#print latte art | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

estellan0vella · 4 months ago

Text

Look For Me: H.HJ Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 14.5K

CW: Reader pushing herself, Minho and Jisung are bad friends at one point, Hyunjin talking like a poet (bc I firmly believe this man is a ROMANTIC) General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The dance studio pulses with energy, the bassline thumping through the sound system like a heartbeat. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the polished wooden floor, reflecting the faint sheen of sweat on your skin. You like the sharpness of it. The way it keeps you focused, stripping away distractions until it's just you and the music.

Your outfit is as much a statement as it is practical. Black yoga shorts hug your hips, a matching bandeau crop top leaves your midriff bare, and fishnets climb your legs, emphasizing their length with every step in your sleek black heels. The silver rings on your fingers catch the light as you adjust your cap, the coiled snake on your middle finger glinting like it has a life of its own.

From the corner of the room, Minho groans dramatically, sprawled on a precarious tower of mats like some lazy prince. His cherry-red hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, the undercut sharp and catching the light whenever he shifts.

"You know, Kappa Tau's throwing a fucking banger tonight. Gorgeous sorority girls everywhere, probably in those stupid glittery tops and mini skirts that ride up just enough. And here I am, sitting on my ass, watching you prance around."

You pause mid-stretch, your hands resting on your hips as you arch an unimpressed brow at him. "Prance?" you echo, your voice sweet but sharp as a whip. "This is art, Minho. A performance. And no one asked you to stay."

"Christ," Jisung mutters, slouched beside him with his oversized iced americano. His dark hair flops into his eyes as he nudges Minho's ribs with a sharp elbow. "She's got the showcase coming up, you dick. Ever heard of being supportive?"

Minho rolls his eyes, throwing his arms out wide in a mock display of virtue. "Supportive? That's me. Mr. Fucking Supportive. Someone print it on a badge."

You tilt your head at him, lips curving into a smile that's all teasing softness, your tone sugary sweet. "You're here, aren't you? That's more support than I expected."

Minho groans and flops back dramatically. "Fuck off. Both of you."

The opening chords of Dirty Diana ripple through the speakers, low and seductive, and you stride to the centre of the floor like you own the room. Your steps are deliberate, the click of your heels sharp against the floor. You pause there for a beat, letting the music seep into your bones, before rolling your shoulders and starting to move.

Every motion is precise, fluid, calculated. When you twist your hips, the fishnets catch the light, and when you step, it's with the kind of confidence that could break hearts.

"Holy shit," Jisung breathes, sitting up straighter. "Okay, yeah. You're killing it."

You spin on your heel, perfectly on beat, and as you glide by, Jisung stretches out his arm, holding your iced latte like it's some kind of peace offering. "Sip?" he asks, grinning like a kid.

Without breaking stride, you lean forward, the straw meeting your lips. The sip is quick, your eyes catching his as you pull away, and then you spin off again, your hair brushing your shoulders. Jisung whoops so loudly it echoes.

"Jesus fuck," Minho mutters, propping himself up on his elbows. "Can't believe I'm fucking sober for this shit."

"You're welcome to leave," you throw over your shoulder, arching a brow as you twist your torso in a smooth, deliberate stretch. Your silver hoops catch the light when you lean to the side, and Minho's gaze follows the motion before he snaps out of it.

"Nah, someone's gotta make sure you don't break your neck in those ridiculous shoes. Purely a safety measure."

You smirk, dropping into a deep stretch to touch your toes. The pull feels divine, your muscles warm and pliant. "You're a goddamn saint, Minho."

"You're goddamn right I am," he deadpans, making Jisung choke on his coffee.

As you rise, Jisung gestures at you with his cup. "Hey, seriously though. What's with the switch-up? You're usually all bubblegum pop and shit. Now it's, like..." He waves vaguely at the speakers. "Stripper territory."

"Range, Ji," you reply, smoothing your top. "I need range."

"Range, huh?" He snorts, slouching back against the mats. "What's next? A fucking waltz in stripper heels?"

"Maybe. Gotta keep you guessing."

The routine picks up again, this time with more intensity. You drop to the floor at the build, your knees sliding smoothly against the wood. When the beat hits, you spread your legs, arching your back as your head tips back, the movement fluid and hypnotic. Your hand trails slowly down your body before you twist and rise, heels clicking as you transition into the next move.

Jisung lets out a low whistle, muttering, "Holy fucking shit."

"Fucking hell," Minho echoes, blinking like he's trying to recalibrate.

You ignore them, the music consuming you completely. When the song fades and you're left panting, hair sticking to your damp skin, Jisung and Minho break into loud, raucous applause.

"You should seriously consider stripping," Minho says, pushing himself upright and grabbing his water bottle. His grin is sharp and teasing. "You'd make so much goddamn money."

You shrug casually, wiping the sweat from your brow. "Maybe I will."

Minho nearly spits his water. "Fuck, I was kidding."

You flash him a smile. "Relax. So was I."

Jisung grins, swirling the ice in his cup. "Hey, you should add a crawl in there somewhere."

You glance at him, one brow lifting. "A crawl?"

"Yeah," he says, miming the motion poorly. "Sex appeal and all that."

"He's not wrong," Minho adds, deadpan. "Sex sells, sweetheart."

You hum thoughtfully, leaning down to snag your latte. The movement is slow, deliberate, and when you rise, you flick a teasing glance at both of them. "Noted."

The music kicks in again, and you lose yourself once more. Minho and Jisung stay sprawled on the sidelines, alternating between hyping you up and throwing in unsolicited commentary. You can't help the laugh that escapes you mid-routine when Minho yells, "Fucking nailed it!" as you drop into a split.

When the song finally ends, you're breathless and flushed, the room echoing with the sound of your panting and their whistles.

"Shit, you're gonna destroy at the showcase," Minho says, softer this time, his grin lopsided but genuine.

Jisung raises his coffee in a mock toast. "To our star. Just don't forget us little people when you're famous."

You smile, sweet and sincere, as you gather your things. "Never," you promise. "You're stuck with me."

The three of you linger in the studio, the air warm with laughter and bass, none of you in any rush to leave. This is your time, your sanctuary. And with them beside you, it's perfect.

The Alpha Phi frat house is chaos, as always. The faint hum of a game console buzzes from the corner of the living room, punctuated by the sound of Felix yelling, "What the fuck, Changbin?!" as Changbin's character delivers a devastating blow.

Felix is half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, his legs stretched out like a kid while Changbin perches on the edge of the couch, laser-focused, the controller a deadly weapon in his hands.

Across the room, Chan lounges on the couch, one foot propped up on the coffee table, earbuds jammed in as he scrolls through his phone. His lips move faintly like he's mumbling lyrics under his breath, probably tweaking music tracks for the millionth time.

Seungmin leans against the arm of an old recliner that's seen far too many frat house disasters, flipping through a thick textbook with his trademark scowl. He looks vaguely disgusted, though it's unclear whether it's because of the content or the sheer existence of the people around him.

And then there's Hyunjin. He's planted right in the middle of the floor like a dramatic artist in his natural habitat, cross-legged with a massive sketchbook balanced on his lap. A pencil twirls between his long fingers, tapping rhythmically against the blank page. His dark hair falls into his face in perfectly messy strands, like it always does, because the bastard can't look not good even when he's pissed off.

"Fuck," Hyunjin mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. The strands fall back in place like it's their life's mission. His head tilts back dramatically, eyes on the ceiling like it holds the answers to all his problems.

"Creative block?" Chan doesn't even look up, one earbud still in as he scrolls.

Hyunjin shoots him a murderous glare. "What gave it away, Sherlock?"

"The way you're sitting there like a kicked puppy," Seungmin supplies dryly, not bothering to look up from his book.

Hyunjin groans and collapses backward, sprawling out on the carpet like he's been struck down by some divine force. "I'm fucked. I have this fucking project about passion and I've got nothing. I'm literally a failure."

"Finally, some self-awareness," Minho says, breezing into the room with Jisung on his heels. He's holding a mug that probably contains three parts coffee and one part his own bullshit, and Jisung, as always, has a bag of chips open and already half-empty.

Hyunjin flips him off from his spot on the floor. "I'm being serious, you dick."

"Yeah, and I'm seriously saying this is the funniest thing I've seen all week," Minho replies, taking a sip of his coffee and smirking over the rim. "The tortured artist act is so fucking predictable."

Hyunjin props himself up on one elbow, glaring. "I need something raw. Something fucking real. Everything I've done so far looks like it was churned out by some art bot."

"Sounds like a you problem," Jisung quips, flopping onto the couch beside Chan and immediately tossing a chip into his mouth. "But hey, Minho and I might have a solution."

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. "Do we?"

"Yeah." Jisung grins, leaning forward like he's about to drop the hottest gossip of the year. "Y/N."

Hyunjin frowns, his pencil freezing mid-tap. "Who the fuck is Y/N?"

