ramen almost every night. Always just one. Never to eat. He let them pile up in the cabinet like forgotten mementos. He never said why. Because he knew the reason. And saying it out loud would make it too real.

“By the way…” Soonyoung broke the silence as he walked over to the couch, settling beside Jihoon with a glass of iced coffee in hand.

“The convenience store a block from here—”

Jihoon’s body tensed. His eyes shot up, and he sat up straighter, alarmed. “Why?” he asked, a little too quickly.

Soonyoung blinked, startled by the sudden reaction. “What’s with you?” he asked, puzzled.

Jihoon quickly shook his head, brushing it off. “Nothing. Just—keep going. What about the store?”

“I was just gonna say…” Soonyoung sipped his coffee, still eyeing Jihoon. “They started selling Kkokkalcorn and Matdongsan again—the ones we used to destroy during trainee days.”

Jihoon let out a soft sigh. The tension left his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back against the couch cushions again, suddenly feeling silly. For a second, he thought Soonyoung had seen you.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Cool.”

But the tightness in his chest didn’t fully fade. Because while Soonyoung was thinking about snacks, Jihoon was still thinking about you.

*

Jihoon raised his brows in confusion, standing still in front of the cashier counter. You had just slid a small bottle of vitamin drink across to him after he’d paid for what must’ve been his twentieth pack of ramen this month.

“You should start taking care of your health,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

He blinked. Did you really think he was eating all those ramens? Of course you did. Anyone would.

He took a quiet breath, a little too sharp, and grabbed the vitamin drink. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice slightly rough as if it had caught on something in his chest.

With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps felt heavier than they should, dragging under the fluorescent lights and quiet pop music in the background. The clock behind the register read 2:04 a.m.—his work could wait. That wasn’t why he came tonight anyway.

He stopped just before pushing the door open, something tugging at him.

“You still sing?” he asked, without turning around at first.

When he finally looked back, his eyes met yours.

The question lingered in the air between you—simple, but heavy. Like it had taken him years to ask, and now that he had, everything might shift.

You looked taken aback by his question. “Me?”

Jihoon nodded slowly. “Yeah… do you still sing, Ji Y/n?”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward—just heavy, like the universe paused for a moment to let Jihoon hear himself say it. After nearly a month of seeing you again—glimpses, passing words, late-night convenience store visits—he had finally asked the question that had haunted him more times than he could count.

But you tilted your head slightly, your voice light, accompanied by a soft, teasing smile. “No ‘how are you?’ first?”

Jihoon huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, shaking off the embarrassment. Of course, that’s what you’d say. You were always that girl—calm, confident, casually radiant in your own way. You knew how to disarm people without even trying.

Taking a few steps closer, he gave in. “Okay, fine. How are you?”

This time, your smile softened into something real. “I’m great… How about you, Woozi?”

Jihoon’s heart clenched at the nickname. Not in a way that hurt—but in a way that burst something open inside him. Warm. Familiar. Breath-stealing.

Woozi. You were the one who gave him that name.

There was a phase when you grew close to some of the senior artists in the company. They adored Jihoon, calling him in a playful, affectionate tone that never failed to make you laugh during practice.

“Our Jihoon… Our Jihoon…”

“Our Jihoon got the step wrong?”

You’d mimic them with a teasing grin, and the other trainees would burst into laughter. Jihoon, on the other hand, could only lower his head, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. No one needed to know just how much that nickname affected him.

“Uji?” Soonyoung, who had just proudly settled on his stage name ‘Hoshi,’ chirped excitedly, offering the shortened form of Uri Jihoon—Our Jihoon.

Jihoon groaned in frustration, clearly unimpressed. “Please, no.”

The room echoed with laughter, everyone amused by the suggestion—everyone except Jihoon.

But then your voice cut through the noise, calm and certain. “Woozi… sounds more sophisticated, right?”

Jihoon turned his head, catching the gleam in your eyes. You were seated cross-legged on the studio floor, marker cap between your fingers, looking at him like he was something more than just another trainee. Like you saw something already formed within him.

Without waiting for approval, you stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and uncapped the marker. With neat, confident strokes, you wrote the name.

Woozi.

Jihoon took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the slippers on his feet before slowly lifting back to where you stood behind the counter.

"I'm..." he started, arms falling open at his sides as if gesturing to his entire self—his tired eyes, messy hair, and the bag of ramen crinkling in his hand.

You let out a soft laugh at his little gesture.

"I'm still the same," he said with a shrug and a small, helpless smile.

He saw you glance down, a chuckle slipping from your lips as you bit back a smile, covering it with your hand. "That’s great," you said, voice warm, eyes flickering up to meet his.

Then you tilted your head, teasing lightly, "So... does ramen help with your music now or something?"

Jihoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "It’s not the ramen," he murmured, and something in his tone hinted that there was more to the story.

A gentle silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough for both your hearts to beat twice. Then Jihoon spoke again, voice quieter this time.

"I'm glad you're okay."

You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Me too."

The soft chime of the door interrupted the moment as a new customer entered. You turned immediately to greet them, your professional smile slipping into place as you lifted your restocking basket again and headed toward the drink section.

Jihoon lingered for a second longer, watching your back before finally stepping out into the night—with a heart that, for the first time in a long while, felt a little lighter.

*

How could someone be this chronically offline?

Okay, Jihoon was, too—kind of. But not like this. He had social media, even if he barely posted, and his company profile existed with at least a few photos and a bio. But you? You were a complete digital ghost.

No record. No trace. No tagged photos, no mutuals, nothing.

Were you using a different name now? A secret username?

He rubbed his temples in frustration, eyes scanning the last of the open tabs before giving up.

Jihoon sighed heavily and dropped his head beside the keyboard, forehead grazing the cool surface of his desk.

He'd started to question if you were even real—or some elaborate figment from his overworked, nostalgic brain.

"Is she a ghost?" he muttered, his voice half annoyed, half amused, as he sat back up and began closing one social media tab after another.

Click. Click. Click.

With five tabs gone and zero results to show for it, Jihoon finally leaned back in his chair and returned to his work—though your absence lingered louder than any background noise.

The next day, Jihoon invited Hansol to his studio, letting him be the first to hear the song he had worked on the night before.

“It’s not perfect—it’s still raw,” Jihoon said, his voice quiet but edged with anticipation as he clicked the play button.

The room filled with the soft rise of synths, layered with ambient textures that pulsed gently through the speakers. Hansol raised his brows in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching into an impressed smile. He began nodding along, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of the chair.

“This is... very different from your usual stuff,” Hansol said, glancing over with interest.

Jihoon nodded slowly, already aware. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused on the screen even though he wasn’t really looking at anything.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

Hansol chuckled once the song faded out. “Last month you said you lost your sense. What’s this then?” he asked, amusement flickering in his tone.

Jihoon let out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe moving out sparked something. Change of scenery might’ve rebooted my creativity.”

Hansol pointed a finger at him knowingly. “Exactly! So, how’s the new house?”

