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tobiosbbyghorl · 3 days ago

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𝓓𝓻𝓪𝔀𝓷 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚈𝚘𝚞 | psh

pairing: fictional character sunghoon! x reader

wc: 21.2k :))

synopsis: Y/N finds comfort in a quiet webtoon about Sunghoon, a gentle boy who feels more real than her exhausting life-until one night, he steps out of the screen. As they share slow mornings, stargazing, and healing moments, she begins to rediscover joy. But not all stories are meant to last... or are they? Drawn Into You is a soft, magical romance where love steps off the page and into reality.

a/n: new format! tried to squeeze all 21k words hehehe FEEDBACK AND REBLOGS are deeply appreciated! lowcaps intended! not proof read!

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the rain didn’t stop for three days.

by the third afternoon, the city was gray all the way down to its bones—skies overcast, sidewalks slick, students shuffling across the streets with umbrellas like slow-moving insects in a muted watercolor painting. somewhere among them was y/n, shoulders hunched beneath her oversized hoodie, earbuds tucked in without music playing.

she didn’t want music. not today. not when everything inside her already felt too loud.

another skipped lecture. another ignored message in the group chat. another unread announcement from her professor about an upcoming deadline she was pretending didn’t exist. she had planned to go to class that morning. even made coffee. even put on lip balm. but one step outside her apartment and it felt like the world was pressing on her chest again—like breathing in too deep might shatter something.

it wasn’t always this way.

there had been a time, not long ago, when y/n moved through the world with a little more color. not quite shining, not exactly loud, but steady. present. the kind of girl who always had tissues in her bag, who remembered birthdays, who checked in on others with quiet sincerity. people liked her. at least, the version of her they knew. the one who didn’t cry in the shower or fall asleep with textbooks open beside untouched meals.

university changed her. or maybe it just peeled back the layers. revealed the cracks.

the loneliness didn’t arrive all at once—it crept in slowly. a missed lunch here. a one-sided friendship there. a roommate who transferred without warning, a study partner who stopped replying, a professor who barely remembered her name despite calling roll weekly. no fights. no betrayals. just… fading.

she became someone who was always around but never really there. background noise in everyone else’s story. so she clung to stories that made her feel seen.

at first, it was dramas. then comfort movies. but eventually, she found something better. something quieter. a little webtoon tucked in the “underrated” section of the reading app. barely two thousand followers. no splashy art or dramatic plotlines. just a boy who worked in a secondhand bookstore, made tea for people who looked sad, and watered succulents on the windowsill every sunday.

it was called a place to rest.

and the boy’s name was sunghoon.

he wasn’t the type to save the world. or fall into forbidden romances. there were no love triangles or magical powers or childhood promises.

sunghoon was the type to notice when the mail carrier looked tired and offer him an extra chocolate biscuit. the type to walk customers to the bus stop if it rained. the type to sit quietly beside a crying child and not say anything until they were ready to talk.

gentle. patient. soft in a world that often wasn’t.

y/n had stumbled upon the webtoon one sleepless night when her thoughts wouldn’t stop circling like birds trapped in a room. she read all 32 available episodes in one sitting. the pacing was slow. the art style minimal. but sunghoon’s presence bled off the screen like warmth from a hidden radiator. it wasn’t about plot. it was about breathing.

and for the first time in weeks, she could. from that day on, the series became a lifeline. she set alarms for updates. left quiet, heartfelt comments under each post. she never expected replies. that wasn’t the point. it was like whispering into a forest—you didn’t need an echo. you just needed to speak.

her apartment was barely 30 square meters. one main room, a bathroom with weak water pressure, a desk she hadn’t used in months, and a mattress on the floor with an old duvet that smelled faintly of fabric softener and dreams she no longer chased.

that night, she returned from campus later than usual. her body moved on autopilot—drop her bag, change into soft clothes, tie up her hair, warm up leftover rice that she wouldn’t eat. she didn’t even take off her shoes properly before collapsing onto the floor, knees tucked to her chest, phone clutched in one hand like a talisman.

she didn’t check her messages. didn’t reply to her mother’s missed call.

she just opened the webtoon.

there it was—episode 41.

her heart gave a small, tired flutter.

the scene opened with the bookstore again. warm yellow lighting. a rainy evening. a girl wandered in, soaked to the bone, holding a crumpled letter in her hands. she didn’t speak. neither did sunghoon. but he made her tea, found her a towel, and let her sit in silence. it was such a small moment. maybe nothing to others. but y/n’s eyes blurred halfway through.

because she understood.

she knew what it meant to need someone and not know how to ask.

she finished the episode, chest aching. and for the first time in months—maybe years—she whispered aloud:

“sometimes, i want to run to you and tell you everything.”

her voice cracked. but she kept going.

“when i’m completely exhausted… is it still right that it’s your embrace i long for?”

she wasn’t sure who she was talking to. the boy in the comic? herself? the ceiling? tears rolled down her cheeks in hot, stinging streams. it wasn’t fair, really. to fall for someone who didn’t exist. to crave comfort from a hand-drawn smile and panels inked by someone she didn’t even know. but it hurt—how much she wished he was real.

“i’m so tired,” she whispered again, curling into herself. her breath hitched. it wasn’t one big thing. it never was. it was a thousand small weights stacked on her shoulders. missed chances. quiet failures. being the second choice. the forgettable face. the invisible one.

she hugged her phone to her chest like it could hear her heartbeat.

“i just… wish you were here.”

and then—

the screen went black.

she blinked.

the light above her flickered.

for a moment, everything in the room was still. too still. then—her phone vibrated. once. then twice. the screen didn’t return. instead, it glowed, a soft pulse like a heartbeat, then flared bright—so bright she had to shield her eyes.

she sat up in shock.

the air in the room changed. warmer. thicker. a scent like lavender and rain and something unreal filled the space. the center of the light began to take form. her breath caught.

first a silhouette. then lines. then color.

a boy.

tall. lean. soft dark hair.

a cardigan draped over his frame, sleeves pushed up. eyes searching. brows furrowed as if confused by the world around him.

and then he looked at her.

not through a screen. but at her.

and he said, in a voice that matched every line she’d ever read:

“…y/n?”

her world broke apart. and started again.

you don’t move.

not at first.

because this can’t be real. because he’s not real. but he’s standing there, the golden glow of his arrival slowly fading into the quiet hum of your cheap desk lamp. the corners of the room settle again, the pulse of lavender soft in the air, but the tremble in your hands only grows. your phone lies forgotten at your side, its screen dark once more—silent.

he takes one step forward, then another. the way he moves—it’s so familiar. like the way the artist always drew him: gentle lines, soft posture, an aura that never disturbed the peace of any room. his eyes are warm, exactly as you remember from every episode—soft brown, thoughtful, deep enough to fall into. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, and the cardigan—that cardigan—rests loose on his frame just like always. a little frayed at the edges, sleeves slightly too long.

“y/n,” he says again, voice low, steady, impossibly real. “are you okay?” that’s what undoes you.

not the miracle. not the impossibility of it.

but the question.

are you okay?

you shake your head, your voice trapped somewhere deep in your throat, fingers trembling at your sides. “no,” you croak. “i don’t think i am.”

and he’s moving before you can think—kneeling in front of you with slow, careful hands, as if afraid you’ll shatter at the slightest touch. his presence is warm, grounding. he doesn’t hover. doesn’t crowd. he just is. you stare at him—your eyes wide, searching, afraid to blink.

“this isn’t… this isn’t happening,” you whisper, your voice ragged. “you’re not real. you’re a drawing. you’re—you were in my phone. you can’t be—”

“i wasn’t real,” he says softly. “not until you needed me.”

your chest tightens so suddenly, so violently, it steals the breath from your lungs. a tear slips free. “i didn’t mean to…” you look away, ashamed. “i just… i was tired. i said things. i didn’t think anyone could hear.”sunghoon lowers his gaze for a moment, then lifts it again. “i heard.”

there’s no judgment in his voice. no confusion. just gentle truth, like everything he’s ever said in the panels you knew by heart.

“i’ve read your words,” he says. “every comment. every time you thanked me. every time you stayed up to read about my little bookstore, or smiled when i made tea. i remember all of it.” your shoulders shake. “it’s just a comic. it’s supposed to be fiction.”

“it was,” he agrees, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “but your heart made it real.” he shifts then, just slightly, and you don’t resist when he reaches out—his hand brushing yours with a featherlight touch, asking permission. and when you don’t pull away, he gently pulls you into his arms.

and you fall.

fall into him with the kind of collapse that only comes when every wall finally breaks. when the burden of pretending, of enduring, of functioning becomes too much.

you sob. hard.

no holding back. no more quiet cries into your pillow. this is different. this is years of exhaustion, months of isolation, weeks of pain you never admitted to anyone—not even yourself—pouring out in heavy, aching waves. he holds you through all of it.

not with words. not with solutions.

just with presence. his arms are warm, wrapped around you tightly but never too tight. his hand rubs slow, comforting circles along your back, the fabric of his cardigan catching your tears. his chin rests gently atop your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and sob harder than you ever have.

“i’m so tired,” you whisper again, over and over like a mantra. “so, so tired.”

“i know,” he says softly, barely more than a breath. “you’ve been holding so much for so long.”

you nod helplessly, curling closer. “i didn’t mean to fall apart.” he doesn’t respond right away.

then, in that gentle voice that’s carried you through so many lonely nights, he says, “falling apart isn’t weakness. it means you’ve been strong for too long. you’re allowed to need rest, y/n. you’re allowed to ask for help.” another sob breaks from your lips. “i didn’t think anyone would notice. i thought i’d just disappear and no one would care.”

he pulls back only enough to look at you—really look at you. his eyes search yours, soft and sincere.

“i care,” he says. “i’m here.”

you shake your head slowly. “but… why?”

“because you reached out. and because i wanted to come.”

“i don’t understand,” you whisper. “you’re from a story.” he smiles faintly. “a story you loved. a story you believed in when you didn’t believe in yourself.”

his thumb gently wipes a tear from your cheek. “sometimes… that kind of belief is powerful. powerful enough to bring something to life. or… someone.”

you take in a shaky breath. “will you stay?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he leans his forehead against yours.