"Our friend," Minho says, rolling his eyes like Hyunjin's an idiot for not knowing. "She's a dancer. She's working on this routine for the college showcase, and it's, like, fucking insane."

"Dancer?" Changbin finally swivels his chair around, abandoning the game as Felix yells, "Don't pause mid-fight, you asshole!"

"Hot as fuck," Jisung clarifies, ignoring Felix. "She's doing Dirty Diana."

Felix whistles low. "And you're introducing her to Hyunjin? Bold move."

"Why the fuck is that a bold move?" Hyunjin demands, sitting up straighter. He looks vaguely offended.

"Because you're Hwang Whore Hyunjin," Felix says, deadpan. "Like, it's your brand."

"Fuck you!" Hyunjin throws a pillow at him, which Felix dodges easily. "I'm not a fucking whore."

"Sure," Seungmin mutters, finally looking up from his book. "And the earth is flat."

Minho crosses his arms and leans against the back of the couch. "Look, if introducing him to Y/N gets him to stop stealing my half-eaten apples to sketch them, I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"You're such a dick," Hyunjin mutters.

"And you are a fucking menace," Jisung retorts, tossing a chip at him. "Remember when you made me hold an Oreo ice cream sandwich for, like, fifteen minutes while you got the perfect angle?"

"The vision was worth it," Hyunjin insists, his tone defensive.

"No, it fucking wasn't," Jisung says, glaring. "That shit melted in my hand, and you didn't even use the sketch!"

Minho sighs dramatically. "Anyway, Y/N's our peace offering. Take her. Get inspired. Just don't ruin her."

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, mock-offended. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Minho says. "No flirting. No fucking around."

"Why the hell would I flirt with her?" Hyunjin shoots back, sounding genuinely indignant.

Minho just snorts. "Because you flirt with everyone, Hyunjin. You can't help yourself. It's pathological."

"True," Seungmin mutters, flipping a page. "It's exhausting."

Hyunjin throws up his hands. "You guys are such dicks. I'm literally trying to work here."

"And you're gonna work when you see Y/N dance tomorrow," Jisung says smugly, his grin widening. "Minho's right, it's fucking hot. Her costume is, like, Rocky Horror Picture Show meets Moulin Rouge."

"Christ," Felix mutters, leaning back against the couch. "You guys are walking her into the lion's den."

"Shut up," Hyunjin snaps, though there's a flicker of interest in his eyes as he taps his pencil against the edge of the sketchbook. "I'll go. I'll see her. But I'm not promising anything."

"Just keep your dick out of it," Minho says bluntly, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Scout's honour," Hyunjin replies, raising one hand.

"You weren't a fucking scout," Chan says, finally looking up from his phone.

Hyunjin smirks. "Details."

Jisung shakes his head, muttering, "We're all gonna regret this."

"Probably," Minho agrees, but his grin says he's ready for the disaster. "But hey, at least I'll get to eat my apple in peace."

The dance studio is quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint squeak of your stilettos on the polished wooden floor as you stretch. You bend forward, fingers brushing your toes, the pull in your muscles warm and satisfying after your light warm-up. The fluorescent lights above gleam off the mirrors that line the walls, casting your reflection back at you: a bold, commanding figure.

The halter-style leather corset clings to you like a second skin, laces tight across your torso. The black gloves on your hands shimmer under the light, tiny embellishments catching flashes like sparks.

Your hotpants are short enough to make you raise a brow the first time you tried them on, and the garters attached to them stretch taut over your fishnet-clad thighs, disappearing into the tops of your heeled boots. It's a look designed to demand attention, but you're not thinking about that right now. You're focused, calm, working your muscles loose.

The sound of the door creaking open cuts through the silence, followed by Minho's voice. "You better not be dead in here, Y/N."

"And if she is," Jisung adds, his tone entirely unserious, "I'm not cleaning it up. That's Minho's job."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at them in the mirror. "Still alive, thanks for the concern." You stay in your stretch, head upside down, watching their reflections as they step into the room.

Jisung's carrying a bag of chips and he's already grinning like he knows he's about to start shit. "Oh, by the way, we brought a friend. Y/N, meet Hyunjin."

You tilt your head, curious, and peer between your legs. Your hair falls forward, creating a curtain around your face, but you can still see him.

The new guy standing just inside the doorway is tall, lean, with sharp, elegant features that could probably make someone's knees weak if he so much as glanced their way. His long black hair falls past his shoulders in glossy waves, and his eyes, dark, intense, and slightly wide with surprise, are locked on you.

"Hello," you greet, cheerful but with a hint of amusement at the fact that he's still staring.

Hyunjin blinks, startled, and looks away so fast you almost laugh. "Uh, hi," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're looking at her through her fucking legs," Jisung points out gleefully, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. "What a gentleman."

Straightening up, you roll your shoulders, the soft leather of your corset creaking slightly with the motion. "Don't mind them," you say to Hyunjin, your voice calm and soothing, though there's laughter in your eyes. "They're always like this."

"Good to know," Hyunjin replies, his lips twitching into a small, hesitant smile. He shifts his weight, his sketchbook tucked under one arm, as if unsure where he's supposed to stand.

"Wait a fucking second," Jisung says, holding up a hand dramatically like he's just noticed something life-altering. His eyes dart over your outfit, widening. "That's what you're wearing for the showcase?"

"Is that a problem?" you ask, brushing your gloved hands over the front of your corset, smoothing invisible creases. "I'm not wearing the feather headpiece or the boa yet, but yeah. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Minho practically chokes, gesturing wildly at your ensemble like it's a personal affront. "I think you need a goddamn blanket. Holy fuck, Y/N. Jesus fucking Christ."

"And a full-body censor," Jisung adds, nodding gravely as his gaze drops to your legs. "This is why you got that bikini wax last week, isn't it?"

You nod, entirely unbothered, as you twist slightly, stretching your spine. "Mhm. Had to. The outfit doesn't leave much to the imagination."

"Doesn't leave anything to the imagination," Minho sputters, throwing up his hands. "You can't wear that!"

"Why not?" you ask, tilting your head. There's a faint teasing lilt to your voice, but you're genuinely curious.

"Because- because-" Minho stammers, gesturing at you with such exasperation he looks like he might combust. "It's fucking indecent!"

"You look too hot," Jisung blurts out, his voice half a groan. "Do you have any fucking clue how many people are going to be watching you? Guys are gonna lose their minds."

"That's kind of the point," you reply. "It's a performance. I'm supposed to grab their attention."

"Well, you're grabbing something, all right," Jisung mutters, rubbing at his temples as if he's suddenly developed a headache. "Holy shit, this is a fucking hazard."

Hyunjin clears his throat, and for the first time since entering, his voice cuts through the noise. "It's bold." He steps further into the room, his eyes scanning you with an intensity that's equal parts artist and something else entirely. "It fits the song. Definitely makes a statement."

You blink, slightly surprised by the evenness in his voice. "You think so?"

Hyunjin nods, his expression serious as he looks you over like you're a painting he's trying to dissect. "Yeah. It's provocative, but not trashy. It's striking. It suits you."

Your cheeks flush slightly at the unexpected compliment, but you smile anyway, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thanks. That's exactly what I was going for."

"Don't fucking start," Minho groans, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. "Do not flirt with her. We're barely ten minutes into this."

"Relax," Hyunjin says, a smirk curling his lips. "I'm just making an observation."

"You'd better keep it that way," Jisung warns, his tone sharp. "This is sacred fucking ground, man. Don't ruin it."

Hyunjin raises his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk only deepens. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a fucking scout," Minho snaps, and Hyunjin shrugs, unapologetic.

You laugh softly, the tension breaking under the sound. "It's fine, guys. He can stay. I'd actually like to hear what an artist thinks of my routine."

"Oh, you'll hear it," Jisung mutters darkly. "He never shuts the fuck up."

"I'll behave," Hyunjin promises, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. "Swear on my sketchbook."

"God help us," Minho mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine. But if he gets weird, Y/N, we're kicking him out."

You smile at their antics, amused, and gesture toward the mirrors. "All right, sit down and let me know what you think."

As they settle into a corner, the buzz of conversation fades into a soft hum. You move to the centre of the room, the feel of the polished floor under your heels grounding you. The air feels different now, electric, like a storm brewing. You inhale deeply, rolling your shoulders as the music starts, and then you lose yourself in the rhythm.

The Alpha Phi living room is its usual chaotic self, a swirling mess of noise and energy. Jeongin is sprawled on the couch like a cat, scrolling through his phone while his sketchbook sits abandoned on the coffee table.

Felix lies on the floor, headphones dangling from one ear as he messes with his laptop. The faint smell of someone's cologne clings to the air, mixing with the scent of coffee, chips, and something burnt. Probably whatever disaster Changbin left in the kitchen earlier.

At the far end of the couch, Hyunjin sits perched like some brooding artist prince. His long legs are folded under him, and his sketchbook rests on his lap. He's uncharacteristically focused, head bent over the page, the faint sound of his pencil scratching across paper punctuating the room's chaos. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, and the muscles in his forearm flex subtly as he shades and reworks the lines.