“It’s great. Bigger space, definitely more comfortable for me. The cats are still going crazy trying to adapt, though.” Jihoon smiled faintly, eyes softening at the thought. “But I feel at ease. Finally.”

Hansol nodded, genuinely listening. “I figured as much. I was worried about you, hyung. Even Coups-hyung mentioned you asked the staff for old pre-debut folders. I thought, ‘Oh no, Jihoon’s really at his breaking point.’”

Jihoon chuckled, clearly entertained by Hansol’s concern. “Nah, not yet. I’m grateful it hasn’t hit the limit.”

“Good,” Hansol said, leaning back in relief. “Because if you go down, we all go down.”

Jihoon smirked. “Then I better stay afloat, huh?”

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching long enough to feel intentional. Jihoon tapped his fingers lightly against his knee before finally speaking, his voice low.

“Do you remember that one female trainee who just disappeared one day?”

Hansol’s expression shifted instantly. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “She was in the debut line. Y/n, right?”

Jihoon nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the studio wall. “Yeah… I ran into her recently.”

Hansol straightened a little. “Seriously? Where?”

“At a convenience store,” Jihoon replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She works there now.”

Hansol looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifted. “Wow. That’s... unexpected.”

Jihoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressed together. “She looks the same,” he said softly. “But there’s something different too. I don’t know... It messed with my head a bit.”

Hansol tilted his head. “You talked to her?”

“A little. Nothing deep.” Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. “But just seeing her again... it brought back more than I thought it would.”

Hansol leaned back in the chair, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “She was pretty much a celebrity back then.”

Jihoon gave a small scoff, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah… everyone knew her name. Even the vocal trainers talked about how fast she picked things up.”

“She had that vibe, you know? Confident. Chill. Like she didn’t need to try too hard,” Hansol added, his voice tinged with fondness.

Jihoon hummed in agreement, eyes lost in some far-off thought. “Yeah... she always felt like she was meant for something big.”

Hansol glanced at him. “So what happened? Did she say why she left?”

Jihoon hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask.” A beat passed. “And I don’t think she’d tell me, even if I did.”

Hansol didn’t push further. Jihoon’s voice had softened into something almost unreadable.

There were things Jihoon wasn’t saying. And maybe he wasn’t ready to.

Not yet.

*

Jihoon sat at the small table in front of the convenience store, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as he waited for your shift to end. Earlier, he had walked into the store with all the courage he'd gathered since stepping out of his apartment. He needed you to hear the song. The thought had been haunting him for days, and tonight, he was being braver than he’d ever been.

“When does your shift end?” Jihoon asked, setting a bottle of Zero Coke on the counter.

“In twenty,” you replied, a little caught off guard by his sudden visit.

Jihoon simply nodded, paid with his phone, and grabbed the drink. “Okay. I’ll wait for you,” he said casually before turning on his heel and walking out, not giving you time to respond. He didn’t dare look back. He was too nervous to care how confused you looked.

Now, he watched from the table as you reappeared, changed out of your uniform and ready to go. You walked over holding another vitamin drink, setting it in front of him as you sat across the table.

Jihoon chuckled at the sight. “I don’t have those unhealthy habits anymore, Y/n.”

“So you eat your vegetables now?” you teased.

Jihoon laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m not that hopeless.”

You leaned back slightly, eyeing him curiously. “So what is this, Jihoon? What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out his earphones and plugged them into his phone. “You know I don’t do small talk,” he muttered, handing you one of the earbuds. “I want you to hear something. It’s rough, the lyrics are still nonsense, but… I want your opinion.”

You raised an eyebrow. “My opinion? You’re the one making a living writing songs, Jihoon.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Just listen first.”

“This isn’t your style,” you said once the song ended. Your voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a trace of something else—familiarity. Like you knew his sound, like you’d been paying attention all along. And something inside Jihoon stirred with quiet hope.

He nodded slowly. “It’s not. It’s yours.”

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t have a style, Jihoon.”

Without saying anything, Jihoon opened his phone and pulled up a SoundCloud profile. He turned the screen toward you. “This is you, right?”

There it was—your old stage name as the username, your song watermark sitting in the bio like a timestamp from a past life.

Your eyes widened. “You looked for that?” you asked, half laughing in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

Jihoon shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe. But it was the only place I could still hear your voice.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer before looking up at him. “So… what’s your intention with all this, Jihoon?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bottle of zero coke in his hand, thumb running absentmindedly along the rim. Then he looked at you, fully, like he was trying to read something in your face before saying it.

“I want you to sing it,” he said quietly. “For the demo.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jihoon took a deep breath. “I wrote it with your voice in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept hearing you. Not just any vocal—it had to be you.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “Jihoon… it’s been years.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t even sung properly in—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I just… I couldn’t let this one go. I need your voice to bring it to life. Even if it's just a demo.”

His voice was calm, but you could tell it was costing him everything to stay that way.

You looked at him again, brows slightly furrowed. “And after that?”

Jihoon hesitated. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, more out of nerves than amusement. “That’s very unlike you.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “But this… this just felt right.”

You looked at him for a long moment, the weight of shared history hanging between you.

Then your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers brushing against the condensation on your drink bottle. “I don’t know if I can, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, watching you quietly. “Why not?”

You took a breath, but the words felt heavier than you expected. “Because music… it used to mean something different to me. It was everything, and then it wasn’t. And now, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am with it.”

Jihoon didn’t interrupt. He waited, the silence around you stretching like a safety net rather than pressure.

You forced a laugh, more bitter than you intended. “You said you heard my voice, but I haven’t even let myself sing in years. I don’t know if I even like how I sound anymore. What if I’ve forgotten how to feel it?”

Jihoon leaned back, resting his arms on the table. “Then let’s just try. Not as a job. Not for the industry. Just you and me, like we used to.” His eyes softened. “You don’t have to be who you were. You just have to be honest.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers now picking at the edge of the label on your drink. “It’s complicated. You don’t understand, Jihoon.”

*

You stared at the old blue mp3 player Jihoon had left for you. Not a file sent through a messaging app, not an email attachment—just this little, scratched device loaded with his new demo. A relic of the past, almost stubborn in its simplicity. Holding it felt like touching a memory, one that pulled you back to a time when everything was filled with laughter and reckless dreams. No tears of regret, just passion.

With a quiet sigh, you set the mp3 player on the chipped table in your cramped studio apartment and shuffled toward the tiny kitchenette. The kettle’s hum filled the silence as you reached for another cup of instant noodles. You had lost count of how many you’d eaten this week. But counting anything had become pointless long ago—especially the years since your parents died.

You were eighteen. It was just another exhausting training day when the manager called you out of the practice room, his expression uncharacteristically somber. He told you, in a voice that tried to sound steady, that your parents had been in a car accident. Out of town. Fatal.

Shock was too small a word. You didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know how to react. You hadn’t been close with them—not in the way families in dramas were. No warm hugs, no heartfelt talks. Just the distant, dutiful exchanges of a family that functioned but never flourished.

Your uncle and aunt arrived in Seoul a day later, somber and silent. They promised to take you home to South Jeolla—promised you would return soon, that you could continue chasing your dream. But those promises were lies, whispered only to keep you from protesting.