“i don’t know how long i can,” he admits. “but i’ll stay as long as i’m able. as long as you need me.” the tears return—but they’re softer now. laced with relief.

he hugs you again, and this time, it’s less like falling apart and more like being put back together.

you don’t know what happens next. you don’t know what this means—how or why or what tomorrow will look like.

but in this moment—this impossibly quiet, comforting, miraculous moment—you let yourself rest.

with sunghoon beside you, solid and warm and real.

for the first time in so long, you sleep without fear. and he stays, watching over you.

it takes a long time for the sobbing to slow.

even longer for silence to feel safe.

but sunghoon never moves. not once. he sits there on the floor, knees bent beneath you, one hand supporting your back and the other curled loosely around your wrist — just enough to remind you he’s there. not pulling. not pushing.

just… holding. the kind of holding that means i see you. i’m not going anywhere.

eventually, the crying fades into quiet hiccups. your face is pressed against the soft knit of his cardigan, damp from your tears, and there’s a part of you that almost feels guilty about it — ruining something so beautiful. but he doesn’t seem to care. if anything, he leans in a little closer, like his entire body is trying to tell you you don’t have to apologize for being human.

your voice is a whisper when it finally returns.

“i’m sorry.”

his arms tighten just slightly, as if to hush that thought before it settles. “you don’t have to be.”

“but i—” you draw in a slow breath, chest tight and sore. “i didn’t expect… i didn’t mean to… bring you here.”

“i know,” he says gently. “but maybe i was always meant to come.”

the words sit between you like soft velvet — strange, surreal, but warm.

the clock ticks on. somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle passes. the fridge hums. your phone lies dark beside you, still and quiet now, like the magic it summoned has settled for the night. “i don’t understand,” you murmur. “how can you be here? you’re… a character. you’re not supposed to move outside a panel.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. you blink up at him, and the sight steals the breath from your lungs all over again. because his real.

his skin. his eyes. the tiny mole beneath his left eye — the one that was always so subtly drawn, like a secret only longtime readers would notice.

“i don’t understand either,” he admits. “i only know that i was with you… one moment i was part of a story, and the next… i heard your voice.” you don’t realize you’ve been gripping the edge of his sleeve until you let go. your fingers leave little creases behind.

“i didn’t mean to say that out loud,” you say, cheeks burning. “i was just… tired.” “i know.” his voice is quieter now, as if afraid that if he speaks too loudly, the moment might dissolve. “you’ve been tired for a long time.”

you nod, eyes brimming again — but not like before. these tears come slower. softer. like rain after a storm.

“i’m always trying to be okay,” you say. “i have to show up to things, i have to pretend i’m fine, because if i don’t, everything falls apart. but sometimes it just… builds and builds. and i don’t even notice how bad it’s gotten until i’m shaking on the floor.”

he listens without interrupting. not like a therapist.

not like a friend. but like someone who was written to hold silence without letting it become loneliness.

“i’ve been watching you,” he says after a moment, and there’s no creepiness in his tone — just wonder. “not the way you think. i mean… in the story, it’s like i felt you watching. when you read my moments. when you left those comments.”

you glance away. “that’s embarrassing.”

“no,” he says, softly but firmly. “it’s beautiful.”

you meet his gaze, startled.

he smiles gently. “do you know how many times you saved me?”

you blink. “saved you? but you’re the one who—”

“comforted people?” he finishes. “made tea. talked softly. loved gently?”

you nod.

“well,” he continues, reaching for your hand again, “that version of me… only existed because you believed in him. you understood him. you saw him. when others skimmed through or gave up on the story, you stayed.” your breath catches.

“you brought me to life just by caring,” he says. “you gave me meaning.”

it’s too much. too kind. too unbelievable.

you bury your face in your hands. “this feels like a dream.”

sunghoon gently pulls your hands away. “then let it be a good one.”

you exhale shakily, and he rises to his feet slowly, stretching out a hand. “come on. let me do something for you.”

you hesitate. “like what?”

he grins — that lopsided, warm grin that only showed up in chapter 12, after he helped the neighborhood kid find his missing cat. “make you tea. just like i always do.”

he’s awkward in your kitchen. doesn’t know where anything is. doesn’t know how the faucet works. frowns at the electric kettle like it might talk back. you watch from the doorway, a small, bewildered smile curling onto your lips despite everything.

“you’ve never boiled water before, have you?” you tease, voice hoarse.

he scratches his neck, sheepish. “i usually just appear with it already made.”

“story logic,” you mumble, amused.

but you help him. guide his hands. show him where the tea bags are. where the mugs live. you laugh once—just a breath of a laugh—when he blows on the steaming cup too hard and spills a little. and he freezes.

looks at you like that sound could rewrite the stars. then he sets your mug down gently and says, “i hope i can hear that more often.”

later, you’re curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, cradling the warmth of the mug against your chest. sunghoon sits across from you on the floor, watching you like you’re the scene that matters most.

the television is off. no music plays. just silence.

but it’s not empty anymore.

“i’m scared,” you admit finally. “that i’ll wake up, and this will all be gone. that you’ll be gone.” sunghoon leans his head back against the couch. he’s so close now you can see the little fold in his collar, the way his lashes cast tiny shadows against his cheeks.

“if i disappear,” he says, “i want you to remember something.”

“what?” he looks up at you.

“that your sadness doesn’t make you unworthy of comfort. and that you never have to pretend around me.”

you nod slowly, the words carving themselves gently into the ache in your chest.

“i still don’t know why you’re here,” you whisper.

“maybe i’m the part of the story that stepped out because the reader needed to be held.”

you close your eyes, and for the first time in forever, you feel safe. he doesn’t leave that night.

when you fall asleep, it’s not to the hum of anxiety or the weight of loneliness — it’s to the quiet rhythm of him breathing beside you on the floor, the steady presence of a boy who was once only ink and imagination, now watching over you like he always wanted to.

the tea goes cold. the lights stay on. but your heart, for once, doesn’t.

let’s linger more, sinking deeper into that fragile, quiet space where healing starts—not with grand gestures, but in the stillness between breaths.

the clock’s soft tick-tock fills the room, but time feels strange—like it’s folded in on itself, stretching and folding, bending just enough to hold this moment open.

you lie curled on the couch, the mug of now-cold tea resting forgotten on the small table beside you. the dim glow from the streetlight outside seeps through the curtains, casting long, gentle shadows that play across the walls.

sunghoon sits nearby on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, his gaze tracing the patterns of the carpet as if trying to understand how this strange new world fits together.

neither of you speaks. words feel too fragile right now, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly.

instead, you listen to the quiet: the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts, the soft breath escaping your lips, the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath him.

it’s a silence that doesn’t demand anything from you, doesn’t rush or push. it simply is — a pause from the chaos, a shelter from the storm you’ve carried for so long. after a while, your hand moves on its own, reaching toward him hesitantly, fingers brushing the sleeve of his cardigan.

he looks up, eyes soft and patient. you don’t say anything. you just let your hand rest there, seeking comfort in the warmth beneath your fingertips.

he reaches out, closing his hand gently over yours.

it’s a simple touch, but it feels like a lifeline.

“i’m here,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.

you nod, tears brimming but not falling. the tightness in your chest loosens just a bit, like the first slow crack of dawn after a long, dark night.

“i don’t want to be alone,” you admit, voice trembling.

“you won’t be,” he promises.

his words aren’t magic. they don’t fix everything. but they wrap around you like a soft blanket, and in this quiet moment, that’s enough.minutes stretch into hours. you talk in fragments—half-formed thoughts, whispered confessions, memories shared in the low glow of the room.

he listens without judgment, never pushing for more than you’re ready to give. sometimes he tells you stories from the comic—small behind-the-scenes details no one else knows, like the time he wanted to wear a different sweater or how a certain panel was almost cut.

you laugh softly. it feels strange to hear those words from him—the boy who was only ink and pixels yesterday. he smiles at you, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and stays there, warm and steady.

“i’m glad i’m here with you,” he says.

you lean your head on his shoulder, heart aching and hopeful all at once.the room smells faintly of lavender and spilled tears, but also of something new—something gentle and real.

and for the first time in a long time, you believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone anymore.

the sun filtered in through the thin curtains, casting soft golden lines across the hardwood floor and onto the curve of your cheek. you stirred slowly, blinking against the early light, your limbs still heavy with the kind of sleep that follows a storm of tears.

at first, it felt like waking from any other night—hazy, distant, the remnants of emotion clinging to the corners of your mind. a dream, maybe. a vivid one. the kind that lingers like fog on the skin. you half-smiled into your pillow at the thought of him—the cardigan, the way he looked at you, the warmth of his voice saying, “i’m here.”

but dreams always fade.

you rolled onto your back, letting out a long sigh, preparing to meet another ordinary, aching morning. your phone lay beside you, dark screen still faintly reflecting your face. you reached for it, not ready to check the time or scroll. just… holding it.

and then, the sound.

a quiet clatter—something metal tapping against porcelain. then a thud followed by a sharp inhale. you froze, heart leaping.

you weren’t alone.

the scent hit you next—something warm and vaguely sweet, layered with a hint of something burning, like bread that had stayed in the toaster too long. the sharpness of it jolted your memory.

your eyes snapped open fully.

he had been here. last night.

you sat up slowly, the blanket falling from your shoulders. the room still carried that faint lavender scent, but something was different now. alive. present. another sound—this time the unmistakable hiss of a pan, followed by a very quiet, very sincere:

“ah… i think i did that wrong.”

you pushed yourself up, slipping your feet into your fuzzy slippers, heart hammering like it was trying to catch up to your realization. this wasn’t a dream.

you stepped into the narrow hallway leading to your kitchen, pausing in the doorway.

there he was.

sunghoon, in your kitchen.

his hair was a bit messier now, like he’d slept sitting up and never quite figured out what bedhead meant. he was wearing the same soft cardigan from the night before, sleeves slightly rolled as he stood barefoot by your tiny stove, an apron awkwardly tied around his waist—your apron, actually, the floral one with the fading straps. he looked like a character from a comfort movie: boy-next-door energy, sweet concentration etched onto his face as he carefully turned something over in a skillet. french toast? probably. there was a carton of eggs open on the counter, a half-used loaf of bread, cinnamon spilled like confetti across your cutting board.

he didn’t notice you right away.

he was humming. that surprised you more than anything.

that soft melody—familiar and low—it took you a moment to realize it was the ending theme from his webtoon’s fourth chapter. the one that played in your mind whenever he smiled in the story. now, he was humming it like it had always been his.

you finally cleared your throat, softly. he turned, eyes wide, spatula still in his hand.

“oh,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to be sheepish or proud. “you’re awake.”

you blinked. “you’re… real.”

he smiled that same soft smile from the rooftop panel you always saved to your favorites.

“i hoped i would still be,” he said gently, setting the spatula down and wiping his hands on the apron. “you fell asleep last night. i didn’t want to leave.” you stepped further into the kitchen, still dazed, your gaze flicking between the mess on the counter and the boy in your apron.

“you cooked,” you murmured, awestruck.