Jeongin looks up from his phone, his curiosity piqued by Hyunjin's intense focus. He leans forward, craning his neck to peer over Hyunjin's shoulder. A second later, his eyes widen, and a slow, shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

"Hyunjin," Jeongin starts, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "Why the fuck are you drawing a girl spreading her legs?"

The chaos screeches to a halt. Felix pulls out his remaining earbud, glancing over, and Changbin, who's been lounging in the recliner like he owns the place, sits up straight. Seungmin sighs audibly, muttering something about how living with idiots is ruining his brain cells.

Hyunjin doesn't even look up, his pencil moving smoothly across the page. "It's Y/N," he says, his tone casual, as if he's commenting on the weather. He tilts his head, adding a delicate line of shading. "It's part of her routine."

Jeongin's jaw drops. "What the fuck?!" He leans closer, unabashed now. "Ohhh, the Y/N. The dancer Minho and Jisung brought you to see. Holy shit, this is actually, wait, this is fucking good."

Now Felix is sitting up, his laptop abandoned. He scrambles over to see the sketch for himself and he whistles low when he catches a glimpse of the drawing. "Hyunjin, what the fuck. This is insane. You really nailed the, uh, energy."

"Energy," Jeongin echoes, snorting. "Yeah, that's one word for it."

Changbin finally drags himself off the recliner and ambles over, looming behind Hyunjin as he surveys the sketch. His eyes sweep over the drawing: your figure mid-move, legs extended, head tipped back in a pose that screams strength and sensuality. Hyunjin's lines are sharp but fluid, capturing the raw energy of your performance with a precision that feels alive.

"Damn," Changbin says, his voice low and impressed. "She's fucking hot."

"Excuse me?" Minho's voice cuts through the air like a whip as he strides into the room, a mug of coffee in hand. His cherry-red hair is a little messy, falling into his eyes as he fixes Changbin with a glare sharp enough to kill. "Not Y/N. Absolutely not. She's too good for you fucking degenerates."

Hyunjin glances up briefly, smirking. "Nice doesn't mean off-limits."

"It does when it comes to her," Minho snaps, slamming his mug down on the coffee table with enough force to make Felix flinch. "She's sweet and I'm not about to let you or any of these assholes ruin that."

Changbin raises his hands in mock surrender, though there's a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Relax, man. I'm not planning to do shit. I'm just saying-"

"Well, don't fucking say," Minho interrupts, pointing an accusing finger. "The last thing she needs is you cretins ogling her like she's a fucking dessert."

Felix smirks from his spot on the floor, leaning back on his hands. "To be fair, she's hot."

"Felix," Minho snaps, rounding on him. "You too? What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

"I'm just making an observation," Felix replies, holding up his hands. "Not my fault she's objectively attractive."

Seungmin sighs heavily, his voice dripping with disdain as he flips a page in his textbook. "This house is full of fucking animals."

Hyunjin finally sets his pencil down and turns to face the room, his expression calm but tinged with amusement. "You're all overreacting. I'm drawing her because she inspires me. That's it."

"Bull-fucking-shit," Jeongin mutters under his breath, only to yelp a second later when Minho smacks him upside the head.

"I'm serious," Hyunjin continues, ignoring the chaos. His voice takes on a more thoughtful tone. "Her routine- it's captivating. She has this way of moving. It's raw. It's like she's channelling something real, something... intense."

Minho narrows his eyes, leaning forward. "Hyunjin, I swear to fucking God, if you-"

"If I what?" Hyunjin interrupts, standing with a lazy stretch that makes Jeongin roll his eyes. "If I admire her talent? If I get inspired by her passion? What's the fucking crime here?"

"If you fuck it up," Minho says, his tone deadly serious. "She's not just some muse for your tortured artist bullshit. She's our friend. Don't fucking forget that."

Hyunjin's smirk falters slightly, and he holds his hands up in surrender. "I get it. I'm not an idiot."

"Debatable," Seungmin mutters under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Hyunjin.

"I'll behave," Hyunjin promises, his voice softer now. "She's different. I know that."

Minho studies him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. "Good. Keep it that way."

The tension eases slightly, the energy in the room shifting back into its usual chaos. Jeongin flops back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, Felix resumes fiddling with his laptop, and Changbin mutters something about everyone being way too sensitive as he retreats to his recliner.

Hyunjin picks up his sketchbook again, glancing down at the unfinished drawing of you. The lines of your pose are bold, commanding, and yet there's a softness to the way he's shaded your face. A flicker of something almost reverent.

"Different," he murmurs to himself, tapping his pencil against the page.

Yeah, you were different. And maybe that was the fucking problem.

The night air bites at Hyunjin's cheeks as he strides across campus, his sketchbook clutched tightly under his arm. Most of the students are heading in the opposite direction, their laughter and drunken shouts spilling out into the streets as they make their way to the Kappa Tau party.

Music thunders from open windows, bass vibrating through the air, but Hyunjin barely registers it. He knows Minho and Jisung are probably already there, doing something ridiculous, probably egging on a keg stand or starting an argument over God knows what, but he has other plans tonight.

The glow of the dance studio comes into view, spilling a warm golden light onto the pavement. Hyunjin pulls the door open, stepping into the familiar scent of polished wood, faint sweat, and the quiet hum of the air conditioning. It's like walking into another world, separate from the chaos of campus life, calm yet charged with potential.

You're already there, your black sneakers shuffling softly against the floor as you stretch. You're wearing black shorts and a cropped tank top, your hair loosely clipped up with stray strands falling around your face. The outfit is practical, sure, but there's something about it, about you, that catches Hyunjin off guard. You look effortless. Grounded. Like you belong here in a way no one else ever could.

The door shuts with a soft thud, and you glance up, catching his reflection in the mirror. A smile spreads across your lips, warm and genuine. "Hi, Hyunjin."

"Hey," he replies, his voice softer than he means it to be. He raises his sketchbook slightly, as if in explanation. "I was wondering if I could sit and sketch? Watching you dance makes it easier to get the details right."

You straighten, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as your smile widens. "Of course. Make yourself at home."

He settles onto a bench by the mirrors, tossing his bag to the side and flipping open his sketchbook. His pencil hovers over the page, poised and ready, but his gaze drifts to you as you turn back to the barre. You lift your leg in a slow, fluid motion, pressing it effortlessly toward your head.

The stretch elongates your body, your muscles moving with practised ease. There's something hypnotic about it, the way your motions are deliberate yet entirely natural.

"How long have you been dancing?" Hyunjin asks, his voice cutting through the quiet. His pencil starts to move, tracing the shape of your form.

You glance at him, thoughtful as you lower your leg and switch sides. "Since I was five. My mom put me in ballet classes, and I hated it at first. Like, really fucking hated it. But then, I don't know. Something just clicked. It stopped being this thing I had to do and became something I needed to do."

His pencil pauses for a moment, and he nods. "It shows. You're incredible."

You laugh softly, a light, airy sound that fills the room. "Thanks. That means a lot."

As you finish at the barre, you move to the centre of the room, rolling your shoulders and shaking out your limbs. Hyunjin watches as you start to move through your routine, your steps deliberate and sharp. Every spin, every lunge, every roll of your hips is purposeful, like you're pouring your entire soul into the choreography.

There's something raw about it, something almost vulnerable, and it grips him in a way he can't describe.

"You don't hold back," Hyunjin says, his voice laced with admiration as he sketches furiously. His pencil races across the page, trying to keep up with you.

"Why would I?" you reply, pausing mid-spin to glance at him. "If I'm not giving it everything, then what's the point?"

He hums in agreement, his lips curving into a small smile as his gaze flickers between you and his sketchbook. "Most people are scared to be that exposed. It's rare."

You turn back to your routine, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Dancing doesn't feel like exposing myself. It feels like telling a story. Like I'm showing people something they can't see otherwise."

Hyunjin's pencil halts mid-stroke. His gaze lifts to you, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. "That's fucking beautiful."

The sincerity in his voice makes your cheeks warm, but you push past it, spinning into a series of pirouettes that ends with you dropping into a low lunge. The sound of your breathing fills the room, mingling with the soft scratch of his pencil against paper.

When you pause to grab your water bottle, he speaks again. "Do you ever get nervous? Performing, I mean."

"Every fucking time," you admit, wiping a bead of sweat from your temple. "But it's a good kind of nervous. It reminds me that I care. That it matters."

He nods slowly, his pencil moving again. "Yeah. I get that. It's the same with art sometimes. The nerves keep you grounded. Like, if you're not a little terrified, are you even fucking alive?"

You laugh, soft and genuine. "Exactly."

The next hour passes in a rhythm that feels oddly intimate. You dance, stretching, refining sections of your routine, and he sketches in near silence, the occasional question or comment slipping from his lips. The concentration on his face mirrors your own: brows furrowed, eyes sharp, hands moving as if guided by instinct.