Seoul faded into the rearview mirror, and so did your dream. What was once a life bursting with dance practices, vocal lessons, and late-night laughter with your trainee friends turned into the quiet humdrum of rural life. The city lights you once knew blurred into distant memories, and the path you’d so fiercely pursued buried itself with your parents.

You sought help from the company, but by then, everyone already knew. Knew your parents were gone, knew your uncle had taken over their business, and knew he’d cut off the funds your father used to send every month. Sympathy turned into avoidance. Promises of support dissolved into awkward silences. No one listened. No one reached out.

And so you were alone—alone with a dream that withered before it could bloom.

You didn’t finish school. Never went to college. No work experience worth mentioning. Your uncle’s family kept the business for themselves, never offering you a share, never once asking what you planned to do with your life.

"Life is so full," you muttered as you settled back at the table, snapping your chopsticks apart before stirring the steaming noodles. The warmth touched your lips, a poor but familiar comfort—the only warmth you’d felt in a long time.

"Full of shit." Your gaze drifted back to the mp3 player.

There was no way Jihoon was serious about wanting to hear you sing again. Not after everything. Not when you’d buried that part of yourself so deeply, you almost forgot it was ever real.

*

You went to Seoul without anyone knowing a year after Seventeen debuted. Covered from head to toe, you slipped into a crowded broadcasting show, watching them perform with the same intensity as always—driven, passionate, like nothing had changed. But for you, everything had.

As if fate couldn’t resist irony, you bumped into an old manager. His eyes widened, recognition breaking through his initial shock.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice tight, as though saying your name might summon a ghost.

You stood still, hands shoved deep in your pockets, your expression unreadable. "I heard the girls are debuting," you said simply, ignoring his question.

He glanced around nervously before grabbing your arm, pulling you aside. "You shouldn’t be here. The vice president is here."

"Can I talk to him?"

"What are you thinking? You can’t just disappear and then show up expecting to talk to him."

"Disappear? I didn’t disappear. Everyone knows what happened to me. They knew, and no one looked for me."

You found yourself humming to the demo Jihoon handed you. Your hand paused mid-motion, a soda can hovering just above the fridge shelf. You had listened to it, finally—maybe not much, or so you told yourself. But you listened until you fell asleep. And now, without even realizing it, you’d been humming it all day. The melody lingered, familiar and strange, wrapped in the warmth of guitar riffs and a band sound Jihoon rarely touched before.

Later, you caught yourself typing sentences into your phone’s notes. Drafting lyrics, deleting one word only to replace it with another, trying to fit them against a melody that seemed to cling to your thoughts. You were even considering a theme—the song didn’t even have one yet. What were you doing?

Jihoon stepped into the convenience store, the familiar chime signaling his entrance. He glanced toward the counter, but you weren’t there. Instead, faintly, from the back room, he heard it—a soft, almost tentative melody.

His brows knit together as he moved closer, ears straining to catch the sound. It was his song. And it wasn’t just playing—it was being sung.

He paused by the door to the storage room, not daring to move any closer. Your voice, clear and a little rough around the edges, wove through the notes with an effortless familiarity. You were humming the melody, occasionally mumbling words that you hadn’t quite settled on yet, but the sound was unmistakably yours.

Jihoon didn’t breathe for a moment, his chest tight. You didn’t even notice him, too caught up in the rhythm, stocking shelves while lost in the music.

A smile broke out on his face, small but undeniable. He hadn’t heard you sing in years, not since back when everything was simpler, when music didn’t feel like a burden.

Suddenly, you spun around, a soda can still in your hand, and froze. Your eyes widened, caught mid-hum, and Jihoon had to bite back a laugh at how startled you looked.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice betraying both surprise and a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Jihoon leaned against the doorframe, his smile soft but genuine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his tone low and careful. “You sounded... really good.”

You looked down, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s just—just stuck in my head,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant as you resumed stacking the cans.

Jihoon hesitated, unsure if he should push or let it go. But the chance felt too precious to pass up. “That’s a good sign, right?” he asked, stepping further into the room. “Means it’s catchy.”

You shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”

Jihoon shifted his weight, trying to keep his voice casual. “Were you… coming up with lyrics earlier?”

You froze for a fraction of a second, fingers hovering over the last soda can. “Maybe.”

“Do I get to hear them?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes a little too hopeful.

You straightened, closing the fridge door with a soft thud. “No.”

He blinked, surprised by your bluntness, but there was no sting—just a quiet laugh. “Why not?”

“Because they’re not ready. They’re just… thoughts,” you muttered, crossing your arms, feeling defensive even though he hadn’t done anything. “They might not even make sense.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, stepping back slightly to give you space. “Okay. No pressure.”

But that only made you feel worse. You leaned against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s just… I don’t even know what I’m doing, Jihoon.”

“Writing lyrics, apparently,” he teased, but his voice was gentle.

You glanced at him, and the earnest look on his face melted away some of your frustration. “The theme… it’s about being there for someone. Like… promising to be there, even when they think they’re alone.”

Jihoon’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. “That’s… powerful,” he murmured. “It’s honest.”

You bit your lip, hesitating again. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“I want to hear it,” he said, voice unwavering. “Even if it’s just a draft.”

You stared at him, searching for any sign of pity or insincerity. But Jihoon was just there, waiting—patient, unwavering.

Finally, with a sigh, you pulled out your phone, scrolling to the notes app. “Fine, but if you laugh—”

“I won’t,” he promised.

You stepped closer, handing him the phone. Jihoon’s eyes scanned the words, his expression shifting subtly as he read. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of your phone, his lips moving soundlessly along with the lyrics.

Seconds stretched into a minute. Then another.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were a little brighter, his voice softer. “Y/n… this is beautiful.”

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Jihoon whispered. “It’s… it’s everything I wanted the song to say but didn’t know how.”

You looked away, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Well… now you do.”

He chuckled, the sound light and almost relieved. “Now I do.”

And for a moment, standing there in the quiet hum of the storage room, it felt like you were back in a place where music was more than just sound—where it was a language, something only you and Jihoon could speak.

*

You sat on the leather couch in a studio, fingers twisted together, watching Jihoon work in his element. He hadn’t said much since you both arrived—just a few clicks of his mouse, a quiet hum under his breath, and the soft glow of the monitor lighting his focused face.

Your gaze wandered, from the cables snaking across the floor to the soft, ambient lights lining the room. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but you could feel the nerves crawling up your spine, your thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of your phone.

Jihoon hadn’t turned around, but you knew he sensed it. Maybe it was the way you shifted on the couch, or how your voice had gone quieter since you both stepped inside.

He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want some water?” he asked, not even turning, voice calm but carrying a gentleness that tugged at you.

You almost laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “A little.”

Silence settled again, but it was softer this time. He adjusted the volume of a track, listened, then leaned back in his chair.

“Y/n,” he said suddenly, and you straightened slightly. “Just sit there. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“I know,” you whispered, but the words felt thin against the weight in your chest.