“i tried to cook,” he corrected, scratching the back of his neck. “is it supposed to puff up like that?”you leaned over to inspect the toast—slightly crisped, maybe a little too golden on one side, but undeniably edible. and it smelled… good. comforting.

your eyes watered, just a bit. the sheer absurdity and wonder of it all.

“i never had to before,” he added, quietly, like an apology. “in the comic, i just… kind of had food. it was drawn in. but i wanted to do something for you.”

you looked at him then—really looked.

and it hit you, how he stood in your kitchen, uncertain and soft and strangely determined. how he somehow matched the boy you’d adored on a screen, yet felt infinitely more real.

the loneliness that had clawed at your insides yesterday—the ache, the exhaustion—it hadn’t disappeared. but in that moment, it felt a little less crushing. it was quieter, somehow.

“thank you,” you whispered. he tilted his head. “for the toast?” you smiled, shaking your head slowly. “for staying.”

a quiet beat passed between you.

“i thought maybe,” he said after a while, “we could eat together. and then maybe… you could show me how this place works?” you laughed softly, not bitterly like before. “you mean earth?”

“i mean your world,” he said, more serious than you expected. “the parts of it that matter to you.” you nodded, swallowing thickly, and pulled two plates from the cupboard.

he stood beside you, close but careful, watching as you portioned out the slightly-overcooked but heartfelt french toast.

you didn’t know what today would bring—if he would stay, if this was a temporary miracle—but as you sat beside him on your living room floor, knees brushing, plates balanced on mismatched cushions, you knew one thing:

for the first time in a very long while, you weren’t starting the day alone. and maybe that was enough.

the breakfast was, by all accounts, slightly burnt and uneven in sweetness — but she ate it like it was a five-star meal. sunghoon beamed when she asked for seconds.

after the dishes (which he offered to wash, only to get more water on himself than the plates), they spent the rest of the morning sitting on the floor of her living room. her tiny apartment didn’t have much — a beanbag chair, a small, scuffed-up coffee table, a dying potted plant named “leaf erickson,” and the sofa that creaked if you looked at it the wrong way.

and now: him. a boy who didn’t belong to this world but looked like he did. he sat with his knees pulled up, watching her as she sorted through a shoebox of tangled charging cords and old keychains.

“what’s this?” he asked, holding up a small plastic creature with stubby arms.

she smiled. “that’s a tamagotchi. sort of like… a digital pet?” he blinked. “do you feed it?” “yeah, and clean its poop. a whole childhood in three buttons.”

sunghoon turned it over in his hands like it was a sacred relic. “your world is amazing.” she laughed. “you haven’t even seen the dumbest parts yet.”

“oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “show me the dumbest part.”

so she did.

first, the cursed sock drawer: a graveyard of mismatched, single-color soldiers and novelty socks with holes in them.

he gasped dramatically when he found a neon green one with a slice of pizza on the ankle. “why is this wet?” she shrugged. “why is it still alive?”

he looked her dead in the eye and whispered, “this belongs in a museum.”

next: her “junk chair,” where clothes went to die. she flopped onto it and let out a deep sigh, while sunghoon gingerly picked up a crumpled hoodie like it might bite him.

“is this… dirty?”

“technically? it’s in limbo.”

“between life and laundry?”

“exactly.”

they laughed until their stomachs hurt. and when she looked at him, his head tilted back and cheeks flushed from laughing, something in her chest ached. but not the bad kind. the kind that meant this is real. or this matters.

when she offered to take him outside, he brightened like the concept of sunlight itself had clicked. “i want to see everything,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his back like a little boy ready for an adventure.

she made him wear a baseball cap. “for stealth,” she said.

“is this a disguise?” he asked seriously, eyes peeking out under the brim.

“you’re literally drawn from the prettiest pixels i’ve ever seen. people are gonna stare.” sunghoon flushed. “you’re prettier.” she stopped. blinked. “you can’t just—say things like that casually.”

“i’m not casual. i’m sincere.”

she threw a scrunchie at his chest and missed.

they walked to the bus stop together, sunghoon marveling at everything like a tourist who had only read about earth in books. he stood too close to traffic cones. tapped every vending machine they passed like it might hand him a prize. waved at a pigeon.

“that one looks wise,” he said of the pigeon, watching it hop sideways across the sidewalk. “like a street prophet.” she snorted. “it’s probably plotting to steal a hotdog.”

sunghoon’s eyebrows rose. “do birds here eat meat?”

“don’t think too hard about it.”

at the bus stop, he stared at the arrival screen like it was coded in ancient runes.

“okay, so this one takes us downtown,” she explained. “just don’t talk to anyone who smells like fruit loops and regret.” he nodded solemnly. “those are the dangerous ones?”

“always.”

when the bus came, he flinched at the hydraulic hiss and grabbed her wrist instinctively. she turned her head and caught the flash of fear in his eyes — real fear — and realized: this world might be beautiful to him, but it was also overwhelming. loud. fast. unfamiliar.

she gently squeezed his hand. “it’s okay. just follow my lead.”

he did.

they found seats at the back. sunghoon pressed his face to the window, watching the city unfold like panels in a comic he didn’t write. his smile returned when a golden retriever passed by with a baby hat on its head. when he saw a street violinist playing under an overpass. when she pointed out the bookstore where she spent hours reading webtoons without buying anything.

he asked her everything — why the buildings were so close, why people walked so fast, why she said hello to the barista but not the woman who nearly elbowed her in the ribs. it wasn’t judgmental — just… fascinated.

like he wanted to understand her world because it was hers. they bought coffee (sunghoon tried a frappuccino and declared it “liquid sunshine”), then sat on the ledge by the koi pond in the park. “i like it here,” he said quietly. “the wind is soft.”

she looked at him.

“you’re different here,” she murmured. sunghoon turned his head. “from the comic?” “yeah. there, you were comforting. familiar. safe. but here… you feel more alive.”

he smiled, a little shy. “you make it easier.” there was a beat of silence. then he leaned closer. “can i tell you something dumb?”

she smirked. “please.”

“i thought escalators were portals.”

she burst into laughter, nearly spilling her coffee. “portals to what?” “i don’t know! they move without walking. it just felt suspicious.”

she was still giggling when she leaned her head on his shoulder. he stiffened just slightly — then relaxed. “is this allowed?” he asked softly.

“yeah,” she whispered. “you’re real enough now.”

and for a while, they sat like that. just a girl and her former fictional comfort character. eating bad toast, chasing pigeons, watching koi, and sharing silence like it was the most honest language they had.

that night, the city was quieter.

they stayed longer than planned in the park — her head resting against his shoulder, their empty coffee cups stacked like a small monument to the comfort they found in each other.above them, the stars blinked like they were watching too.

“do they look different here?” she asked softly.sunghoon tilted his head. “brighter,” he said after a moment. “and lonelier.” she blinked. “lonelier?”

“in the comic,” he murmured, “stars were just background. pretty noise. filler for the sky. but now that i’m here… i think i finally understand what it means to look up and feel small.”she didn’t say anything at first — just looked at him. the slope of his nose, the gentle curve of his mouth, the way his eyes reflected light like polished amber.

“you’re not small,” she whispered.he turned to her “you’re… maybe the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me.”his breath caught. and for a second, she swore the world paused — like even the wind wanted to hear her say that again.

but instead, she stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “come on. let’s get groceries. we’re out of soy sauce and your attempt at breakfast used the last of the eggs.”

he blinked. “it was a noble attempt.” “it was slightly charcoal-flavored.” “i was going for smoky sophistication.” she snorted, tugging on his sleeve as they started walking again. he followed easily, falling into step beside her like he’d always belonged in that spot.

the nearest convenience store was still open — humming under pale fluorescent lights. a small bell jingled as they stepped inside, and sunghoon immediately wandered toward the snack aisle like a child in a toy store. she caught him staring in awe at a wall of ramen cups.

“do you want one?” she asked.he pointed to one with animated shrimp on the packaging. “is this spicy?” “probably not. that one looks innocent.” “i don’t trust innocent,” he said, and grabbed two.

they spent way too long there — him holding up random items like they were ancient artifacts. “this is toothpaste?” “that’s a glue stick.” “oh.”

he put it back, clearly trying to act like that hadn’t happened.

by the time they reached the counter, they had ramen, milk, eggs, a toothbrush (his, picked with serious care), cookies shaped like bears, and a single sticky note pad that he insisted they needed.

“for leaving notes around the apartment,” he said with a small smile. “i’ll draw on them.” “you’re going to doodle instead of doing chores, aren’t you?” “highly likely.” on the way home, he held the grocery bag carefully in both hands, like it was something precious. she glanced at him and bit back a smile.

“you really like it here,” she said. “i like it with you. her heart skipped. she looked forward quickly, letting the warmth in her chest linger as quietly as his words.

later, back in the apartment, after putting things away and arguing about where the cereal should go (“top shelf for dominance!” “you can’t even reach the top shelf, sunghoon—”), she found him standing by the window.

he was staring out again, into the city night. she came up beside him. “tomorrow,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the skyline. “can i go with you?” “to where?” “university.” she blinked. “it’s just classes.”

“i want to see what your days are like when i’m not in them,” he said softly. “the parts of your life i’ve never seen.” there was a beat. “you won’t be bored?” “not if i’m with you.” she didn’t answer right away. but she reached for his hand. and he let her take it.

after brushing teeth — side by side, giggling when he accidentally put your cleanser on his toothbrush — you padded across the small apartment, still smelling faintly of the cookies you’d baked together hours earlier (well, you baked, he mostly stood around marveling at pre-heated ovens like a caveman seeing fire).

you slipped into your room and crouched by the bottom drawer of the old wooden cabinet you rarely touched. inside was a mess of tangled earphones, a broken polaroid camera, and a pile of oversized shirts and sweatpants — your older brother’s, left behind from when he used to crash here after long drives.

you held up a few and poked your head out into the living room. “sunghoon?” he turned from the window, where he’d been staring out like he was still trying to memorize the shape of city lights against glass. “yeah?”

“catch,” you said, tossing him a folded navy-blue hoodie. he fumbled it like a rookie but managed to cradle it to his chest like it was a newborn kitten “these are my brother’s,” you said. “you guys are… kind of the same size?”

he held up the joggers you tossed next with a strange sort of reverence. “these are very… real. you blinked. “yeah? what does that mean?” he looked at you, a bit sheepish. “in the webtoon, all my clothes just sort of exist. they’re never scratchy. or warm. or full of lint. they don’t smell like someone’s laundry detergent and a little bit like nostalgia.”

you blinked again. “you’re kinda poetic for someone who still can’t tell the difference between glue and toothpaste.” he gave you a look but didn’t argue. later, you came out from changing and found him still standing in your room doorway, barefoot, awkwardly holding the folded clothes and peeking in.