Every now and then, you steal a glance at him, marvelling at the way his long fingers grip the pencil, the way his wrist moves so fluidly as he captures moments of your movement on paper.

Finally, you pause, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Grabbing your towel, you walk over to him and lean down, tilting your head to get a look at his sketchbook. "Can I see?"

For a second, he hesitates, then flips the book around. Your eyes widen as you take in the drawing. A snapshot of you mid-spin, arms extended, hair fanned out like a halo. The lines are bold but fluid, each stroke capturing the energy and emotion of your movements. It's raw, dynamic, alive.

"Holy shit," you breathe, your voice hushed. "This is... amazing. You're so talented."

His cheeks flush pink, and he ducks his head slightly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks. But honestly, it's easy to draw when the subject's this inspiring."

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you're not sure how to respond. Your chest feels warm, like the air between you has shifted. You tap the edge of his sketchbook lightly, smiling. "Well, I'm glad I could help."

"You've done more than that," he murmurs, his voice soft, almost too low to hear. His gaze meets yours, and there's something in his eyes. Something unspoken but heavy. It lingers there, filling the silence.

You clear your throat, breaking the moment with a small laugh. "All right. One more run-through, and then I'm calling it a night."

Hyunjin nods, settling back against the wall, pencil poised. "Take your time. I'm not in a fucking hurry."

As the music starts up again, you throw yourself into the choreography one last time, your body moving like it's connected to the beat. Hyunjin sketches furiously, his hand working almost faster than his mind can process. There's a feeling in his chest, a kind of ache he can't quite name. But as he watches you dance, he knows one thing for certain: you've become more than just a muse.

Over the next month, the dance studio transforms into a quiet sanctuary for the two of you. It becomes a rhythm. Unspoken, natural. Hyunjin shows up whenever he knows Minho and Jisung are too distracted by their latest frat house chaos to hover, sketchbook tucked securely under his arm. There's always the faint scent of graphite clinging to him, mingling with his cologne, something crisp and warm that lingers even after he's gone.

At first, his visits are clinical, purely about capturing your movement on paper. But slowly, without either of you acknowledging it, they shift into something else. The conversations get longer. The silences more comfortable. And tonight feels different somehow.

The studio is quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the barre as you stretch. Hyunjin sits cross-legged on the floor, his sketchbook balanced on his knees, but his pencil lies idle for once. He's watching you instead, his dark eyes tracing the shape of your body as you lean into a deep stretch.

There's something captivating about how natural you look, your hair swept up in a messy bun, loose strands curling against your neck, dressed simply in a black tank top and leggings. There's no stage, no spotlight. Just you, raw and unpolished.

"You're quiet tonight," you say softly, twisting your torso to stretch your sides. Your voice cuts through the stillness, gentle but curious. "What's on your mind?"

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair in that effortless way of his that makes it fall perfectly back into place. "Nothing," he replies after a beat. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous," you tease, settling onto the floor across from him. Your legs stretch out in front of you as you lean back on your hands, your expression soft but playful. "Thinking about what?"

His fingers tap against the edge of his sketchbook, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "About how you make this shit look so easy. Dancing, I mean. Like you don't even have to try."

You laugh softly, tilting your head as you consider him. "It's not always easy. I fuck up all the time. You've just been lucky enough to catch me on my good days."

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Bullshit. Even when you're just warming up, it's like watching something... magic. Like it's in your blood or something."

"That's sweet, but you're giving me way too much credit."

"I'm not," he says, his tone firm and certain. He leans back on his hands, the curve of his lips softening into something more thoughtful. "I've been stuck on this project for weeks. Trying to figure out what the fuck passion even looks like, and I still can't get it right. But you? You are passion. You don't even have to try."

You blink at him, caught off guard by the weight of his words. Ducking your head, you fiddle with the hem of your tank top, your voice quieter now. "I don't know what to say to that."

He smirks, his eyes lighting with mischief. "Say I'm right."

You roll your eyes, laughing softly. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you like it," he shoots back, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin.

For a moment, the room falls silent again, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels easy, like you're both content to exist in this shared quiet. Hyunjin's fingers brush against his pencil, but he doesn't pick it up. Instead, he breaks the silence, his voice lower this time. "So why'd you pick this song for the showcase? Dirty Diana doesn't seem like your usual vibe."

You settle onto your elbows, tilting your head as you think. "Honestly? It was a challenge. I usually go for light, fun stuff—songs that make people smile. But this? This is darker. More intense. It scared me a little."

"Doesn't look like it," he says, his gaze steady on yours. "You own it. Like the song was written for you."

"Thanks," you reply. "But it took a lot of fucking work to get there. The first few times I practised, I felt like a complete idiot. Like I was trying too hard, you know?"

Hyunjin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you intently. "And now?"

You glance away for a second, your voice quieter when you answer. "Now it feels freeing. Like I'm stepping into someone else for a little while. Someone who's bolder. Less afraid to take up space."

His lips curve into a small, genuine smile. "That's what art's supposed to do, right? Push you. Make you see yourself differently."

"Exactly," you say, meeting his gaze. "It's the same for you, isn't it? With your sketches?"

He chuckles, looking down at the blank page in front of him. "Yeah. Except half the time I want to rip the fucking paper to shreds because it's never good enough."

"Don't," you say firmly, your voice soft but insistent. "Your work is incredible, Hyunjin. Don't sell yourself short."

His ears tint pink, and he ducks his head, his smile almost shy. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you."

The conversation shifts from there, drifting into easier territory. You talk about ridiculous childhood stories like the time you tripped during your first recital and wanted to quit on the spot.

Hyunjin counters with a tale about Minho accidentally locking himself out of the frat house wearing nothing but a towel, and you laugh so hard you have to wipe tears from your eyes.

"God, your friends are fucking insane," you say between giggles.

"You have no idea," he replies, grinning. "Living with them is like a daily test of patience and survival."

The hours slip by without either of you noticing, the weight of the day melting away in the warmth of your laughter. By the time you glance at the clock, it's nearly midnight.

"Shit," you mutter, standing and stretching your arms overhead. "I didn't realize it was so late."

Hyunjin follows suit, stretching lazily as the hem of his sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of toned skin. You quickly avert your gaze. "Time flies when you're with me," he says, smirking.

"Or when you're swapping embarrassing childhood stories," you counter, shooting him a playful glare.

He chuckles, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "Fair enough. I'll let you get back to it, then."

You walk him to the door, pausing as he turns to face you. "Thanks for coming by," you say softly, your smile warm. "It's nice having company."

"Anytime," he replies, his voice just as soft. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable but heavy. Then the smirk returns. "See you soon, Y/N."

"See you soon, Hyunjin," you echo, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the door closes behind him, you exhale, your lips curving into a small smile. The air feels lighter, warmer, though the space is now empty. And for the first time in a long while, you're glad it isn't just your sanctuary anymore.

The studio is unusually quiet tonight. The air feels heavier than usual, weighted by your own fatigue. Each movement takes more effort than it should, your muscles dragging like they're stuck in molasses. You stretch at the barre, your arms trembling slightly as you press into the motion.

A soft cough escapes your lips, muffled into the crook of your elbow. You try to ignore the rasp in your throat, the way your breath comes just a little too shallow, but it's no use. Your body isn't cooperating, and you know it.

Hyunjin watches from his usual spot by the mirror, his sketchbook open on his lap. His pencil hasn't moved for minutes now, his focus entirely on you. He notices every detail, the way your shoulders slump, the hesitation in your usually fluid spins. When you pause to lean against the barre, catching your breath, he finally speaks up, his voice sharp enough to cut through the stillness.

"Y/N," he says, his tone edged with concern. "Are you sick?"

You glance at him, brushing a loose strand of hair from your damp forehead. "I'm fine," you say, your voice hoarse and thin. "Just a little cold."

"Bullshit," he snaps, setting his sketchbook down with a soft thud. His eyes narrow as he pushes himself off the floor. "You're coughing, your voice sounds like sandpaper, and you look like you're about to keel the fuck over. Don't lie to me."

"I'm fine," you insist, but it's weak, even to your own ears.

"Like hell you are." He strides across the room, his long legs closing the distance quickly. "Take a break. Seriously. You look like you're about to pass the fuck out."

You sigh, leaning heavily against the barre, the fight draining out of you. "I just need a minute."

"No," he says firmly, grabbing his sketchbook and sitting on the floor. He pats the spot next to him with exaggerated patience. "You're sitting down. Now. Don't make me drag your ass over here."

Your lips twitch with the faintest hint of a smile, but you're too tired to argue. Slowly, you sink down beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you. "Fine. What are we doing?"

He flips through the pages of his sketchbook, his movements deliberate. "Just look at this," he says, though there's a hint of nervousness in his tone that you don't miss.