He leaned his head back, finally meeting your eyes. “I brought you here because I want you to feel it again. Not because I expect you to perform.”

You swallowed, nodding, but you didn’t trust your voice.

“Besides,” he added with a gentle laugh, “I need you here. You have better taste in lyrics than me, remember?”

The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little. “You used to hate it when I nitpicked your lines.”

“Maybe I did. Or maybe I just hated that you were right most of the time.”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch, your fingers finally relaxing.

Jihoon turned back to his screen, but not before you caught the faintest look of relief in his expression. He wasn’t just working—he was making space for you, creating an atmosphere that felt safe, unhurried.

“Wanna try it?” Jihoon asked, casually, but his gaze was attentive.

Your heart skipped. “Sing it?”

He nodded, not pushing but not letting you hide either. “Just try. No pressure.”

You leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Okay… just… play the track.”

Jihoon adjusted a few settings, and soon the familiar sound of the demo filled the room. The gentle guitar strums, the soft beat—familiar yet new, warm and inviting.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling around the edge of the couch. And then, with a voice that felt shaky at first but gradually steadied, you began.

“Come stop your crying, it will be alright…

Just take my hand, hold it tight…”

Your voice wavered, but you pushed on. Jihoon’s eyes remained on the screen, but you could see the subtle way his head nodded, following your rhythm.

“I will protect you from all around you…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

Jihoon made a few adjustments, lowering the instrumentals slightly, letting your voice shine just a bit more.

“For one so small, you seem so strong…

My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm…”

The nerves twisted inside you, but the words carried you. They weren’t just lyrics—they felt like a promise, a warmth you had missed, a memory that still lingered.

Jihoon’s hand reached out, his index finger tapping a small rhythm on the desk, a silent gesture of encouragement.

“This bond between us can’t be broken…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

As you reached the final line, your voice softened, but it didn’t shake. It flowed.

“You’ll be in my heart…

Yes, you’ll be in my heart…

From this day on, now and forevermore…”

Silence followed, the track fading into nothingness. You barely realized you were gripping the edge of the couch until you felt the tension in your fingers.

Jihoon turned, a soft, almost amazed smile spreading across his face. “You’re still incredible.”

You looked away, feeling your cheeks warm. “It’s… it’s just a draft.”

“A beautiful one,” he corrected. “And your voice… it’s still there, Y/n. Stronger than you think.”

You bit your lip, a small laugh escaping. “I was terrified.”

“And yet, you sang like that.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “You wanna try another take? Just to warm up more?”

You met his eyes, a quiet spark of excitement finally breaking through your nerves. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of the studio lights casting a warm hue over his face. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest, eyes still on you. You expected another round of feedback, another subtle correction. But instead, he smiled—a slow, thoughtful smile.

“I think we should release it.”

You blinked. “Release? Like… as in, actually put it out there?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. “We could release it as an indie song. No heavy promotion, just… something real. Something raw.”

“Jihoon, I haven’t sung in years,” you whispered, your fingers instinctively curling into your sleeves. “I mean… this was just—”

“Beautiful,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “This was beautiful. Your voice, the lyrics… it’s all there.”

Your lips parted, a hundred protests dancing on the tip of your tongue. The fear, the anxiety, the echo of all those years wasted, the bitterness of dreams abandoned—they all screamed at you. But beneath them was something else, something softer and far more dangerous.

Hope.

“What if…” you hesitated, your gaze falling to the polished floor, “what if no one listens?”

“Then it’s just a song we made,” Jihoon said easily, his voice calming. “But if someone does… if it reaches even one person, then it’s worth it.”

Your gaze met his, and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No judgment, no pity—just that quiet, unwavering faith Jihoon always seemed to carry.

“But… it’s just a draft. It’s not perfect.”

“Then we’ll perfect it. We’ll record a proper take, polish the instrumentals, mix it right.” His voice grew animated, that spark of creative energy you knew so well lighting up his expression. “It can just be under a simple artist name—no big reveal, no pressure.”

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t even know what name I’d use.”

“Then we can come up with one.” Jihoon’s grin widened, his excitement infectious. “Or we can just go with something simple. Y/n. Nothing to hide.”

Something in your chest tightened at that—your name, out there again, but this time without the weight of forced expectations or shattered dreams. Just you.

“You’re serious,” you whispered, a hint of awe slipping into your tone.

“I am.” He leaned forward again, his voice softer now. “You deserve to be heard, Y/n. Even if it’s just this one song. Even if it’s just this one moment.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking quickly. You didn’t want to cry—not now, not in front of him. But you couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly across your face.

“Then… let’s do it,” you whispered, barely trusting your own voice.

Jihoon’s smile softened, relief and pride mingling in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a shaky laugh. “Let’s do it.”

*

The song was out—and it was a hit. More than just a quiet indie release, it spread like wildfire, carried by word of mouth and algorithmic whispers. People were captivated by the raw emotion in your voice, the honest lyrics, and the gentle but powerful production. It didn’t take long for listeners to notice the signature touch in the arrangement. Soon, word got out: Woozi of Seventeen had produced it.

Suddenly, you were no longer just a voice behind an anonymous track. Labels started reaching out, messages flooding your inbox with offers and promises. It was overwhelming, surreal.

Jihoon was there, calm and steady as always, sifting through the chaos with you. He recommended a label—one he trusted, one that would nurture your talent without forcing you into a mold. And you listened, handing in your resignation at the convenience store without a second thought.

Your world changed. You went from late-night shifts stocking soda cans to late-night sessions in recording studios. The label signed you, and they were careful, letting you be yourself, preserving the authenticity that made your first song a success.

And now, here you were, standing under the stage lights of a bustling university festival. A gentle breeze rustled your hair, the warm glow of the sunset casting an amber hue over the crowd. You sat with a guitar in your lap, the mic waiting. Nervous? Absolutely. But the moment your fingers found the strings, a familiar calm washed over you.

You played Jihoon’s song—no, your song. Your voice carried over the crowd, clear and heartfelt. People swayed, some holding up their phones, and you lost yourself in the music.

In the audience, Jihoon stood beside Hansol, his cap pulled low but not low enough to hide the proud smile tugging at his lips. His gaze never left you, watching every strum, every note you sang.

Hansol leaned over, his hands in his pockets, his voice a mix of honesty and admiration. “I thought you were going to give this song to Dokyeom hyung.”

“I was about to, for his solo.” Jihoon’s eyes softened, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in. “But this song found its owner first.”

Hansol chuckled, his gaze shifting back to you. “I guess it did.”

Jihoon didn’t reply, but his heart swelled with pride, watching you command the stage with a quiet, soulful power he always knew you had. And he couldn’t help but feel like this was just the beginning—your beginning.

*

“I don’t know if you’re the type who likes staring at the stars.” Your voice teased Jihoon, a soft laugh lacing your words as both of you lay side by side on the rooftop of his place, the summer night sky stretching endlessly above. A gentle breeze rustled, carrying the scent of warm grass and distant city lights.