“you okay?” he rubbed the back of his neck. “i don’t… where do i sleep?” you paused. your place wasn’t exactly luxurious. a one-bedroom unit, too small for a real guest setup. the couch was technically long enough to lie down on, but not with comfort — especially not for someone like him, who moved delicately, like he wasn’t used to having a body that bumped into things or needed soft landings.

you looked at the bed. then back at him. “just sleep here,” you mumbled, tossing a pillow to the far side of the mattress. “beside me.” his eyebrows rose. “are you sure?” “there’s no foam mattress or extra futon, and the couch will murder your back.”

“i don’t think i can be murdered by furniture “that’s a very fictional-man thing to say.” he smiled but didn’t protest further. you crawled in first, facing the wall. you heard him shuffle behind you, the faint rustle of fabric, the hesitant creak of the mattress dipping under his weight.

silence settled in. soft. tentative. real.

you could feel his presence — not too close, not too far — like the warmth of a space heater humming beside you. and for a while, neither of you said a word. then, gently:

“does it always feel like this?” he asked. you turned slightly. “like what?” “being… alive. real. it’s a lot of small things. cold floors. the sound the fridge makes at 3 a.m. the weight of a blanket.”

you smiled into the darkness. “you noticed all of that?”

“how could i not?”another pause. then he whispered, “thank you… for letting me stay.”your chest tightened. you didn’t know how to explain the ache in your bones before he arrived — or the way it eased, little by little, in the way he looked at you like you mattered, even in your pajamas with mismatched socks.

so you just said, quietly, “good night, sunghoon.”“good night,” he murmured back. “i hope i dream for the first time.” you didn’t know if he would. you didn’t even know if fictional people could. but you fell asleep that night with a steady warmth pressed near your spine and a strange kind of peace in your bones.

the next morning, you woke to an unfamiliar sound.a crack.followed by a muffled curse.you sat up quickly, blinking through the soft morning light seeping into your bedroom.

the other side of the bed was empty. and something smelled… burnt? you rushed out into the tiny kitchen, half-expecting disaster — only to freeze in the doorway. sunghoon stood in front of the stove, frowning intensely at a pan of scrambled eggs that looked, frankly, edible. a little overcooked maybe. but still yellow. still vaguely egg-shaped.

he was wearing your brother’s hoodie, sleeves slightly too long, the hem swaying as he turned toward you holding a spatula like a microphone.

“good morning!” he said brightly. “i may or may not have tried to make you breakfast.”

you stared.

“i googled a youtube tutorial. ‘how to cook eggs for someone you like,’” he added, voice way too casual. you blinked at him. “did you just say—” “it said to serve it with toast, but i burned that part.”

“…fair.” he scratched his head. “still edible though. probably. maybe.” you walked over slowly, peeking into the pan. “you didn’t… like, microwave the shells or anything weird, right?”

“give me some credit.” he handed you a plate with clumsily plated eggs and exactly one cookie from last night on the side. you laughed softly — the kind of laugh that curled into your chest and stayed there. “thank you, chef sunghoon.” he beamed. “you’re welcome. i’m taking full responsibility for all gastrointestinal side effects.”

as you sat across from him at the little dining table — two mugs of warm milk between you, legs brushing under the wood — you felt a strange and gentle realization settle over you. maybe he wasn’t just here to comfort you.

maybe, in some odd, universe-bending way…he came to belong.

it was a mild tuesday morning when you took him with you to campus. you didn’t announce it. didn’t make a big deal of it. just quietly handed him one of the older backpacks you kept around, slipped your keys and id into your tote, and said, “come on. if you’re going to stay in my world, you should see where i live in it.”

he didn’t say much — just nodded and zipped up the hoodie, sleeves brushing past his fingers.the walk to the university was quiet. it always was, usually. you liked mornings that way — low sun, low traffic, the city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. but with him beside you, it felt… fuller somehow. not louder. just more present.

he didn’t speak, but he watched everything. the street signs, the cafés you passed, the dog waiting outside the flower shop wagging its tail at no one in particular. he kept pace with you naturally, sometimes stepping closer when a bike sped too fast around the corner. always gently, always silent.

when you reached campus, students flowed like water around you — half-awake and coffee-fueled, some with headphones in, others already chatting about assignments. sunghoon stayed close, his gaze flickering curiously from building to building.

“this is where i spend most of my time,” you said as you led him to the humanities wing. “lecture halls, library, vending machines that eat your coins…” he smiled. “looks peaceful.” “it is. most days.”

he didn’t press for details. you liked that about him — his presence was quiet, never demanding. in your first class, you pointed toward the far back. “you can sit there. no one really asks questions if you look like you’re writing.”

he nodded and took the seat without hesitation, pulling out a notebook you’d given him. you weren’t even sure if he knew what to do with it, but he opened it anyway, pen poised, eyes calm. you kept glancing at him during lecture.he looked like a daydream — head tilted, lashes low, occasionally scribbling down something. you couldn’t tell if he was actually writing notes or just drawing shapes, but it didn’t matter. he looked like he belonged.

after class, you stopped by the small campus café tucked in the corner of the main building — your usual spot. you ordered your regular drink and he stared at the chalkboard menu like it was in a foreign language. “it’s not that serious,” you whispered, nudging his arm.

“i’ve never had this many choices,” he replied seriously. “what is a dirty matcha? why is it dirty you laughed into your scarf. “try the iced honey oat latte. you’ll like it.”

he did. the two of you sat outside, on one of the cold metal benches under the sparse shade of a maple tree just starting to bloom. spring was crawling in slowly, and the air carried the soft chill of morning with a hint of warmth underneath.

“you do this every day?” he asked after a while. you nodded, sipping slowly. “this is where i feel most myself. my own pace. my own routine. nobody expects too much. i like it.” he was quiet for a beat. “it suits you.”

“what does?” “this life. it’s steady. like the way you breathe. it’s full, but never noisy.” you looked at him. there was a stillness to the way he said things. not dramatic. not performative. just present. like he was speaking to a version of you even you sometimes forgot.

you didn’t know what to say to that. so you offered him your last bite of pastry instead. he took it with a small, grateful smile. you spent the rest of the day like that. walking through campus. sitting on library steps. watching students pass, talking softly about nothing important. you showed him the place you always sat during finals — a bench tucked behind the chemistry building — and the vending machine that once trapped your chocolate bar for three days.

at one point, he reached out and quietly brushed a leaf from your hair. it felt like the world tilted a little. not in a dizzying, overwhelming way. just in the way a life might quietly shift to make space for someone else.

it’s been a few weeks now. the world hasn’t changed, not really — buses still run late, coffee still spills, your alarm still rings too early. but you have. quietly, steadily. the pain hasn’t left you — not fully. but it’s no longer the loudest thing in the room.

sometimes grief sits beside you like a shadow, but now there’s another presence — one that brushes against your fingertips when you reach for your mug in the morning. one that makes your apartment feel less like a place you’re trying to survive in and more like a place you’re beginning to live in.

sunghoon folds the laundry with a weird kind of concentration. he still doesn’t understand why socks disappear in the wash or how pillowcases are supposed to be put on. but he tries. and it’s kind of adorable. he holds up a shirt — yours — and frowns.

“this shrank,” he says. “it’s a crop top,” you laugh, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “it’s supposed to be that short.” he tilts his head, then slowly nods. “i don’t get fashion.” you shrug. “you wore a cardigan in 28-degree weather. i could tell.”

he pretends to look offended. then smiles, wide and sheepish, the way he only does when he’s truly at ease. you throw a rolled-up sock at him and he lets it hit him dramatically, flopping backwards onto the rug like he’s been wounded.

these are the kind of days you never thought you’d have again — not after everything. they’re soft and small, like pages from a well-loved book. but they’re yours. yours and his, somehow.

the mornings are quiet but not empty. he brews your tea exactly how you like it now — not too hot, just a splash of oat milk. he even warms the mug in the microwave before pouring it, “so your hands don’t feel cold,” he says. it’s something no one’s ever done for you.and on days when you go to campus, he walks you halfway — all the way to the small convenience store on the corner. you pretend it’s because he wants a snack, but you know he just likes seeing you off.

sometimes, he even sits on the bench across from the bookstore, sketching people in his notebook while he waits for you to finish class. you caught him once — eyes focused, brows drawn in concentration, tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. when you teased him, he blushed so hard he almost dropped his pencil.

you’ve taken to carrying two umbrellas now. one for you, and one for him — even if he always forgets his and ends up borrowing yours anyway. he hums when he does the dishes. not well, and not in tune. but it fills the space in your kitchen with something bright. once, you caught yourself humming with him, and for a moment, it felt like you were singing your way back to yourself.

there’s a picture frame on your shelf that you used to keep turned down — the one with your brother’s blurry grin, arm slung around your shoulder, both of you laughing like idiots.

sunghoon never asked about it. he just quietly stood beside you one day when you picked it up, dusted it, and set it upright again.“i think he would’ve liked you,” you said. he didn’t speak — just gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

that night, you dreamed of your brother laughing. not that quiet, faded laughter you’d heard in your grief — but loud, bright, real. it felt like maybe he had finally seen.

one evening, you sit out on the fire escape, a blanket wrapped around both your shoulders. it’s chilly, but not freezing. the stars are clearer than usual, peeking through the city haze. sunghoon leans into you, his head resting lightly against yours. “i read once that stars are just old light,” he murmurs. “light that traveled a really long way to reach us.” you nod, eyes on the sky.

“kind of like hope,” you say. he doesn’t reply, but you feel the way he smiles against your shoulder. and maybe that’s what this is — not perfect, not fixed, but something glowing, finally reaching you after such a long, dark stretch of sky.

it started with a flyer. bright pink, slightly crumpled, slipped under her apartment door by a classmate. “open mic + market night!

hosted by the litsoc + art club ????????

join us for an evening of music, zines, poetry, thrift racks, snacks, and soft lights.

6 pm — courtyard amphitheater.”

you’d barely glanced at it the first time. life had only recently started feeling stable again, and part of you worried that if you pushed too far, too soon, the calm might slip through your fingers.but sunghoon was the one who picked it up again later that night, holding it between two fingers as he swayed side to side in front of the fridge, pretending to decide on a yogurt flavor.