You glance down as he opens the book to a familiar page, a sketch of you mid-spin, arms outstretched, hair flying. You've seen this one before, the strength and fluidity of your movement captured perfectly in pencil strokes. But as he turns the page, your breath catches.

It's you. Not the dancer you see in the mirror, not the performer on stage, but you in quiet, unguarded moments. You sipping coffee, your hands curled around the mug like it's a lifeline. You laughing, your head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. You stretching absentmindedly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. The sketches are meticulous, yet they radiate something softer, something achingly familiar.

"You've been drawing me?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The rawness of it is both from your cold and the sudden emotion bubbling up in your chest.

Hyunjin rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks faintly pink. "Yeah. I mean... you're inspiring. It's not just the way you move—it's everything. The way you laugh like you don't give a fuck who's listening. The way you zone out when you're thinking too hard. Even the way you drink coffee, like it's the best goddamn thing you've ever tasted. It's... fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. You're just... effortlessly beautiful."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but in the best way. You blink down at the sketches, the intricate lines and subtle shading, the way he's managed to capture so much of you. "Hyunjin," you whisper, your throat tightening. "These are- they're incredible. You're incredible."

He shrugs, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "It's easy when the subject is..." He trails off, his gaze flickering to yours. "Well. You."

You feel your cheeks heat, the compliment settling somewhere deep in your chest. "Thank you. For seeing me like this."

His expression softens, the usual cockiness giving way to something more vulnerable. "It's just the truth."

You cough again, the sound rough and raw, and Hyunjin's brow furrows immediately. He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours as he sits up straighter. "That's it," he declares. "We're done here. Come on." He stands and holds a hand out to you.

You blink at him, confused. "What?"

"We're getting you soup," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "No fucking debate. Let's go."

You start to protest, shaking your head weakly. "I'm fine, Hyunjin. I don't need—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm but not unkind. He fixes you with a look that's both exasperated and weirdly endearing. "You're not fine. You're a stubborn little shit, but you're also sick. We're getting soup. End of story."

You sigh, defeated, and take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. "You're bossy, you know that?"

"And you're a pain in the ass," he shoots back, grinning. "Let's call it even."

The night air is sharp against your skin as you step outside, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. Hyunjin walks beside you, his hand brushing yours occasionally as the two of you head toward a quiet corner of campus. The restaurant he leads you to is small and cozy, tucked between two buildings like a secret. Warm light spills from the windows, and the scent of broth and spices hits you the moment you walk in.

Hyunjin orders for both of you, a hearty soup and a pot of hot tea to share, and when the food arrives, he pushes your bowl toward you with a pointed look. "Eat."

You pick up your spoon, the warmth of the soup spreading through you as you take a sip. It's comforting in a way you hadn't realized you needed.

"Better?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost tentative.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Much better. Thank you."

He leans back in his chair, his expression smug but satisfied. "Good. You're not allowed to starve yourself when you're sick. It's fucking illegal."

"Oh, really?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Whose laws are these?"

"Mine," he replies without hesitation, grinning. "And trust me, I'm an unforgiving dictator."

You laugh, the sound raspier than usual but still genuine. "Well, thank you, Supreme Leader Hyunjin."

"You're welcome, loyal subject," he quips, his grin widening.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm as you eat, the conversation flowing between bites of soup and sips of tea. He tells you about Minho's latest antics, something about an ill-fated attempt to flirt with a girl who turned out to be his TA, and you share a story about your first recital, when you tripped during the opening number and wanted to quit on the spot.

By the time you glance at the clock, it's nearly midnight, and the world outside has gone quiet. Hyunjin insists on walking you home, his hands stuffed into his pockets as the two of you make your way back across campus.

"Thanks for taking care of me," you say softly as you reach your door. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, I did," he replies, his gaze meeting yours. "You're too fucking nice for your own good. Someone has to look out for you."

You feel your heart squeeze at his words, but you smile anyway. "Well, you're pretty good at it."

"Damn right I am," he says, smirking. "Now go to bed. No late-night choreography, I mean it."

"Yes, sir," you tease, rolling your eyes.

He grins, stepping back. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Hyunjin."

As he walks away, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, you feel a warmth settle over you that has nothing to do with the soup. For the first time in days, you feel genuinely cared for.

The Alpha Phi living room reeks of weed, stale beer, and half-eaten pizza. A haze of smoke curls lazily around the room, mixing with the loud, slurred laughter of the frat boys sprawled across the furniture.

Minho is slouched on the couch, a joint dangling from his fingers, his other hand resting on the thigh of a Kappa Tau girl perched on his lap. Her glossy lips are stretched into a giggle that grates on Hyunjin's nerves the second he walks in. Jisung, meanwhile, is leaning back in the recliner, another girl practically draped over him, both of them laughing at something incoherent and stupid.

The coffee table is a war zone of empty beer cans, crushed Solo cups, and grease-stained pizza boxes. It's the kind of chaos Hyunjin usually ignores, hell, sometimes he even thrives in it. But tonight? Tonight, it makes his blood fucking boil.

"Y/N's sick," Hyunjin snaps, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade. It's sharp, furious, and instantly cuts through the haze of laughter. "She's fucking sick, coughing her lungs out, barely able to stand, and meanwhile, you two are here, lying to her, ignoring her, fucking around like it's nothing. What the actual fuck is this?"

Minho blinks at him, slow and stupid, his eyes bloodshot as he squints through the smoke. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Hyunjin takes a step closer, his jaw clenched. "Y/N. Your friend. The one you two abandoned for this bullshit." He gestures wildly to the scene in front of him, his frustration spilling out unchecked. "She was in the studio earlier, pushing herself so hard she could barely breathe. I had to drag her out to get soup because she hasn't been eating properly, and she couldn't even fucking call either of you because, guess what? You lied to her about having exams. So tell me, Minho, what the fuck is this?"

Jisung sits up straighter, looking vaguely defensive as he rubs at the back of his neck. "She's fine. Y/N's tough."

"Tough?" Hyunjin's voice rises, and the anger in it makes Jisung flinch. "You think that makes it okay? She's fucking tough because she has to be, not because she wants to. She was practically falling over, Jisung. You should've seen her, coughing, wheezing, still trying to practice because she thought you two were too fucking busy to care."

One of the Kappa Tau girls, a brunette with obnoxiously long extensions, chimes in with a scoff. "They're busy with us. Their little friend can handle herself."

Hyunjin's head snaps toward her, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously. His voice drops, cold and venomous. "Get the fuck out. Now."

The girl blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Hyunjin says, his tone lethal. "Get. The fuck. Out. Before I rip those shitty extensions out myself."

Her bravado falters under his glare. "You're such a fucking buzzkill," she huffs, grabbing her bag and stomping toward the door. The other girl, less bold and clearly spooked, scrambles up and mumbles a quick goodbye before following her out.

Minho looks up, his jaw tightening. "Hyunjin, what the actual fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" Hyunjin snaps, his voice cutting like a whip. "My problem is that Y/N is too fucking nice to realize that the two of you are absolute shit friends. My problem is that she thinks it's her fault you've been ignoring her. She was literally defending you earlier, Minho. She said, 'They probably have their reasons. They didn't want me to feel left out.' Left out? She's making excuses for you, and meanwhile, you're here playing frat house fuckboy."

Jisung's mouth opens, but Hyunjin raises a hand, cutting him off. "No. Shut the fuck up. You let her think she didn't matter enough to bother with. And for what? This?" He gestures angrily at the wreckage of the living room. "This isn't fucking worth it."

Minho looks away, his jaw tight, guilt flickering across his face. Jisung runs a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable, his leg bouncing nervously as he struggles to find words.

"You don't deserve her," Hyunjin says finally, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "She's too fucking good for either of you."

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and neither of them tries to argue. Before they can muster a response, Hyunjin's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, his expression softening slightly when he sees your name. Without hesitation, he answers, putting the phone on speaker.

"Y/N?" he says, his tone gentler than it's been all night.

"Hi, Hyunjin," your voice comes through, weak and raspy. It's like a punch to the chest. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just- Could you maybe pick me up some cough medicine? My muscles ache so bad, and I feel awful, but I didn't want to bother Minho or Jisung. I know they're busy."

Hyunjin's eyes snap to Minho and Jisung, both of whom look like they've been slapped. Minho's grip tightens on the joint before he crushes it out in the ashtray, his jaw clenching.

"Of course, Y/N," Hyunjin says, his voice soft but firm. "Don't worry about it. I'll be there soon."

"Thank you," you whisper, relief heavy in your tone. "I really appreciate it."

"Anything for you," he replies sincerely. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

He hangs up, and the room is deadly quiet for a moment before Hyunjin turns his glare back to the two of them. "Did you hear her? She didn't want to 'bother' you. You've made her think she's a fucking burden. You assholes are lucky she hasn't cut you off completely."

Minho is already on his feet. "I'll get it. I'll go right now."

Jisung jumps up, grabbing his keys. "We'll fix it. We'll get the medicine and apologize."