Jihoon had picked you up from a performance at a local music festival, a quiet but thoughtful way of celebrating the first anniversary of your debut. The night air felt cooler up here, the world below seeming a distant hum.

“I always enjoy nature,” Jihoon muttered, a hint of mock annoyance in his voice. “Wonwoo’s not the only one who’s romantic in our group.” But his expression betrayed him, a playful grin spreading as he turned to see you laughing.

“You sure? Because he sets the bar pretty high.”

Jihoon’s grin softened, his gaze wandering back to the stars. For a moment, a comfortable silence wrapped around you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Surreal.” You breathed out, the word slipping past your lips like a confession. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the cool rooftop surface, searching for words that didn’t feel cliché. “I don’t know, honestly. Everything was hard—very hard. I was just... surviving. Then suddenly, I woke up one day, and I was on stage, singing. Living my dream.”

Jihoon listened, his gaze steady, his silence an invitation for you to continue.

“But sometimes, it still feels like a dream I might wake up from. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it’s over.”

“Then why did you stop?” Jihoon’s question was gentle, but it hit deeper than you expected.

You hesitated, watching a faint cloud drift across the stars. “Because it felt like the world I knew crumbled overnight. Everything I thought I’d always have just… disappeared. I thought my dream went with it.”

Silence settled between you two, the gentle rustle of the summer breeze the only sound. Jihoon’s gaze remained on the stars, but his focus was entirely on you.

“What happened back then?” he finally asked, his voice cautious, almost hesitant.

You didn’t answer immediately, your fingers nervously tracing the rough texture of the rooftop. “It was… well, you know, my parents died in an accident. The business went to my uncle, and they kept me there. I was… stuck. And the company didn’t reach out either.”

Jihoon turned his head slightly, concern darkening his eyes. “I… I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but a hint of bitterness slipped through. “I don’t know what the company told everyone, but once my uncle stopped funding them—the monthly support my father used to send—suddenly, I didn’t exist to them anymore. I wasn’t even a memory.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, his expression a mix of anger and sadness. “That’s… that’s awful.”

“It was.” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Being forgotten hurts more than losing everything else.”

You took a deep breath, letting the summer air fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “Thank you, Jihoon.”

His gaze shifted to you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “For what?”

“For everything.” Your voice was softer now, carrying a weight you hadn’t meant to show. “There was a time when it felt like everyone had forgotten me. My family, the company… even the dream I once had. But you… you didn’t.”

Jihoon’s lips parted, but no words came out immediately. His fingers fidgeted slightly, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.

“I didn’t do much,” he finally murmured. “I just… I just gave you a song.”

“That’s more than enough.” A gentle smile tugged at your lips. “It wasn’t just a song, Jihoon. It was a reminder that I could still be someone. That I could still do something I love. And you listened. When no one else did.”

He looked away, staring back at the stars as if they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Maybe.” You leaned a bit closer, your shoulder brushing against his. “But I’d rather give it to you than let myself think I did this all alone.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, a hint of warmth returning to his voice. “Well, I guess I can accept that. Just don’t forget that I’m still your producer. I’m allowed to be bossy.”

You laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that seemed to lift the weight from your chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between the scattered lyric sheets on the table and the two figures beside him. You were seated cross-legged on the couch, your phone in one hand as you scribbled words onto a notebook with the other. Seungcheol sat beside you, far too close for Jihoon’s liking, his shoulder pressing against yours as he leaned over, peering at your notes.

“Are you sure that line flows well?” Seungcheol asked, his voice a low murmur close to your ear, his hand resting casually on the back of the couch—dangerously close to your shoulder.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think it captures the feeling. But I’m open to suggestions.”

“Here,” Seungcheol’s fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for your pen. “What if you say—”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened, and he reached over, pulling his keyboard closer with a faint, intentional clatter. “Let’s focus on the melody first. No point in perfecting lyrics we can’t fit to the music.”

You glanced up at him, your expression caught between amusement and gratitude, while Seungcheol just laughed, leaning back but making no move to create more distance.

“Of course, Producer-nim,” Seungcheol teased, though his tone was light. “I’ll leave the melody to the master.”

Jihoon’s fingers danced over the keys, the soft piano notes filling the room. But even as he worked, his eyes would occasionally dart back to you and Seungcheol. He saw the way Seungcheol would lean in, his hand sometimes brushing against yours, his quiet chuckles always a little too close. And you… you seemed oblivious, focused on your lyrics, nodding at his ideas, but never quite leaning back into his touch.

Still, it was enough to gnaw at Jihoon.

“I think this transition needs more impact,” he finally said, a little louder than necessary, his gaze meeting yours. “Y/n, try humming it with me?”

You perked up, nodding. “Sure.”

You moved slightly forward, leaving Seungcheol’s side as you walked over to Jihoon’s setup. He adjusted the mic stand for you, his hands lingering for a second, his voice softer now. “Just follow my lead.”

The melody played, and you hummed along, your voice blending seamlessly with his instrumental. As you sang, Jihoon’s tense shoulders seemed to ease, and the faint hint of a smile played at his lips.

Seungcheol watched, a knowing smirk crossing his face as he leaned back against the couch. “Wow, Producer-nim really knows how to bring out the best in his artists.”

Jihoon’s fingers paused on the keys, his gaze flicking to Seungcheol. “That’s the job.”

But beneath the calm expression, his focus never strayed from you.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving a quiet stillness in the studio. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, exhaling as his fingers tapped rhythmically against his armrest. He began to tidy up the lyric sheets scattered around, but his calm didn’t last long.

“You know, I should start charging for my acting,” Seungcheol's voice cut through the silence, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I mean, watching you go all stiff with jealousy was worth every second.”

Jihoon’s eyes shot up, narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Seungcheol laughed, casually leaning against the back of the couch. “The way you practically glared holes through me every time I leaned close to Y/n? The piano smashing was a nice touch too.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” Jihoon grumbled, shuffling the lyric sheets with unnecessary force. “I was focused on the work.”

“Sure. Because ‘Let’s focus on the melody’ wasn’t you screaming ‘Back off’ in music producer language.”

Jihoon’s cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink, and he spun his chair around, refusing to face Seungcheol. “You were the one being unnecessarily touchy. That’s a cheap move, hyung.”

“Cheap but effective,” Seungcheol sang, walking over to Jihoon’s desk. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go. Honestly, I thought you were going to throw that keyboard at me.”

“I considered it,” Jihoon muttered, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk. “Don’t push it.”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning closer. “You should just tell her, you know. You’ve already done the hard part—writing with her, watching her grow, supporting her in the background. The only thing left is saying it.”

Jihoon’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, his eyes softened. “She… has a lot going on. And I’m…”

“A coward?”

Seungcheol had known about Jihoon's little crush on you since predebut. It wasn't anything Jihoon ever said—it was everything he didn’t. The way his eyes would follow you just a moment longer than anyone else, how his usually stoic expression softened whenever you spoke, and how his rare laughter seemed to come easily whenever you made a joke. Jihoon never talked much, but when it was with you, his words seemed to flow a little easier.