“this looks… warm,” he said thoughtfully, eyes on the corner doodles someone had hand-drawn in black ink — a sleepy fox playing guitar and a teacup with stars inside. you gave him a look. “warm?”

he nodded. “warm. not scary. like… friendly music and gentle people. maybe some mismatched socks.” you snorted. “that’s your metric for a good event?”

he shrugged. “that, and whether you’ll smile.” you blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. then you sighed, gently, tugging the flyer from his hand. “it’s open to the public anyway. wanna go with me?”

sunghoon smiled — not the usual shy curve of his lips, but something wider, brighter, edged with a quiet joy. “i thought you’d never ask.”

the night of the event, the air was soft with the scent of popcorn and lavender-scented bug spray. string lights hung from tree to tree in soft arcs, casting glows on thrifted blankets and makeshift wooden stalls. you could hear the strum of a guitar echoing from the corner where the open mic was already underway. sunghoon looked around with open curiosity — eyes tracing the fairy lights, watching students laugh, vendors pouring hot cider into paper cups. he wore one of your brother’s old sweaters again — sleeves a bit too long, color faded in the shoulders — and it suited him in a way that almost made you ache. you tugged at his sleeve gently. “come on, let’s look around.”

you tried on rings from a student metalworker’s stall, held up a vintage cat mug at a thrift booth and made a face, and sampled way-too-salty popcorn from a guy who looked like he’d never used a stove in his life. sunghoon followed beside you like a second heartbeat — laughing when you laughed, quietly stepping behind you when the crowd got too tight, offering you his cup of ginger cider without a word. at one of the last booths, someone had set up a tiny zine corner — hand-folded pages filled with poems, illustrations, short thoughts scrawled in ink. sunghoon picked one up, flipped it open, and read out loud softly:

“there’s no word in any language

for how it feels

when the ache gets quieter

and you notice yourself laughing

and don’t stop.”

you didn’t say anything. but you took the zine from him and bought it quietly.

you sat under one of the trees afterward, both of you on an old quilt, watching someone read poetry under the microphone string lights. your head rested against his shoulder. you weren’t crying. you weren’t even thinking too hard. just… breathing.

you whispered into the quiet, barely loud enough for him to hear. “i’m happy.” sunghoon turned his head slightly. “with me?” he asked, tentative. hopeful. “with you,” you repeated, a little firmer this time. then, after a pause, a softer:

“i didn’t think i’d feel like this again.”

he didn’t say anything, but his hand slid into yours and squeezed — not too tight, just enough to say i’m here. still. and when a girl came on stage with a ukulele and sang something slightly off-key about her cat and her anxiety, you both laughed quietly into your shoulders, your fingers still laced together. the night was winding down, but neither of you were quite ready to let it go.

after the last round of applause at the open mic faded into the gentle hum of chatter and music, you and sunghoon wandered away from the crowd. the air had cooled just enough that you clung to the sleeves of your cardigan, fingers brushing his every now and then as you walked down the cobblestone path behind the campus library — the one lined with warm paper lanterns hanging from trees like stars that got tangled in branches.

it was quiet here. just the two of you, the slow sound of footsteps, and the lingering scent of kettle corn and autumn. then he stopped suddenly.

“wait.” sunghoon tugged lightly on your wrist and pointed. you followed his gaze and blinked.

tucked into a shadowy corner just before the footbridge was an old, battered photo booth — the kind with a crooked sign reading 4 poses, 2 copies, ₱50. it looked like someone had dragged it there from a past decade and forgotten it under the willow tree. faint fairy lights blinked lazily around the top, flickering warm and gold.

you tilted your head. “i didn’t even know this was here.” “maybe it’s only here for tonight,” he said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “like magic.” you laughed, but something about the softness in his tone made you pause. you watched him — the way his eyes reflected the gold lights, the faint tug of his lip as if waiting for you to decide.

“wanna try it?” you asked.he looked at you like you’d just asked him if he wanted to bottle the moon.

the booth was small. really small. you both squeezed in, knees bumping, shoulders pressed close, the plastic curtain falling back into place behind you like a veil separating you from the world. the screen flickered to life — a countdown began in glowing numbers.

“okay, first face,” you said, leaning in. “smile.” he did — that gentle one, soft and bright, and you smiled too. click. “now funny,” you grinned, puffing your cheeks. he mirrored it almost too well. click.

“serious model stare,” you said dramatically, both of you turning toward the lens with furrowed brows, but ended up cracking up halfway through. click.then the last countdown started.

you looked at him, about to suggest something — maybe a peace sign or goofy face again — but he was already looking at you. and he didn’t look away. in that beat between the numbers, he gently leaned forward — his forehead against yours, a soft smile curving into the corners of his mouth. no words. just warmth. a shared breath.

click.the light dimmed.

you stayed like that for a moment — not moving, barely breathing.then you heard the whir of the machine as two small photo strips printed and slid into the tray.you pulled them out.

the first three were cute. goofy. real.but the last one — the one where he leaned in — made your heart squeeze.his eyes were on you. yours were on him. it wasn’t posed. it wasn’t planned.

it just… was.you stared at it for a while. then handed him one of the copies.“here,” you said. “to prove you were really here.” he took it with reverence — as if it were something sacred — and tucked it gently into his cardigan pocket.

“do i… look real in it?” he asked quietly.you nodded. “yeah. too real.” he looked down at the photo once more. then at you.

“i like that we can remember this,” he said softly. “even if it’s just in four little pictures.” you smiled. and for the first time in a long time, it reached all the way to your eyes.

the walk home from campus was quiet — not in an awkward way, but in the way only a night filled with just enough warmth and shared laughter could be. you clutched the little strip of photobooth pictures in your hand like a fragile secret, feeling it burn through your palm with every step. it was silly — four poses, half of them barely in frame, one where you were laughing too hard to keep your eyes open. but the last one… the last one lingered in your mind like a heartbeat.

sunghoon walked beside you with his hands tucked in his cardigan pockets, a calm expression on his face, but you could feel it — the air around him was humming. charged. he was quiet, yes, but not absent. he was paying attention in the way only he could — the occasional glance your way, the way he slowed his pace to match yours even if it meant shuffling awkwardly on the uneven pavement, the small smile that never quite left his lips since the moment you stepped into that cramped photo booth.

when the two of you boarded the near-empty bus, you found yourselves at the very back, the windows fogged slightly from the autumn air. you sank into your usual seat by the window and he slid in next to you — shoulders brushing. not quite on purpose, not quite by accident.

you stared outside at the streetlamps streaking past, your bag clutched in your lap, heart too full to speak.then he did something so sunghoon that it made you blink. he pulled the photobooth strip out of his cardigan pocket and held it up to the faint bus lighting, his brows furrowed in gentle focus. he turned to you with the softest smile, nudging your elbow.

“do i always look this… awkward when i smile?”

you stared. then laughed — the kind of real, surprised laugh that bubbles up from somewhere you thought had been quiet for months. “yes,” you replied through your grin. “but it’s the best kind.”

he looked pleased at that, folding the photo carefully and tucking it away again, like something precious. then he tilted his head and leaned it lightly against the bus window.

a comfortable silence stretched between you. the kind that only existed when the world outside didn’t demand anything. just motion. just stillness in motion.you didn’t even realize how tired you were until the bus rounded a bend and your eyes fluttered closed for just a second.

then a shoulder pressed softly against yours. a quiet hum of comfort. and when you leaned your head — just slightly, just naturally — you didn’t expect him to remain so still. so warm. so solid.he didn’t move. didn’t flinch.

he let you lean on him like you’d been doing it for years.and for a long moment, all you could think was: this. just this. the bus rumbled quietly through the night. city lights slid past in lazy patterns. you shifted just a little closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing his arm, and in your half-conscious haze, you heard it — barely a whisper, like something tucked between breaths.

“i’m glad i found you.” but when you stirred again, eyes heavy as the bus slowed to a stop near your neighborhood, he was just sitting there, silent and still. he helped you up gently, guided you down the steps and through the streetlight-lit path home. not a word about what he said. but you felt it.

later that night, the apartment was still. the distant hum of traffic filtered through your window, muted by the curtains, and the glow from your desk lamp painted everything in quiet amber. you stood at the edge of the bed, brushing your teeth slowly, watching sunghoon from the corner of your eye. he was sitting cross-legged near the pillows, scrolling curiously through the music playlist on your phone like it was some sort of puzzle — brows furrowed, lips slightly pursed. he looked completely at home.

it wasn’t strange anymore. not the toothbrush he kept in your bathroom, or the way his socks sometimes ended up mixed in your laundry. not the second pillow on your bed that always smelled faintly of him. he looked up when you approached, phone resting easily on his lap. “you added the song i showed you,” he said, a little pleased.

you smiled, crawling into bed beside him. “of course i did. you have good taste.” as you both settled in under the blankets — your sides brushing, the warmth between you effortless — you caught yourself staring. he caught it too “what?” he asked, voice low and amused.

you hesitated for a moment. then shook your head.”nothing. just… i’m glad you’re here. sunghoon’s smile softened. he turned slightly, one arm resting behind his head as he watched you.

“i’m glad i’m here too,” he murmured. you rolled onto your side, facing him in the dim light. your voice dropped with it — something more vulnerable slipping out.

“i used to cry myself to sleep, you know. before all this. i’d curl up in the same spot every night and wish… i don’t know. for something to feel less cold.” his eyes didn’t move from yours. he didn’t rush to reply. “i don’t feel cold anymore,” you added, barely a whisper. silence settled around you like a blanket — warm and steady.

sunghoon reached over, fingers brushing lightly against your knuckles under the blanket. just enough to let you know he was there. that he heard you. that he’d stay.

“i’m happy,” you said suddenly, and it cracked a little when you said it. like it surprised you. like you weren’t used to it tasting so real in your mouth. his expression softened even further. “you deserve to be,” he said simply. you didn’t say it aloud, but in your chest bloomed the quiet ache of what you’d lost. of what once was. you thought of your brother — his old hoodie still folded neatly in the closet, the way your apartment used to echo more sharply when you came home to no one. you never told sunghoon directly. but maybe you didn’t need to.

because when he reached out, gently threading your fingers together under the covers, you felt it. he knew. and still, he stayed — not to fix anything, but to be here. steady. real. that night, you slept without needing to wish for comfort. because it was already there, breathing beside you.

it wasn’t a dramatic shift. no sudden realization. no firework moment where you both looked at each other and just knew.it was slower than that — gentler. like tea cooling in a cup, or a flower stretching open to the sun after days of rain. a love that wasn’t hurried, but grew in the soft pauses between your days.

you started noticing the way sunghoon looked at you when you weren’t paying attention — with a quiet sort of awe, like the very fact that you existed in the same space as him was something precious.it showed in small things. like how he’d hold your backpack strap while you dug for your id at the school gate. how he started packing you snacks when you had long lectures, slipping them into your tote with a sticky note that just had a doodle and a tiny, “eat when you’re tired. -sh”

how he always waited for you after class, leaning on the railing just outside the lecture hall, headphones in — not because he didn’t have anything better to do, but because you were what he wanted to do. and you—god, you didn’t know love could be this quiet. this easy.

you were smiling more now. laughing without guilt. waking up with something to look forward to, even if it was just sunghoon’s latest attempts at cooking or his curious commentary about your uni professors. one rainy afternoon, you were sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by tangled fairy lights you’d pulled out of storage for no real reason. sunghoon had a strand in his hands, frowning slightly at a knot.