"You fucking better," Hyunjin mutters, stepping back as they scramble for their shoes. "And you're going to make it right."

"Yeah," Jisung says quickly, his voice tight. "We will."

They rush out, the door slamming behind them, and Hyunjin exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. The anger lingers, simmering under his skin, but there's a flicker of satisfaction too. For once, it feels like they might actually get their shit together.

And for you? Hyunjin would burn the whole damn house down if it meant you never felt alone again.

Minho and Jisung practically sprint through the dorm hallways, juggling plastic bags filled to bursting with everything they could grab at the store. The rustle of bags and their muffled swearing echoes down the corridor as they fumble with the sheer volume of their haul: cough medicine, lemon tea, honey, tissues, painkillers, ginger, lemons, pre-cooked chicken, and even random snacks Jisung insisted on, including a family-sized pack of cookies.

"Fucking hell, why did I let you grab this much shit?" Minho hisses, nearly tripping over his own feet as a bag digs into his wrist.

"Emergency morale boosters are a necessity," Jisung shoots back, juggling a box of instant ramen precariously on top of his already-full arms. "I'm telling you, Y/N's gonna love the cookies."

"Soup first. Cookies second. I swear to God, if you make her eat cookies before real food—"

"I know, I know! Don't yell at me!" Jisung grumbles, though his pace quickens as they round the last corner.

When they reach your door, Minho raises a hand to knock, but the door swings open before he can. You're leaning heavily against the frame, wrapped in an old blanket and wearing one of Minho's oversized T-shirts. The fabric hangs off your shoulders, the faded logo almost completely worn away. Your hair is messy, tendrils sticking to your forehead, and your face is drawn, your tired eyes framed by deep circles. You sniffle softly, offering them a weak smile.

"Hey," you croak, your voice a low rasp.

Minho's brows knit together immediately. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, stepping closer to place a hand on your forehead. His touch is cool, and the frown on his face deepens. "You look like absolute shit."

"Wow," you rasp with a dry laugh, stepping aside to let them in. "Nice to see you too."

"Holy shit, Y/N," Jisung says, shuffling inside and carefully dropping the bags on your tiny kitchen counter. His wide eyes dart around the room, taking in the barely-touched water bottles and the tissues piled on your nightstand. "Why didn't you fucking call us earlier? You look like death warmed over."

"I didn't want to bother you," you reply, closing the door and leaning against it for support. "You've been busy."

"Busy being dicks," Minho mutters under his breath as he starts unloading the bags onto your counter. He pulls out a pot and grabs the chicken, turning back to look at you, his expression softening. "Go. Get your ass in bed. I'm making you chicken soup. And don't even fucking think about arguing. You love my soup."

You hesitate for a moment, but the way Minho glares at you, sharp but with an underlying warmth, makes you cave. "Okay, okay," you mumble, shuffling toward your bed. Your legs wobble slightly as you move, and Jisung is at your side in a heartbeat.

"Fuck, Y/N, sit down before you collapse," he says, his voice filled with more concern than he usually shows. He helps you onto the bed and grabs a blanket from the foot of it, draping it over your shoulders and tucking it around you like a burrito. "There. Cozy?"

"Super cozy," you rasp, amused despite yourself. "Thanks, Ji."

"You're welcome," he says, pulling up a chair next to the bed and rummaging through one of the bags. "Okay, let's see, honey, for your throat. Lemon. Oh, shit, I grabbed ginger too. And, uh, tissues. And this weird-ass herbal tea the cashier said would cure your soul or something."

"You're high," you tease softly, watching him with a faint smile.

"Maybe a little," he admits, giggling as he pulls out a pack of cookies and waves it like a trophy. "But that doesn't mean I can't take care of you. Look, cookies. For morale. Revolutionary."

"Soup first, Jisung," Minho barks from the kitchenette, where he's already chopping vegetables with sharp, practised movements. "No fucking cookies before soup."

"Fine, dad," Jisung mutters, leaning over to smooth a stray strand of hair from your forehead. "Y/N, I swear to God, I'm gonna take care of you until you're back to dancing around and making us feel untalented."

You laugh softly, but it turns into a rattling cough that makes both of them wince. Jisung's face twists in concern as he grabs the tissue box and holds it out to you. "Okay, coughing is now illegal. I'm banning it."

"Seconded," Minho calls, tossing chopped ginger into the pot. "And you're not allowed to die. It's against the rules. You're too nice for that shit."

You manage a hoarse laugh, curling deeper into the blanket. "I wasn't planning on it, but thanks for the pep talk."

Jisung's voice drops, uncharacteristically serious. "We're sorry, Y/N. For being, you know, absolute dickheads. You deserve better."

You shake your head weakly, your voice soft. "You're not dickheads. You're here now. That's all that matters."

Minho glances at you over his shoulder, his jaw tight. "We're here now because we fucked up, and we know it. I lied to you about that fucking exam, and Jisung didn't call you back because we were too busy being assholes. That's not okay."

"You're my assholes," you murmur, the corners of your lips tugging into a small smile.

Minho snorts, turning back to the stove. "Damn right we are. And as your assholes, we're fixing it. Starting with this soup."

Jisung leans closer, his chin resting on the edge of your bed. "We missed you, Y/N. And we're gonna do better, I swear."

You hum softly, your eyes already fluttering shut as the exhaustion pulls at you. "I missed you too. So much."

Jisung reaches over to hold your hand lightly, his fingers brushing against yours. "You're way too fucking good to us."

"Damn straight," Minho mutters, his voice softer now. "But we're not leaving you like this again. I mean it."

Jisung picks up the cookies again, holding one up with a grin. "Okay, one morale cookie before soup. Just one. I promise. Don't let Minho see"

You crack an eye open, looking amused as you reach out. "Fine. Just one."

The backstage area is a chaotic whirlwind of activity, a blur of sequins, feathers, and rushing bodies. Dancers flit past in various states of dress, their laughter and shouted instructions blending with the occasional hiss of a steamer and the clatter of heels against the floor. The air is heavy with the sharp scent of hairspray, powder, and sweat, the electric tension so thick it's almost suffocating.

You sit at your station, staring into the mirror under the harsh glare of the lights. Your makeup bag is open in front of you, brushes and palettes scattered in disarray, but your hands won't stop trembling. The eyeliner in your fingers drags a jagged line across your lid, and you curse softly, dropping it onto the table in frustration.

The outfit you've been practicing in for weeks looks stunning under the backstage lights. The halter-style leather corset clings to your frame perfectly, its lace-up front shimmering every time you shift. The matching gloves glint with small embellishments and your garters are taut, connecting your hotpants to the thigh-high fishnets that make your legs look impossibly long in your stilettos. A red feather headpiece tilts delicately on your hair, framing your face, while the boa draped over your shoulders adds a dramatic, sultry flair.

But even with all the effort, the polished look feels like a lie. Your stomach churns, twisting with nerves that seem to multiply with every second, every muffled call for the next dancer. You've never felt more exposed, like every flaw is about to be illuminated the moment you step onto the stage.

"I'm gonna fucking vomit," you mutter, slumping forward to press your forehead against your hand. The eyeliner pen rolls off the table, but you barely notice, too consumed by the rising tide of panic.

"Knock, knock," a voice cuts through the noise, low and familiar, and your head snaps up to meet Hyunjin's gaze in the mirror.

He leans casually against the doorframe, his dark jeans and loose black button-up looking effortlessly perfect, as always. His hair is tucked behind his ears, framing his sharp features, and though his sketchbook is absent, the quiet intensity in his eyes makes you feel like you're being sketched anyway. Every detail of you taken in and captured.

"How's my favourite performer?" he asks, stepping inside. His tone is light, teasing, but there's a softness in his expression as he takes in your trembling hands.

You try to smile, but it falters. "I feel like shit," you admit quietly. "I think I might actually puke."

Hyunjin strides closer, crouching beside your chair so that he's at eye level with you. "You're not going to puke," he says firmly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "You're going to go out there and absolutely kill it. End of story."

You huff a weak laugh, shaking your head. "You have way too much faith in me."

"That's because I've seen you," he replies, his voice soft but resolute. "I've watched you pour every ounce of yourself into this. Every step, every spin, every goddamn detail. Trust me, you're going to blow their fucking minds."

Your throat tightens, your fingers twisting in your lap. "I can't even get my eyeliner right,"

Hyunjin's lips twitch into a smirk. "Let me," he says, standing and grabbing the eyeliner from the floor. He straightens and tilts his head. "Trust me?"

"You? Do my eyeliner?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you secretly a makeup artist now?"

"Relax," he says, his tone playful but sure. "I've done this before. Stay still."

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, your heart fluttering as he steps closer. He places one hand under your chin, tilting your face up toward him, and the warmth of his skin steadies your trembling slightly. His other hand holds the eyeliner steady, and you try not to think about how close he is, his focus entirely on you.

"Don't move," he murmurs, his voice low. You barely breathe as his hand guides the pen smoothly across your lid, the strokes precise and confident.