But Seungcheol had kept quiet, just observing, thinking it was just a passing crush. After all, they were all young, chasing dreams, busy with practices, and dealing with the pressure of a debut that seemed just out of reach. Feelings were bound to get tangled.

It wasn’t until years later, when he heard Jihoon was producing a song for you—your first song, the one that became a hit—that Seungcheol realized it wasn’t just a crush. Jihoon didn’t just work on your song; he poured himself into it, perfecting every note, making sure the melody brought out the best in your voice. It wasn’t just a project to him.

So, one night, when the two of them were alone in the studio, Seungcheol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jihoon fine-tune your track for the hundredth time. The younger one didn't even notice him at first, too lost in his world.

“You like Y/n, don’t you?” Seungcheol finally asked, his voice calm but direct.

Jihoon’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, a faint hesitation hanging in the air. He didn’t turn around. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Seungcheol chuckled, pushing off the doorway and walking in. “Don’t pretend. I’ve seen how you look at her. I saw it back then, and I see it now.”

Silence. Jihoon’s shoulders seemed to tense slightly, and then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Seungcheol frowned, taking a seat on the couch. “You’re making her first song. You’re working harder on it than any other track you’ve touched lately. If that’s not a confession in itself, I don’t know what is.”

“She deserves something good. Something that works,” Jihoon mumbled, his fingers fidgeting with a pen.

“Yeah, because she’s talented. But for you? It’s more than that.”

Jihoon finally turned to Seungcheol, his expression unreadable. “What if it’s pointless? What if she doesn’t see me that way?”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You won’t know unless you try. And you know Y/n. She’s not the type to run away from something honest.”

Jihoon’s gaze dropped to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, maybe not by glaring at me every time I joke with her,” Seungcheol teased, lightening the mood.

Jihoon rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his expression now. “Maybe I’ll throw the guitar at you next time.”

“Sure, sure. But just so you know, if you keep pretending you don’t care, someone else might show up and make her fall for them.”

That thought alone seemed to light a fire in Jihoon’s chest, and Seungcheol caught it—the brief flash of determination in his eyes.

*

After that night, Jihoon began to change in ways that were almost too subtle to notice—unless you were paying attention. Jihoon was still Jihoon, calm and focused, but now there was a quiet sort of energy around him whenever you were near.

He started texting you more often—just small things, like asking if you got home safely after a late recording session or sending you a link to a song he thought you’d like. He listened intently when you spoke, his gaze never wavering, and his usual brief responses grew a little longer, more thoughtful.

In the studio, he would suggest a break whenever he noticed you seemed tired, even going as far as bringing you your favorite drink without asking. Once, he even swapped his hoodie with yours when you shivered slightly from the cold air conditioning.

You noticed it too. The way he would look up when you walked in, how his usually distant expression softened, or how he would stay in the studio a little longer when you were there, even if his part of the work was done.

One evening, as you tried to perfect the chorus of a song, your voice cracking slightly from overuse, Jihoon stood up and gently took your wrist. “Let’s take a break. Pushing won’t make it better.”

“I’m fine. I can—”

“You’re not a machine, Y/n,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on.”

He led you out of the studio, the warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. Outside, the cool breeze swept across your face, and you sighed, leaning against the wall.

“Thanks,” you murmured, looking at him.

Jihoon nodded, but his eyes lingered on you, as if there was something more he wanted to say. But instead, he just stayed there, standing beside you in the quiet hallway, his presence alone enough to calm your nerves.

Seungcheol noticed too—how Jihoon’s attention seemed to orbit around you. He watched with a grin whenever Jihoon would get subtly annoyed if someone else got too close, how his friend seemed to naturally gravitate toward you.

“Man, I never thought I’d see Woozi being soft like this,” Seungcheol teased one day when you left to get water.

“Shut up,” Jihoon muttered, pretending to focus on his laptop.

“You’re not even hiding it anymore.”

“I’m just making sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, and I’m the president,” Seungcheol laughed. “Just admit it, you care about her.”

Jihoon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering to where you stood by the water dispenser. “I do.”

“You should tell her.”

“Easier said than done,” Jihoon mumbled, but the way his eyes followed you spoke louder than any confession he could make.

The quiet hum of the studio equipment filled the room, a gentle backdrop to the creative chaos surrounding you. Papers scattered on the table, some scribbled with half-finished lyrics, others with scratched-out chords. You sat on the couch, your guitar resting against your thigh, and Jihoon was beside you, his laptop open, the familiar glow illuminating his focused expression.

You strummed a gentle melody, your fingers moving almost automatically, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the way Jihoon’s gaze kept flickering toward you. He wasn’t obvious, but you’d known him long enough to recognize when something was on his mind.

“Let’s try it again from the second verse,” he said, his voice steady as always. But the way he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, felt different.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the slight flutter in your chest. “Okay, but I still think the transition feels awkward. It’s too sudden.”

Jihoon hummed, leaning back, but even then, his arm remained against yours, his warmth grounding you. “Then let’s smooth it out. Maybe extend the line or add a softer bridge.” His fingers tapped on the keyboard, adjusting the track.

You glanced at him, trying to focus on the work, but the closeness was impossible to ignore. “You’re getting really good at reading my mind, you know that?”

Jihoon smiled, a gentle, almost shy smile that you rarely saw. “Maybe I’ve just been paying attention.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You played the melody, humming along, your voice blending with the soft notes. Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes tracing the way you lost yourself in the music.

“Your voice… it always suits this kind of song,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You stopped, cheeks warming slightly. “You think so?”

“I know so.” His tone was soft, but there was a quiet certainty to it. “You bring the lyrics to life. That’s why I knew this song was meant for you.”

Something in your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you. “Jihoon, I—”

The door swung open, and Seungcheol peeked in. “Still at it? I knew you two would be here until dawn.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the closeness. Jihoon leaned back slightly, his expression returning to its calm, composed look. “Almost done. Just refining.”

“Of course.” Seungcheol grinned, stepping in. “But don't overwork her, Woozi. She still needs that voice tomorrow.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “I know. I’m not a slave driver.”

But as you tried to refocus, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his words—or the way his gaze had softened when he looked at you.

The door swung open again, and Soonyoung waltzed in, carrying two plastic bags that crinkled noisily. “Midnight snacks! I bring salvation in the form of tteokbokki and kimbap!”

“Finally,” Seungcheol cheered, abandoning his spot by the soundboard to raid the bags. Jihoon, ever the disciplined one, simply raised an eyebrow, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his amusement.

“You two are gonna spoil her,” Jihoon muttered, but he didn’t stop you when you reached for a kimbap roll.

“Oh, please. She’s working too hard. A little late-night energy won’t hurt.” Soonyoung plopped down on the couch beside you, practically beaming. “So, what are we working on?”

Jihoon tapped on his laptop. “Just fine-tuning the second verse. Y/n thinks the transition’s too abrupt, and I agree. We’re trying to find a smoother flow.”

Soonyoung leaned forward, chewing on a piece of tteokbokki. “Why don’t you add a two-bar instrumental bridge? Something subtle, like a rising piano line to ease the mood?”