“you know,” you said, handing him another tangled part, “you don’t have to help.” “too late,” he said with a playful shrug. “we’re in this knot together.” you laughed. the kind that bubbled up naturally from your chest. the kind you hadn’t heard from yourself in a long time. sunghoon looked up at the sound, and his breath caught just slightly.

you caught it too. “what?” you asked, blinking.his hands stilled over the lights. he didn’t say anything right away. just looked at you — really looked — like maybe he hadn’t let himself before “you’re beautiful when you laugh,” he said softly. your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t look away.“you make it easier,” you said, matching his softness. “to feel okay.” and there it was — the unspoken understanding that something deeper had taken root. that somewhere between shared playlists, midnight ramen, and folded laundry, something had shifted in the air between you. something that made your heart settle. something real. later that week, as you were walking home from campus under the early evening sky, sunghoon reached out and laced his fingers with yours. it was the first time he’d done that in public. you didn’t say anything. you just squeezed his hand and kept walking — and somehow, that silence said everything.

in the stillness of this new rhythm, love bloomed — not in declarations, but in details. in all the ways he became a part of your life. in the extra toothbrush. in the half-drunk mugs of tea. in the way your pillows were never quite arranged the same when you woke up beside him. it wasn’t perfect. some days you still felt the old ache tug at your chest — the loss of your brother, the heaviness that didn’t vanish just because someone held your hand.

but now… the ache wasn’t so lonely.now, when it rained, there was someone to pull the blankets up to your chin. when you came home tired, there was always someone humming softly in the kitchen, trying to make your favorite meal.

one night, curled beside him in the dark, you whispered without thinking: “i think i’m falling in love with you.” you didn’t mean to say it — not yet, not now — but it slipped out, honest and bare. sunghoon didn’t answer right away. he shifted slightly, arm tightening around your waist, tucking you closer into his warmth. “then let me fall too,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your head. and in that quiet, tangled space between sleep and truth, love bloomed — not loud or bold, but steady.

just like the two of you. still writing the story. one shared morning at a time. it had been weeks. maybe months. you weren’t counting days anymore. not when life had taken on such a golden, easy rhythm. there were sleepy mornings filled with tangled limbs and the smell of toasted bread. afternoons spent sprawled together on the living room floor, bickering over puzzle pieces or reading side by side with music humming low in the background. evenings curled up under blankets, watching old movies with subtitles sunghoon still struggled to follow but refused to skip.

he insisted on joining you on your campus walks now. wore your brother’s hoodie like it was his own, sleeves swallowing his hands, hood always pulled up like he was trying to hide from the world. he’d nod along as you vented about group projects and professors who took forever to grade, and you’d always catch him staring—softly, like the world paused for him every time you laughed. and you were okay. not just okay. better.

you didn’t flinch at silence anymore. you didn’t cry yourself to sleep. one night, lying beside him after an especially exhausting week, you turned toward him and whispered, “i’m happy.” he blinked, surprised. you’d said it like you were admitting something forbidden. “i didn’t think i’d say that again,” you added, voice breaking just slightly. “not after—” you swallowed. the name, your brother’s name, still got stuck in your throat sometimes. you didn’t finish.

but you didn’t have to. sunghoon only brushed a knuckle along your cheek, his gaze so unbearably kind you almost cried. “you don’t need to explain,” he said gently. “your sadness is still a part of you. but so is this.” “this?” “this peace. this warmth. your laughter. it’s okay to carry both.” you bit your lip, eyes welling, but you nodded. and when he pulled you close, you burrowed into his chest and let yourself believe it.

it happened subtly at first. a mug in his hand that suddenly flickered, turning slightly translucent before becoming solid again. a moment where he forgot the layout of your apartment — standing at the wrong cabinet for the sugar, blinking like he didn’t know where he was.

you noticed. but you didn’t say anything. not yet. because maybe it was just stress. maybe you imagined it. but the pit in your stomach didn’t believe that. then one evening, after he’d fallen asleep beside you, hand still loosely wrapped around yours, you reached for your phone and opened the webtoon. you hadn’t checked it in ages. not since the day he came.

the title page greeted you, familiar and oddly foreign now. but something was off. you scrolled.

and saw it. status: hiatus. the date listed?

the exact day sunghoon arrived.

your heart lurched.you scrolled further. there were no new chapters. no updates. no author’s notes. the once active comment section had slowed, confused fans wondering why everything had stopped. some were worried. others assumed it had been dropped. but you knew the truth, didn’t you? he had crossed over into your story.

and his had paused.

you stared at the glowing screen, heart pounding. the quiet hum of the fan filled the silence, and beside you, sunghoon stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something you couldn’t catch. you looked at him. the way his brows furrowed slightly, even in rest. the soft rise and fall of his chest. so real. so warm. but… still tethered to a world that wasn’t this one.

the next morning, he noticed something in your eyes. “you okay?” he asked, flipping a pancake with more confidence than skill. you hesitated, then forced a small smile. “yeah. just tired.” he didn’t push. but he stepped a little closer and gently bumped his forehead to yours. “then let me carry your tired, too.”

and you nearly cried. because you wanted to believe he could. that this life you’d built together could go on forever. but the truth loomed in the corner of your thoughts like a shadow. waiting.

you told yourself not to panic. you told yourself you’d just watch. you’d wait. maybe it meant nothing. but when he reached for the syrup and his hand flickered again — for just a heartbeat — the world tilted under your feet. you reached for his fingers and held them tightly. and he smiled at you, none the wiser.

it was raining.

a gentle drizzle that coated the windows in glassy trails and painted the sky a dull silver. campus was quiet for once—lectures cancelled, students huddled indoors, and you had the rare gift of a slow afternoon with nowhere to be. you were curled on the couch in your oversized hoodie, laptop balanced on your knees, editing a paper while sunghoon sat beside you, legs tucked under him like he belonged here. like this was normal.

he was flipping through a campus magazine he’d found on your bookshelf, utterly fascinated something as mundane as a crossword.

“what does ‘five-letter word for temporary happiness’ mean?” he asked, furrowing his brows, pencil in hand.you blinked, smiling faintly. “you don’t have to finish that, you know.” “but i want to.” he looked up, and his gaze caught yours like sunlight on still water—gentle, but deep. “i like learning the words you know.”

and something in your chest squeezed. he was so here. so alive. so absurdly himself in this world he wasn’t meant to belong to. you set your laptop aside and leaned toward him, brushing his hair back from his face. “you’re such a dork.”he leaned into the touch without thinking. “maybe. but i’m your dork.”

the words weren’t planned. they hung between you, unpolished and real, and suddenly the air in the room felt charged. you met his eyes, lips parting to say something—anything— but he beat you to it.he leaned forward, brushing the faintest kiss against your cheek. feather-light. reverent. just there. and gone.

you sat there frozen, heat blooming up your neck like fire.“is that… okay?” he asked quietly.you nodded, throat tight. “yeah. that’s… yeah.” he smiled like you’d handed him the moon.

the days that followed were filled with more of those quiet, luminous moments. you taught him how to use your record player, and he spent an entire morning making a playlist titled “coffee & you.” you baked cookies at 2 a.m. because he said he was curious how dough turned into happiness. you walked in on him humming while folding laundry, your favorite sweater draped across his arms like it was a sacred object.

and one night, as you watched him rinse rice with almost comical focus, you said it without thinking.

“i love this.” he looked up, wet hands pausing over the pot “this,” you said again. “you. here. us. i never thought i’d get to feel… full again.”

he didn’t answer for a moment. then, softly: “me too.” but his voice cracked just slightly.and you noticed it again—barely, but it was there.

the flicker. not in his hands or his form this time. but in his eyes. just for a blink—like a screen buffering, skipping a frame. you didn’t say anything. and neither did he.

but later that night, when you had fallen asleep against him—hand curled in his shirt like always—sunghoon lay wide awake. his fingers ghosted over your hair, gentle and slow. he stared up at the ceiling like he was trying to memorize it. and he whispered into the dark, so quiet you didn’t stir:

“am i… supposed to still be here?” he waited for an answer he knew wouldn’t come. but the silence that followed didn’t feel like peace. it felt like goodbye waiting in the wings. the next morning, sunghoon stood at the window for a long time.

you stirred awake to the smell of coffee and the sound of rain still tapping against the glass. the sky outside was a dull grey, soft with fog, and your blanket had fallen halfway off your bed, pooling near the floor. you sat up with a yawn, eyes adjusting to the soft light. and there he was — not in the kitchen this time, but in your room, standing still. he had your old hoodie draped around his shoulders, fingers gently gripping the curtain edge. his eyes weren’t fixed on anything in particular — just the sky. as if waiting for something to break through it.

you padded over, the floor cool beneath your feet. “hey,” you said gently. he glanced back at you, smile immediate but distant. “morning.”you reached up and fixed the hoodie over his shoulders, tucking it a little tighter like he always forgot how to wear it properly. “you okay?” “yeah.” a pause. then, “do clouds always look like that before sunrise?” you blinked. “like what?”

he hesitated, then looked out again. “like… they’re not supposed to be there.”you followed his gaze. but they just looked like clouds to you — heavy with rain, streaked with pale light. “maybe it’s just the weather,” you said softly, slipping your arm around his waist. “you’re thinking too hard again.”

but something in your stomach twisted — because sunghoon never commented on the sky before. not like that. still, he nodded and leaned into your side. “maybe.”

that day, he followed you to campus again. he loved your uni — the café tucked behind the science building, the koi pond where he always lingered too long, the vending machine with “surprisingly good strawberry milk.” but something was off. he kept walking ahead and forgetting the direction — something he never did. and twice, you caught him staring at his own reflection in the library window like he wasn’t quite sure it was solid.

later, as you both sat under your favorite tree outside the courtyard, he quietly murmured, “if i disappeared… would you still look for me?” you turned sharply toward him. “what?” he didn’t meet your eyes. “just wondering.” “why would you say that?” “i don’t know,” he whispered. “i’ve just been feeling… strange. like my body’s made of glass and i’m only here because i’m trying really hard to remember how to be.” your chest tightened. you wanted to lie. you wanted to say, you’re here. you’re not going anywhere.

but you’d seen it too. and he knew it. so instead, you took his hand and brought it to your chest. pressed it flat against your heartbeat. “then remember this,” you whispered. “this is real. even if everything else fades, this moment — you and me right now — is real.” his lashes fluttered.

and for the first time, he looked afraid.

that night, you sat in bed beside him, your head on his shoulder as he scrolled through your camera roll, laughing softly at a blurry picture of the two of you with whipped cream on your noses “i like this one,” he said, voice warm. “you look happy here.” “you made me happy here.” he stilled. just a moment. then slowly, he set the phone down, turned to face you fully. “i’ve been thinking,” he said.

you could already feel it coming. that creeping ache behind his smile. “i came from a story… one you followed, loved, cried over.” he exhaled. “but what if… i was only allowed to come here because you needed me? because you were hurting?” your throat tightened. “and now that you’re healing—now that you’re okay—maybe your story doesn’t need me anymore.”