After a few moments, he leans back, setting the pen down. "Done. Look."

You glance in the mirror, and your jaw drops. "Holy shit," you breathe. "That's... that's perfect."

"Told you," he says smugly, his grin widening. "Now stop clenching your hands. You're gonna ruin your gloves."

You glance down, realizing your fingers are white-knuckled against each other, and laugh softly, releasing them. "Sorry. It's just a lot."

Hyunjin straightens, leaning against the table as he looks at you. "Forget about them," he says suddenly, his tone firm.

"What?"

"The audience. The judges. Fuck all of them." He waves a hand dismissively, his lips quirking into a smirk. "Or better yet, imagine them naked. Isn't that what people say?"

You laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. "Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, your voice soft. "You've done so much already. More than you had to."

His smile falters for a moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. He steps closer, his voice quieter but steady. "Because you've done something to me, Y/N. No one's ever inspired me the way you do. Every line I draw, every thought I have... it's you. And honestly, it scares the shit out of me."

Your breath catches, your heart hammering as he continues.

"But the idea of not telling you, of not trying, scares me even more," he says, his gaze unwavering. "I'd rather crash and burn than watch you dance out of my reach."

For a moment, the world outside fades, the noise of the backstage chaos, the calls for dancers, the rustling of costumes. It's just you and Hyunjin, his words hanging between you like something fragile and beautiful.

"I-" you start, but he holds up a hand, his smile softening.

"Later," he says gently. "We can talk about it later. Tonight, just find me in the crowd. Forget everyone else. Look for me."

You nod slowly, your voice trembling as you say, "Okay."

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face and adjusting the red feather in your headpiece. "You've got this. I'll be right there."

With one last smile, he steps back and heads for the door, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. As the door clicks shut, you take a deep breath, his words still echoing in your mind.

You turn back to the mirror. Your eyeliner is flawless, your outfit gleaming under the lights. The nerves are still there, but they're muted now. Tempered by the warmth in Hyunjin's voice and the steady certainty in his gaze.

You pick up your boa, draping it over your shoulders as you stand. One thought anchors you, steadying the whirlwind of nerves in your chest. Find Hyunjin in the crowd. Forget everyone else.

The stage is bathed in darkness, the auditorium buzzing with electric anticipation. You stand just offstage, one hand gripping the edge of the curtain, your breathing shallow as you wait for your cue.

The opening bassline of Dirty Diana thrums faintly in the background, the vibrations running through your heels and up your legs. The heat of the stage lights waiting to ignite feels oppressive even from here. Sweat beads on your back, but it's impossible to tell if it's from the heat or the nerves.

You can do this, you tell yourself, though your pulse pounds erratically. Your stomach twists, and your fingers curl tighter around the curtain. When the lights dim further, a sharp red glow spills onto the stage like blood across black velvet, cutting through the air like a siren.

This is it.

The music surges, and the red lights sharpen into beams that slice through the darkness, spotlighting the stage. You step out, your stilettos clicking softly against the polished floor, and the air in the room shifts. The world feels like it's both expanding and closing in, the crowd's hum muted by the rush of blood in your ears. Your movements are steady but deliberate, every step taking you further into the blazing heat of the spotlight.

Then you see them.

Front and centre, Hyunjin sits with Jisung and Minho, but the entire Alpha Phi crew has shown up. Chan leans slightly forward, his expression curious but impressed. Changbin is perched with his arms crossed, nodding along to the beat as if sizing you up. Felix has a camera slung over his shoulder and is already snapping away, adjusting his angles. Jeongin and Seungmin sit side by side, both watching intently, though Seungmin looks like he's trying not to smile.

And Hyunjin? His eyes are locked on you.

The moment your gaze meets his, it's like the rest of the room blurs. He's sitting forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. There's something grounding about the way he looks at you, steady and unwavering, and for a moment, your nerves falter. Then his lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, and something shifts inside you. Confidence blooms, hot and electric, chasing away the fear.

The music kicks in, the beat hitting hard, and you move.

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, years of practice taking over. You flow seamlessly with the rhythm, every movement deliberate and sharp. The click of your heels punctuates the music, your steps precise and purposeful as the choreography unfolds. The leather corset clings to you like armour, your boa trailing behind you like the tail of a firework. The lights pulse red and black, shadows shifting dramatically with each movement.

When you drop to the floor for the first time, your legs spreading perfectly in sync with the beat, the crowd explodes. Gasps and cheers echo through the auditorium as you arch your back, tossing your head back, the red feathers of your headpiece catching the light like flames. You snap your head up, hair whipping around you, and from the corner of your vision, you catch Felix grinning as he snaps another shot.

"Holy fucking shit!" Minho's voice booms over the noise, his hands clapping wildly as he half-stands, pointing at you like he's claiming you as his protégé. "That's my fucking girl!"

"Damn right!" Jisung yells, standing to add to the cheers, his voice rising above the roar. He's grinning so wide it looks like his face might split, his energy contagious as the rest of Alpha Phi joins in. Changbin whistles sharply, a low, appreciative sound, while Jeongin nudges Chan and mutters something that makes the older boy laugh and nod.

But your focus narrows to Hyunjin. He hasn't moved, hasn't taken his eyes off you once. He's leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped loosely, but there's nothing loose about the way he looks at you. His expression is unreadable, captivated, maybe a little awestruck, but it's the kind of intensity that keeps your feet steady and your movements sharp. It feels like he's grounding you, tethering you to something solid as you pour every ounce of yourself into the routine.

The beat builds again, and you drop into a split, leaning back so your head nearly brushes the floor. The lights pulse red and white, casting jagged shadows across your body as you snap back up into a smooth twist. Your legs cross, your arms sweeping out as you rise to your feet, spinning sharply into the next sequence. The cheers swell, a wave of sound that pushes against the stage like a physical force.

"Fucking insane!" Jisung yells, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Y/N, you're a goddamn goddess!"

"This is fucking gold," Felix mutters, adjusting his lens for a better angle. "Minho, shut up and let me focus."

Minho doesn't shut up. "She's killing it!" he shouts, his voice cracking slightly as he claps harder. "Look at her go!"

You can't hear the individual words over the roar of the crowd, but you feel the energy coursing through the room like lightning. It fuels you, pushing you through the crescendo of the song. Your body moves on instinct now, every step, every spin, every drop a perfect reflection of the beat. The corset bites slightly at your ribs, the heels make your calves ache, but you barely notice.

And always, your eyes find Hyunjin.

He's smiling now, a faint curve of his lips that's softer than anything else in the room. But it's his eyes that hit you hardest. They're lit with something raw, something bright and deep that makes your heart pound harder than the bass. Pride, admiration, something else you can't quite name, it's all there, written plainly across his face. It's for you, and it's yours.

The routine crescendos into the final beat. You drop into your finishing pose, legs wide, boa draped across your shoulders, your arms outstretched, head thrown back. The lights flash once, twice, then fade, leaving you framed in a spotlight as the last note lingers in the air.

For a moment, the auditorium is silent.

Then the crowd erupts.

The applause is deafening, whistles and cheers bouncing off the walls. The Alpha Phi crew is on their feet, clapping and hollering louder than anyone else in the room.

Minho is shouting your name like a man possessed, Jisung is laughing so hard he can barely yell, and Changbin throws up a hand in a triumphant cheer. Chan and Jeongin are whistling loudly as they clap. Felix's camera is still clicking, capturing every moment, while Seungmin claps steadily, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Hyunjin stands too, his applause slower but no less intense. His eyes never leave you, his expression unreadable except for the warmth radiating from his gaze. You're sure you're imagining it, but it feels like he's the only one clapping, the sound of his hands cutting through the chaos to wrap around you.

You take a deep, shaky breath and bow, your chest heaving, your face flushed. The world feels impossibly loud, but there's a quiet warmth growing in your chest. Something steady and grounding that you know belongs to him.

As you step offstage, your legs trembling slightly, someone presses a water bottle into your hand, and you take a grateful sip. The crowd noise follows you, the energy still thrumming in your veins.

The backstage hum has settled into a quieter buzz, the adrenaline fading to a warm, satisfied ache in your muscles. The air still carries faint traces of hairspray and sweat, mingling with the cool bite of the water bottle pressed to your lips. You lean against the edge of the makeup table, your legs shaky but your chest still thrumming with the electricity of the performance.

Then the door opens, and Hyunjin steps in.

He looks breathtaking, like he's been pulled straight out of a dream. His black button-up is slightly wrinkled from where he's probably been fidgeting with it, his dark jeans hugging his long legs in a way that feels unfair. His hair is tucked behind his ears, framing his sharp jawline, but it's the way his eyes find you that steals the air from your lungs. In his hands is a bouquet of vibrant red roses nestled alongside soft pink carnations and white lilies, the colours a stark, beautiful contrast against his all-black outfit.

You freeze, your words catching in your throat as the world narrows to just him.