Jihoon’s eyes lit up. “That could actually work. Give me a second.” He started tinkering with the software, and the room filled with the delicate rise of soft keys, fitting perfectly between the verses.

“I’m a genius,” Soonyoung declared, looking smug. “I should get producer credits.”

“You wish.” Jihoon snorted, but he saved the updated version, clearly pleased.

As you sipped on a can of soda, feeling the comfort of the warm, slightly chaotic atmosphere, Soonyoung’s voice suddenly cut through, clear and casual—too casual.

“Didn’t you like him in the past?”

Silence. An absolute, crushing silence.

The room seemed to freeze. The soft hum of the equipment suddenly felt louder. You stared at Soonyoung, your breath caught, the half-chewed kimbap in your mouth suddenly dry.

Jihoon’s fingers, which had been moving so fluidly over the keyboard, halted mid-gesture. His gaze snapped to you, a mix of shock and confusion. Seungcheol looked up, a piece of tteokbokki half-raised to his lips, his jaw slack.

“I—What?” you managed to say, your voice smaller than you intended.

“You forgot?” Soonyoung looked genuinely surprised, blinking at the stunned faces around him. “I remember you told me about that on our way to the dorm. You thought Jihoon was cute—especially when he got all serious with his lyrics.”

“I—That was…” Your voice faltered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I was young. We were all kids.”

“Soonyoung-ah,” Jihoon’s voice was a warning, but the redness creeping up his ears betrayed him. He still hadn’t looked away from you.

Soonyoung seemed to sense the tension he’d stirred up, but instead of backtracking, he leaned back with an amused smile. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. And now look at you two, making music together all over again. Feels like fate.”

You tried to focus on your food, each bite feeling heavier than before. Jihoon’s gaze flickered away, his attention returning to the screen, but his fingers hovered, unsure.

The warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. Jihoon’s eyes met yours once more—fleeting, almost shy—but in that glance, there was a question, a hesitant spark. And your heart raced just a little faster.

*

The chaos erupted like a wildfire.

You had just stepped off the stage after another successful performance, the bright lights still lingering in your vision when your manager rushed toward you, her expression pale. “Y/n… you need to see this.”

She handed you her phone, and there it was—a news article that had already gone viral. The headline screamed: "Rising Star Y/n Accused by Family of Theft and Runaway: The Truth Behind Her Past."

Your heart dropped. Your uncle’s name was right there, and his words were cruel and twisted.

“She stole from our family, took a large sum of money, and disappeared to Seoul. We tried to help her, but she betrayed us,” the article quoted him. He painted a picture of you as an ungrateful, deceitful child who had thrown away family for fame.

Panic twisted your stomach. Your manager’s phone kept vibrating, notifications pouring in—fans commenting, people demanding an explanation, other news outlets picking up the story.

“How… How could he…?” your voice was barely a whisper, your hands cold

“Y/n, we need to make a statement,” your manager urged. “We have to clear this up.”

Clear it up? What even was there to clear up? It was a complete lie. You knew the truth, Jihoon knew, but would anyone believe you over the man parading as your family?

Your mind spun with memories—the suffocating isolation back then, your uncle holding back your inheritance, his family treating you like a burden. You had nothing when you left, nothing but the tiny bit of courage you had left to chase a life they tried to take from you.

The staff members whispered, your phone buzzed incessantly. Social media was already flooding with comments—some defending you, others calling you a fraud.

*

Jihoon’s phone buzzed endlessly. Notifications flooded in, messages from the members, the manager, and even his mother, asking if he knew about the chaos involving you. His jaw tightened, a sense of dread clawing at his chest. He had just seen you hours ago, your smile bright after another successful performance. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

He dialed your number, pressing his phone to his ear, but the call went unanswered. Once, twice, three times. Panic gripped him tighter with each failed attempt. He paced his studio, his fingers tapping against his thigh, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake.

The headlines were ruthless, and the comments even worse. People who didn’t know anything about you were already labeling you a liar, a thief. Jihoon knew better. He knew how you had struggled, how you had clawed your way out of the darkness they had thrown you into.

Finally, he grabbed his keys and stormed out. He wasn’t going to just sit there. He needed to find you.

As he sped through the city, he tried calling you again. This time, he called Seungcheol.

“Hyung, where is she? Did you get to her?” he blurted the moment Seungcheol picked up.

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol's voice was muffled, the sound of a car engine in the background. “Yeah, I have her. We’re heading somewhere safe. Soonyoung’s coordinating with the legal team, but things are blowing up fast.”

“Is she… Is she okay?” Jihoon’s voice softened, betraying his fear.

“She’s in shock, I think. Trying to stay calm, but you know Y/n. She’s… trying to hold it together,” Seungcheol explained, his voice quieter. “But Jihoon, she’s hurt. Her own family did this to her.”

Jihoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles pale. “Where are you taking her?”

“To my place for now. It’s better if the press doesn’t know,” Seungcheol replied.

“Stay there. I’m coming.” Jihoon didn’t even wait for Seungcheol’s reply before ending the call, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator.

His mind raced, thinking of what to say to you, how to comfort you. But all he knew for sure was that he needed to be there. You weren’t going to face this alone. Not again.

*

When Jihoon stepped into Seungcheol’s apartment, the air was thick with tension. The lights were dim, and Soonyoung stood in the kitchen, whispering urgently into his phone. Seungcheol was by the window, his gaze shifting between the streets below and the silent figure curled on the couch.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting there, knees drawn to your chest, your face buried against them. Your shoulders trembled slightly, and even from across the room, Jihoon could see your fingers gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles were pale.

“Y/n…” Jihoon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the room.

You didn’t look up immediately, but when you did, your eyes were glassy, lost. A faint, broken smile appeared on your lips, but it crumbled just as quickly. “Jihoon… I…”

Before you could finish, Jihoon crossed the room, kneeling beside the couch. He didn’t hesitate, reaching out to gently hold your hands, prying your fingers free from their tight grip. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You shook your head, a choked laugh escaping you. “It’s not okay. They’re saying… they’re saying I stole from them. That I ran away with their money. That I… Jihoon, I didn't do that. I swear—”

“I know.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I know you didn’t. We all know.”

Your breathing was unsteady, each gasp catching in your throat. “But the whole world thinks… They’re calling me a thief, a liar. My own family did this… Why? Why would they—” Your voice broke, and tears slipped down your cheeks.

Jihoon’s heart twisted painfully. He had never seen you like this—so exposed, so lost. The woman who stood on stage, who wrote lyrics with such passion, who fought to rebuild her life, now reduced to this fragile state.

“They’re scared, or greedy, or just cruel. But none of that is your fault,” Jihoon whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears. “We’re going to fix this. I promise you.”

You stared at him, searching for something—reassurance, hope, anything to hold on to. “Jihoon… I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours, letting you feel his warmth, his steady presence. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let us help you. Let me help you.”