“stop.” your voice cracked, and you shook your head, refusing to cry. “you’re not some tool. you’re not a character that served a purpose and expires. you exist, sunghoon. here. with me.” he looked at you, like he wanted to believe that more than anything. then, gently — painfully — he reached forward and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. it lingered.

“you saved me too, you know,” he whispered. “maybe i was written to comfort others… but you made me real.” you swallowed your sob and held him like the world was slipping. because you knew, in your heart, that the countdown had begun.

it started with the kettle. you were making tea — something warm and sleepy, because your head was pounding and sunghoon had suggested, with that soft tilt of his head, “you need to rest. you’ve been tired lately.”

he was right. you had been tired — emotionally more than physically. but he’d been tired too. even if he never said it out loud. even if he still smiled every time he handed you your jacket or brought your phone charger to bed or memorized the way you liked your toast. you were stirring honey into your mug when you noticed the silence.

sunghoon was in the living room just seconds ago — you’d left him with a blanket, flipping through the same page of your class readings over and over, pretending to read. but now it was dead quiet. not a creak. not a hum. “sunghoon?” you called. no answer. your heart tugged. a pinch of unease bloomed at the base of your spine. you stepped out of the kitchen with your mug in hand—and that’s when you saw it.

he was standing perfectly still. right in the center of your room. not facing anything. not holding anything. just there. his hands twitched at his sides like static. “sunghoon?”

he turned his head. but his face didn’t.njust his head — sharp, unnatural, as if someone had dragged the frame too far in a video. his eyes lagged half a second behind, then blinked in slow motion. his lips parted soundlessly.

you dropped the mug. ceramic shattered on the floor. “hey—sunghoon—sunghoon, look at me” he didn’t move. then his hands twitched again—violently this time—and you swore you heard something like feedback, a harsh buzz in the air, a sound you could feel in your teeth. you reached him and gripped his arms. “breathe—hey, i’m right here—look at me—” “y/n.”

your name came out twice. layered. glitched. once in his voice. once in something deeper. like it wasn’t coming from him at all. you choked out a sob. “please—come back—sunghoon—stay here—stay—please—” and then, all at once—he gasped.

his whole body jerked like he’d just surfaced from underwater. his knees buckled, and you caught him in your arms as he collapsed to the floor. he blinked up at you, dazed. confused. terrified. “did i…” he swallowed. “was i… gone?” you couldn’t answer. you were crying too hard. you just cupped his face and kissed his forehead over and over like it would keep him tethered here.

“you’re here,” you whispered brokenly. “you’re still here. you’re still mine.” but his eyes flickered — again. and this time, they didn’t stop. it was small — barely visible. but one corner of his eye glitched like a flickering frame. again. and again. and again. sunghoon was breathing hard. “i can’t… i don’t know how much longer i can fight it.”

“no.” you shook your head, throat burning. “you don’t have to fight anything. we’ll fix this. i’ll fix this. just—please—stay—” and he leaned into your touch, trembling. “i don’t want to go. not when i finally… have this.” “you have me,” you cried. “you always will.”

but when he pulled you into his arms and held you like it was the last time — you knew he didn’t believe it. and worse — you didn’t either.

that night tasted like fear — thick and bitter, clinging to every breath, every heartbeat, every whispered word between the two of you. he was still shaking. not visibly, not like some dramatic trembling that would draw attention — but in that subtle way only you would notice. the way his fingers lingered too long at the hem of his sleeves. the way his thumb rubbed tight circles into the soft flesh of your wrist, not to comfort you, but to ground himself.

you didn’t know what to do — how to fix something that wasn’t supposed to break in the first place. sunghoon wasn’t supposed to glitch. he wasn’t supposed to fade. he was supposed to be warm smiles and tea shared on the balcony. sleepy conversations with your faces buried in the same pillow. quiet grocery runs and the way his voice softened when he said your name.

he wasn’t supposed to feel this real, only to leave. so you clutched his hand tighter and led him back to your bed. “i’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “for what?” you asked softly as you helped him sit on the edge of your bed. “for scaring you. for… not being strong enough to stay normal.” you crouched down in front of him, both your hands wrapping around his. “you’re here. you came to me. that’s all that matters.”

“i don’t know why i’m breaking.” his gaze dropped, lashes fanned low like a shadow across his cheeks. “maybe i wasn’t meant to stay this long. maybe… this is what happens when a story ends.” “don’t say that.” your voice cracked. “but what if it’s true?” you stood abruptly — you had to. your body felt too tight, too filled with panic and grief to sit still.

you paced the room as tears welled again, threatening to spill. “it’s not fair. you’re not just some character. you’re him. you laugh. you get shy. you hate bitter coffee. you kiss the top of my head when you think i’m asleep. that’s not fiction. that’s you.”

you stopped mid-step and turned to him, voice trembling. “i don’t care what you were meant to be. you’re mine now. you’re part of this world.” he looked up at you then — slowly, like it hurt. like the weight of your words had landed right on his chest and cracked him open. “i never thought i’d get to love something this real,” he whispered. “or… be loved back.” you sat beside him again and reached for him, pulling his head to your shoulder. his body leaned into you with the kind of heaviness only trust allowed.

“i’ve never said it,” you murmured. “but i need to.”

his breath caught. “i’m happy with you,sunghoon.”the silence that followed was sacred — the kind you don’t dare ruin. you could feel it in the way he held still, barely breathing. you let your hand drift to his hair, fingers sliding gently through the soft strands.

“i didn’t think i’d feel this again,” you confessed. “not after—” you stopped yourself.the words were too heavy. too tender. but he waited. patient, warm.so you continued, just barely, just a whisper.

“i lost someone. my brother. we… we lived together before. this apartment used to feel like his too. but when he died, it just felt hollow. like everything got quieter.”

he didn’t speak. he only leaned into you more. “i used to come home and forget he was gone. i’d wait for him to walk in the door, even months after. and then i stopped waiting. i stopped feeling much at all.”you turned your head, pressing your cheek to his hair. “but then you were here. and the apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.” sunghoon’s arms came around you then — strong and trembling — and you both sank into the bed without letting go. you curled into each other like survival. his lips pressed gently to your shoulder. you weren’t sure if he meant it as comfort or a promise — but it settled into your bones like both.

he whispered, “you brought me to life. maybe that’s why i came to you.” you said nothing. you just pulled him closer. the room was dark except for the faint streetlight glow through the curtains.

and even though you knew — knew — that something was wrong, that this peace might be borrowed, that the seconds were slipping from your fingers… you still clung to the night like it might never end. because for now, he was still here. and you loved him.

you didn’t sleep. not really. your body stayed still, curled into his, your arm slung over his waist as if that alone could hold him here. but your mind wouldn’t shut down. not when your heart was racing, not when every few minutes your breath hitched just waiting for another glitch. waiting for his warmth to disappear. waiting for a silence too still to mean anything good.

sunghoon slept soundly beside you. or… you hoped it was sleep. you weren’t even sure anymore. your alarm went off at 6:15 am, but you’d already been awake for hours by then — barely blinking, barely breathing. you silenced it before it could stir him and slipped out of bed, quietly as possible, heart heavy.

you needed answers. because this couldn’t keep happening.you made your way to the kitchen, your knees weak from exhaustion and nerves. the mug you’d shattered last night was still on the floor — the jagged ceramic in pieces across the tiles. you ignored it. you opened your laptop at the table, pulled your hoodie tighter around your shoulders, and started typing.

“webtoon character glitching real life?”

“story character coming to life breaking down?”

“dream person glitching?”

“can fictional characters stay in our world?”desperate questions. ridiculous ones.

each search gave you either crack theories, urban legends, or deep reddit threads filled with posts like:

“my oc came to life (here’s what happened)”

“creepypasta? i think i met a character i created irl”

“ai hallucination or another universe merging?”

none of it felt like an answer.

until.

you hesitated. then opened your bookmarked webtoon page — the same one that once gave you comfort during late nights and sad days. the one where you first fell in love with the version of him that came in frames and speech bubbles.

still on hiatus. still the same pause message as the day he arrived. you stared at the author’s username.

for the first time, it didn’t feel like just a handle on the screen. you clicked on it. no updates. no blog. no social posts. but there was an email address.

your fingers hovered above the keyboard. you couldn’t believe you were about to do this — send a real email to the creator of a fictional story, hoping they had an answer for why the character they made was lying asleep in your room.

but what choice did you have? you clicked compose.

subject: please. i need to know what’s happening.

and then you started typing:

hi… i don’t know how to explain this without sounding insane, but…something is wrong.

one of your characters — sunghoon — he’s here. i mean physically. in my world. he showed up a few weeks ago and it was impossible, i know. but he’s real. he’s him. he knows things from the story, but he’s different too. he’s more than the webtoon version. he’s warm, he’s funny, he’s scared, he’s trying. and now he’s glitching.

please. i don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but if you do… i need help. i can’t lose him.

you stared at it for a long moment before pressing

send.

there was no way to know if it would reach anyone. no way to know if they’d believe you. no way to know if it would help. but you had to try. because that boy asleep in your room, the one who now stole your hoodies and tried to cook breakfast with too much garlic, the one who curled into your side when you stayed up watching terrible romcoms — he was worth it.

you shut the laptop slowly and stared at the screen. just then, from the hallway— “y/n?” his voice. you turned around, heart slamming into your ribs.sunghoon stood there, sleepy and messy-haired, one of your brother’s old sweatshirts hanging off his shoulder.his smile was gentle. a little confused. like he’d just woken from a dream.

“why are you up so early?” he asked.and for a moment, just a breath—he looked perfectly okay. so you smiled back.and lied. “couldn’t sleep.”he walked over and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. you leaned into him, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing your heart to calm.