"You were incredible," he says, his voice soft but firm, like he's stating a fact. He steps closer, the bouquet shifting in his hands as he holds it out to you. "I've never seen anything like that."

The sincerity in his voice is a balm to the lingering nerves that twist in your stomach, and you manage a small, shaky smile. Your hands tremble slightly as you take the bouquet, the weight of it grounding you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For being there. For... everything."

Hyunjin shakes his head, a faint, almost bashful smile tugging at his lips. "It's not enough," he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face like he's trying to memorize every detail. "I wish you could've seen what I saw out there. You..." He exhales, almost in awe. "You were ethereal."

The way he says it, like he believes it with every fiber of his being, makes your heart stutter. The bouquet trembles slightly in your hands, and you set it down carefully on the table beside you before turning back to him. You don't think; you just act, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward you.

Your lips crash against his, and for a split second, everything goes still. Hyunjin freezes, his breath catching, but then his hands find your waist, and it's like a dam breaking. He pulls you closer, kissing you back with an urgency that's almost overwhelming. It's messy and raw, a collision of emotions too big to put into words. His fingers dig into your hips, firm and grounding, as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

Your back hits the edge of the makeup table as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the cold surface. The contrast of the chill against your skin and the heat of his hands sliding up your sides makes you gasp, and Hyunjin takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

"Hyunjin," you breathe, breaking away just enough to rest your forehead against his. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady, mingling with yours. "What are we doing?"

"Exactly what I've wanted to do for weeks," he admits, his voice low and rough, each word vibrating against your skin. His hands trace small, deliberate circles on your waist, like he's trying to anchor himself to you. "I want you. I want to be the one you look for in the crowd. For as long as I have hands to draw and a heart to give."

The raw honesty in his words makes something inside you unravel, leaving you exposed in the best way. Your chest feels too full, your heart beating so fast it feels like it might break free. "You should've been a poet," you manage, your voice a soft, teasing whisper, even as a smile tugs at your lips.

Hyunjin chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "You inspire me to be a lot of things," he murmurs before kissing you again, this time slower, more deliberate. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheeks as his lips move against yours like he's memorizing every curve, every line, every moment.

When he finally pulls back, his breath comes in shallow, ragged pulls, but his gaze is steady. His forehead rests against yours again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have something to show you tonight. At the frat."

You nod, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the nape of his neck. "Okay," you whisper back. "Whatever it is, I want to see it."

Before either of you can say more, the door bursts open, and chaos spills in.

"Y/N!" Jisung's voice rings out like a fucking bullhorn, followed by a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the loud rustling of paper. You and Hyunjin spring apart, though his hands linger on your waist for a fraction of a second longer before he steps back.

The entire Alpha Phi crew barrels into the room, each of them holding bouquets that range from extravagant to downright ridiculous. Jisung's is mostly weeds and wildflowers, while Minho's looks like he swept his arm across a flower shop shelf and grabbed whatever fell. Chan's is elegant but understated, a careful mix of white roses and greenery.

"Look at you!" Chan grins, stepping forward to hand you his bouquet. "Fucking murdered it out there. Absolutely killed."

Changbin whistles, his eyes darting between you and Hyunjin. "Uh, should we come back later, or...?"

"Shut the fuck up, Bin," Minho huffs, shoving a massive bouquet of sunflowers and daisies into your arms. "These are for you. And you better fucking like them because I didn't spend half an hour talking with the florist for nothing."

You laugh softly, overwhelmed but deeply touched. "Thank you," you say, your voice still raw but warm as your gaze sweeps over them. "Really. This means so much."

Felix grins, leaning over Changbin's shoulder. "Told you she was hot as fuck," he mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Minho.

"I will end you," Minho snaps, though his glare lacks any real heat.

Jisung throws an arm around your shoulders, his grin wide and boyish. "You fucking crushed it, Y/N. Like, holy shit. That split? I almost died."

Jeongin leans against the wall, smirking. "Well, we weren't gonna miss it. Minho and Jisung wouldn't shut the fuck up about how amazing you were. Turns out, they were right."

Amid the chaos, your eyes find Hyunjin's again. He stands slightly apart from the group, his hands tucked into his pockets, but the private smile he gives you is enough to make your cheeks flush. It's quieter than the bouquets, the noise, the shouts, but it's the most meaningful thing in the room.

The Alpha Phi frat house feels unusually subdued as you and Hyunjin step through the front door. The muffled echoes of laughter and music drift up from the living room, but the usual chaotic energy is missing, leaving the air strangely calm. Hyunjin's hand brushes yours lightly as he leads you toward the stairs, a touch so casual yet electric it sets your nerves on edge.

He glances back at you, his dark eyes flicking over your face. "You're quiet," he says softly, his voice barely carrying over the creak of the stairs.

"I'm... processing," you reply, your tone just as quiet. "This whole night has been... a lot."

Hyunjin's lips quirk into a small smile, but there's something unreadable in his expression. "Good 'a lot' or bad 'a lot'?"

"Definitely good," you admit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Just... new."

His laughter is a low, warm hum. "I think you'll like this next part, then."

When you reach his room, he pauses at the door, his hand lingering on the knob. He looks at you for a beat, as if debating something, before pushing it open and stepping aside to let you in.

The room is cozy, in that effortlessly personal way that feels so much like Hyunjin. His bed is neatly made, a dark throw blanket draped at the foot. The desk is cluttered with sketchbooks, pencils, and a scattering of erasers that looks less like a mess and more like a workspace frozen in the middle of inspiration. An easel stands in the corner, a sheet draped over it, and the faint scent of paint lingers in the air, mingling with the warm spice of his cologne.

You step inside, your gaze sweeping the space. "I think this is the cleanest frat room I've ever seen."

Hyunjin snorts, closing the door behind him. "High standards for myself. Low standards for the rest of these idiots."

You laugh softly, perching on the edge of his bed as he moves to the easel. "Okay," you say, gesturing to it. "You've been hyping this up all night. What is it?"

He hesitates for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the sheet as he glances at you. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual confidence. "It's something I've been working on. For you."

"For me?" you echo, your brows knitting together. "Hyunjin, what-"

He pulls the sheet away in one smooth motion, cutting off your question. The painting underneath steals the air from your lungs.

It's you. Caught mid-motion, your body curved in an elegant stretch, one arm arched high above your head as if you're reaching for something just out of frame. Your hair cascades around your shoulders, and your lips are curved into a soft, genuine smile, the kind you rarely catch in your reflection.

The colours are warm and rich, a mix of soft golds and deep reds, your figure glowing against an impressionistic blur of background. The strokes are deliberate yet fluid, the details so intricate it feels alive, like it could move at any moment.

You stare at it, your hands gripping the edge of the bed. "Hyunjin," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "It's... it's stunning. I don't even know what to say."

He steps closer, his hands shoved into his pockets as he watches your reaction. "It's how I see you," he says simply. "Effortless. Alive."

Your chest tightens at his words, and you glance back at the painting, overwhelmed. "I don't... I don't think I've ever looked at myself like this."

He shakes his head, his voice quieter now. "That's the problem, isn't it? You don't see what everyone else does. You don't see what I see."

You look up at him, your heart hammering in your chest. "And what do you see?"

He tilts his head, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. "I see someone who makes the world brighter just by existing. Someone who laughs like it's a gift. Someone who makes me want to be better. Fuck, I see someone who makes me."

You blink, your throat tightening as his words sink in. The painting blurs in your peripheral vision, eclipsed by the intensity of his gaze. "You really mean that?"

"I don't say shit I don't mean," he murmurs, stepping closer. His hands come to rest on either side of you, gripping the bed as he leans down slightly. "You've been in my head since the moment we met. You're in everything I do. Every sketch. Every brushstroke. You're everywhere."

Your breath catches, and before you can overthink it, your hands find the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Your lips meet his, and it's like the world tilts on its axis. His kiss is hungry and insistent, his hands sliding to your waist and pulling you flush against him. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you gasp softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he deepens the kiss.

Hyunjin groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he lifts you onto the bed. You gasp again, your back arching slightly as the cool fabric of his comforter contrasts with the heat of his touch. His lips move to your jaw, then your neck, and the sensation sends shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, his voice rough. "You don't know what you do to me."

You pull his face back to yours, your eyes locking onto his. "Show me," you whisper, your voice trembling but steady.

His gaze darkens, but there's a flicker of tenderness in his expression as he kisses you again, slower this time. His hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if you're something fragile and precious. The air between you is charged, every touch, every kiss laced with unspoken promises.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling. "I don't think I'll ever be able to look at myself the same way again," you admit softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

"Good," he murmurs, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Because I'm not letting you forget how incredible you are."

The painting stands quietly in the corner, the soft glow of the room's light casting a warm shadow over it. It's a testament to everything you've been and everything you're becoming. A reflection of how he sees you. And as you sit there, tangled together in the quiet of his room, the world outside feels a million miles away.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

156 notes · View notes