A quiet sob broke from you, and you leaned into him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. Jihoon’s arms enveloped you, holding you close, his chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Across the room, Seungcheol looked away, giving you both a moment. Soonyoung stepped out to the balcony, continuing his call but throwing a quick thumbs-up toward Jihoon. The world outside might be cruel, but here, you had them—people who knew you, who cared, who would fight for you.

*

Within hours, statements from both your label and Pledis were released, carefully crafted yet resolute in their tone. Your label firmly denied your uncle's accusations, clarifying that his claims were false and rooted in a personal dispute. They acknowledged the difficult situation you faced in the past, explaining that you were a young trainee who had to abandon her dreams due to unforeseen family circumstances.

Pledis, under the direct supervision of Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung, released their own statement. They confirmed your history as a promising trainee who was forced to withdraw from debut due to family complications. They expressed regret that you had to leave under such circumstances but emphasized their support for you now.

The company stood by your truth, and it wasn't just words on paper. Seungcheol was the one who demanded the statement be released immediately, his voice firm and unwavering in the meeting room. Jihoon insisted on the wording, making sure every detail reflected the reality of your situation without exploiting your trauma. Soonyoung, surprisingly serious, went as far as personally reaching out to industry connections, making sure the narrative didn’t spiral out of control.

With their combined efforts, the public's perception shifted. Sympathy replaced doubt, and the comments under your social media flooded with support.

Alongside the official statements, photos of you with Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung began to circulate on social media. Some were candid shots—Seungcheol playfully ruffling your hair, Jihoon walking beside you with a faint smile, and Soonyoung making exaggerated faces to make you laugh. Others were from studio sessions, showing you deep in conversation with Jihoon or Seungcheol leaning over to check your lyrics.

Fans started piecing together the connection. Jihoon, the genius producer behind almost all your songs, wasn’t just a collaborator—he was a steadfast presence in your life. Seungcheol and Soonyoung, who were known for their loyalty and protectiveness over their members, clearly extended that same care to you.

Online discussions swelled with sympathy. “If Seungcheol and Jihoon trust her, then I trust her too.” “You can see in their eyes they genuinely care about her.” “Jihoon produces all her songs—there’s no way she’s the person her uncle described.”

A week after the tide of public opinion began to shift in your favor, Jihoon arrived at your doorstep unannounced. The moment you opened the door, he stepped inside with quiet confidence, his eyes searching the small space until they found you standing there—alone, vulnerable, yet somehow still holding on.

He said nothing, letting the silence fill the room before slowly opening his arms wide. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a deep, unwavering embrace. Your body shook as the walls you’d built crumbled, and the sobs you had kept buried for so long spilled out uncontrollably. You melted into his chest, feeling like fragile glass finally cradled safely after a storm.

Jihoon’s arms tightened gently around you, his steady heartbeat resonating against your ear like a calming rhythm. In that quiet moment, his presence spoke louder than words ever could—he was here, unwavering and steadfast, ready to be the anchor you needed. No matter what had happened, no matter how far you had fallen, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jihoon’s hands slowly stroked your hair, his touch gentle and soothing as if trying to erase every trace of pain you’d carried alone for so long. He whispered soft reassurances, low and steady, barely more than a breath.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’ll get through this—together.”

His voice held no pressure, only quiet strength that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. As your sobs softened, you clung to him tighter, letting yourself finally rest, finally breathe. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen—not as someone broken or forgotten, but as someone worthy of care and love.

Jihoon held you like that until the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the steady beat of two hearts healing side by side.

After a while, Jihoon gently pulled back just enough to look at you. The two of you settled on the worn-out couch, close but not crowded, the quiet hum of the city outside your window filling the space between you.

He studied your face with soft concern. “How are you feeling? Really.”

You hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “Honestly? Still fragile. But... better, now that you’re here.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words wrapped around you like a shield, giving you the courage to admit the weight you’d been carrying, the fear that had made you shut down for so long. In that moment, sitting side by side, you realized maybe—just maybe—you could start to heal.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the edge of your sleeve nervously. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “For everything that happened—how I disappeared, how I pushed people away... especially you.”

Jihoon’s hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, none of that was your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But I still feel like I should’ve done better. Stayed strong—for myself, for everyone who believed in me.”

He shook his head gently, eyes soft but firm. “You’ve been through so much. It’s okay to be human, to stumble. What matters is you’re here now, and we’re going to face this together.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, grateful for his steady presence. “Thank you... for not giving up on me.”

Jihoon smiled, a quiet promise in his gaze. “Never.”

Jihoon’s grip on your hand tightened just a little, his eyes searching yours with a seriousness that made your heart skip. He took a slow breath before speaking, his voice softer than before.

“Y/n, I’ve been holding this in for a while… but I can’t anymore. I like you. More than just a friend, more than just someone I want to help. I’ve liked you since before you even knew I existed.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession, your heart racing.

“I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be there for you, not add any pressure. But seeing you now, vulnerable and still so strong—it’s made me realize I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile. “I want to be by your side. Not just as your producer or friend... but something more, if you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched, and a heavy wave of doubt washed over you. You looked down, voice barely a whisper.

“I... I don’t know if I deserve this—deserve you. After everything I’ve been through, all the mistakes, all the pain... How could someone like you want someone like me?”

Your heart ached with a mix of gratitude and fear, the weight of your past pressing hard against the hope Jihoon’s words had sparked.

Jihoon reached out, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and certainty.

“Y/n, you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you. I see you—everything you are, everything you’ve been through—and it only makes me want to be by your side more.”

He smiled softly, his voice low and sincere.

“You deserve kindness, love, and a fresh start. And I want to be part of that with you.”

You searched his eyes, vulnerability and doubt still lingering in yours. “Jihoon… are you sure you won’t regret this? Being with someone like me—after everything?” Your voice cracked, heavy with the weight of all the pain and uncertainty you carried.

He held your gaze steadily, no hesitation in his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head, a gentle but unwavering smile playing at his lips. “Never. I’ve waited so long to tell you this. You don’t have to be anyone else for me—I like you exactly as you are.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and cupped your cheek tenderly. The world around you seemed to quiet as he leaned in, closing the distance between you. His lips met yours softly at first—warm, comforting—like a silent promise that he was here to stay, no matter what.

You melted into the kiss, feeling a fragile hope bloom inside you for the first time in so long. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And in that moment, that was enough.

His lips brushed against yours with a softness that took your breath away, gentle like the first drop of rain after a long drought. The kiss deepened slowly, tender but full of meaning, as if every unspoken word between you was being conveyed through this quiet connection.

Jihoon’s hand moved from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, steadying you, grounding you, letting you know he was there—completely present. You felt the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the faintest tremor of emotion in his touch.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate; it was patient and sincere, like a promise that no matter how broken or uncertain your past had been, he wanted to be part of your future. Your heart hammered wildly as the kiss lingered, a delicate thread weaving your two souls closer in that perfect, fragile moment.

After pulling back just slightly, Jihoon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity. His voice was soft but certain, carrying all the emotions he had kept hidden for so long.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if those three words held the weight of everything between you. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, even when I didn’t say it. And I want to keep loving you—if you’ll let me.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still gently holding your face.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The end.