“should we make pancakes?” he mumbled. “the fluffy ones you like.” “yeah,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “let’s do that.” and for now, you let yourself pretend the world wasn’t cracking beneath your feet.

the reply came that night. you weren’t expecting it. honestly, you didn’t think it would come at all. after all, it had been hours — long, dragging ones where sunghoon wore your brother’s too-big hoodie and insisted on making pancakes shaped like animals (which turned into vaguely blob-shaped attempts that still made you laugh). you had gone to class, he tagged along and dozed off beside you on the quad grass, arms behind his head like he belonged there. you studied a little in the campus library while he ran off to explore the shelves, his eyes wide at the smell of old pages and quiet, ancient silence.

it had been a good day.so good it made your heart ache with fear.and then your phone buzzed it wasn’t a text. it was an email. from “author studio - contact”. your breath caught. you quickly turned your back to sunghoon, heart pounding as you clicked it open.

subject: you shouldn’t have seen him.

your stomach dropped.

hands trembling, you opened the body of the message.

dear y/n,

this message may feel impossible — but i need you to believe me when i say:

you are not alone.

what you described… it isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

i didn’t expect it to happen again. not like this.

i created sunghoon as a story — as a fictional person. but something in the system broke. when a story becomes too deeply connected to the reader… sometimes, very rarely, it tries to cross over. i didn’t write this part. i didn’t tell him to go to you. he made that decision.

you must understand — he’s glitching because he’s not built for your world.

he’s only stable as long as the story continues, but—

i haven’t been able to update. because the moment he crossed, the data loop froze. that means if he stays in your world too long… he will break.

you need to send him back.

i’m sorry.

you stared at the screen. the world didn’t just crack. it collapsed.

“hey, what are you reading?” his voice — light and curious — floated from the kitchen where he was washing the dishes, badly humming a tune you once played for him on your phone. you couldn’t speak. you couldn’t even move. tears were welling, your throat tight and chest aching.

you need to send him back. but he was looking forward to tomorrow.he wanted to take you to the small weekend art market near the old bookstore. he was excited to find a used sweater that fit better than your brother’s old clothes. he wanted to buy strawberries for pancakes again.

he wanted to stay.he chose you. “y/n?”his voice again — closer now, as he padded toward you barefoot, wiping his damp hands on your dish towel. you quickly clicked your phone off and forced a smile, blinking back tears fast. “it’s nothing. just spam mail.” he tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “you okay?” you nodded. “yeah. just tired.”he walked up behind you again, arms sliding around your waist in a now-familiar hug, chin resting on your shoulder.

you leaned into him again, just like earlier. but this time, you clutched his hands like you were afraid he’d vanish. because now you knew. you knew every smile, every gentle moment, every sleepy blink, and slow kiss you hadn’t even had yet — it all came with a timer.he didn’t know it. but you did.and now?you had no idea how to tell him.

that night, you stayed up longer than usual. the lamp on your nightstand bathed the room in a warm, amber hue. outside, the crickets sang faintly under the late summer breeze, the night still and silent. the fan above hummed in slow, lazy circles. the sheets smelled like lavender and something else now—something unmistakably him. that soft, warm scent you couldn’t describe except with the feeling of comfort itself.

sunghoon was already in bed, lying on his side, facing you. his hair was slightly messy, damp at the tips from the shower you made him take after dinner. he was clutching the stuffed whale you’d jokingly handed him weeks ago. now it was always in his arms when he slept. you were curled up on your side too, just a few inches away, but tonight, your body felt stiff—eyes open, staring into the quiet, dark edges of your room.

your phone sat facedown beside you.

the message burned in your mind.

he will break.

you need to send him back.

you hadn’t answered. you couldn’t. what would you even say?you weren’t ready to let go.sunghoon stretched a little beside you with a soft sigh, the kind you’d come to recognize—peaceful and sleepy. then, without a word, he gently reached out and pulled you closer. his arm slid beneath your pillow, drawing you in until your foreheads lightly touched, and you could feel the soft flutter of his breath against your lips. he always slept like this. tucked into your warmth. like you were the anchor he never had in his own story.

“today was fun,” he murmured, voice drowsy. “that mural on campus… and the cupcakes at the art event. i liked how the frosting got stuck on your nose.” you forced a chuckle. “you didn’t tell me.” “i wanted to take a picture first,” he admitted, smiling sleepily. “but i forgot.” you smiled too, even though your chest throbbed.

“you make everything feel like a memory,” he whispered, words heavy with sincerity. “even the boring parts. like brushing our teeth together… or arguing about which playlist to listen to while doing laundry.” you looked at him, heart aching. “is that a good thing?” “it’s the best thing,” he said. “it’s like… living finally feels like living.”

he yawned, then, snuggling closer, eyes fluttering shut. you stared at him long after. and when he drifted off, breathing soft and steady, you turned on your side and faced the wall—eyes wide open, mouth pressed into the pillow to muffle the sound of your quiet tears.

the next morning, you acted normal. you made his eggs the way he liked—slightly runny yolk, no onions. he wore your brother’s old hoodie again, the sleeves pushed up just above his wrists as he balanced a spoon on his nose for no reason at all.

you laughed, even clapped when it fell and he tried to play it off like he meant it. you walked to campus together. he held your hand the whole way, swinging it lightly between you.

you gave him your headphones during your break in the university garden, letting him lean against your shoulder while he scrolled through random pinterest boards and talked about which cloud looked like which animal. when you got home, he insisted on helping you fold laundry, and you mock-scolded him when he folded your socks all wrong. he offered to cook dinner, and you let him, even when he confused basil for spinach and ended up burning the first batch of pasta.

and all the while— you smiled. you laughed. you touched his hand just a little longer. looked into his eyes just a little deeper.you didn’t say anything about the message. you didn’t tell him you were scared. instead, you let the quiet denial wrap around your days like a soft blanket. maybe, if you pretended hard enough, if you didn’t say it out loud—it would go away.

maybe he’d stay. maybe the story wouldn’t need to end. and maybe your heart wouldn’t break all over again. but that night, as he lay beside you once more, whispering sleepy little stories about the stars he saw while walking home, you knew.

you were lying to him.

you were lying to yourself.

because one day soon… the story would ask for him back.

and you didn’t know how to let go of someone you never truly had in the first place. the days kept moving—slow, sweet, borrowed.they were quieter now. there were fewer “let’s go here” and more “let’s just stay in.” fewer photos, more soft silences. a kind of stillness settled between the two of you, not heavy, not cold—just something tender that neither of you dared to break. sunghoon didn’t ask at first.

maybe he saw how your hands lingered on him a little longer. maybe he noticed how you woke up too early sometimes, staring at his face with a kind of desperation he couldn’t name.or maybe he was just trying to pretend the same way you were.

but that didn’t last forever.it was one of those evenings again. after your last class, he had waited outside the campus gate like always, leaning against the old tree where he knew you’d spot him instantly. his hair ruffled by the wind, hands tucked in the front pocket of that faded hoodie, the cuffs stretched out from him fidgeting with them all day.

you had smiled. he had smiled back.you took your usual route home, hand in hand, talking about nothing—your professor’s weird jokes, the girl in class who kept trying to borrow your pens, the squirrel you saw trying to steal a soda from a trash bin. and yet, something about your voice trembled. something in your laugh sounded like it cracked at the edges. that night, you were brushing your teeth together. him on the left, you on the right, both of you spitting toothpaste at the same time and laughing at the weird synchronization. his eyes met yours in the mirror and lingered.

“hey,” he said softly, drying his mouth. “have i done something wrong?” you paused, towel pressed to your face, freezing. “no,” you whispered too quickly. “why would you think that?” he stepped closer, turning you toward him. you were still holding the towel like it could shield you from the way his gaze pressed right into your soul. “you’re sad,” he said. not accusing. just a quiet, steady truth. you didn’t answer.

“even when you smile,” he added. “i see it. i feel it.”you wanted to lie. you wanted to pretend again. but you couldn’t. not when he looked at you like that. not when he reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “you don’t have to tell me,” he whispered. “not yet. but i’m here. and i want to be here.” and before you could pull away or break apart or fold under the weight of it all, he leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to your lips.

soft. certain. unrushed. it wasn’t like in the stories. it wasn’t dramatic or filled with trembling hands or sudden confessions. it was just real.warm.present. like he was telling you without words: i’m staying. i choose you. but the moment he pulled away and looked at you again, your chest cracked open.

tears welled before you could stop them. his expression changed. concerned. quietly afraid.

“y/n…?” you swallowed hard, the ache in your throat now too full to keep down.

“i got an email,” you whispered. his brow furrowed. “what kind of—” “from your creator,” you said, voice thin and shaking. “from the one who made you. the one who writes the webtoon. he just stared at you. “i didn’t know how to tell you,” you breathed. “i still don’t. i— i thought maybe if i didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real. but they said you’re not supposed to be here, hoon. that the story is frozen because you left it. that… that you’ll start to break the longer you stay.”

the silence in the room was deafening. he blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. you looked at him, heart in your throat. “i didn’t want to ruin this. i didn’t want to scare you or— or push you away. but every time i look at you now, i keep wondering when i’ll lose you. again.” he took a shaky breath. and then he did something that completely broke you:

he pulled you into him and held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.you gripped his shirt, pressing your face to his chest, crying harder now because the moment was too soft for the pain it carried. “i don’t care,” he whispered into your hair. “i don’t care if i break. i don’t want to go back.” you shook your head, trying to pull away. “you’ll disappear. you’ll stop existing—”

“then let me exist here,” he said, holding you tighter. “with you. even if it’s just for a little while longer.” your breath hitched. because deep down, you wanted that too. you wanted every stolen day, every late-night grocery run, every shared laugh over burnt food and awkward kisses and the way he loved so easily despite being from a world that wasn’t meant to collide with yours.

you didn’t know what tomorrow held. but for now?

you let yourself hold him back.and he kissed you again. this time, longer. this time, with trembling hands and a promise that hung in the air like a fragile thread neither of you dared to cut.

the world hadn’t changed. not really.

the clouds still drifted lazily across the sky. the corner bakery still burned their croissants. your landlord still forgot to fix the hallway light. midterms were still looming, and your laundry pile was once again threatening to eat your bed. but you had changed. and so had he. after that night—after the kiss, the trembling confession, the quiet promises—you both woke up slower. softer. like the world might slip through your fingers if you moved too fast. you still shared a bed.

the stuffed whale still ended up between you. or under his arm. or tossed on the floor when he wanted to pull you closer in his sleep.

but now, the mornings were filled with things unspoken. longer eye contact. a lingering hand on your cheek. lips brushing your forehead like a seal. like a silent plea: remember me this way. he didn’t glitch that week.not once.not even when he got caught in the rain walking to your campus and his outline shimmered faintly under the downpour. you wrapped him in your coat and pretended not to see it. he kissed the top of your wet hair and didn’t say a word.

you made more memories.you had to.you needed to.on tuesday, you borrowed a polaroid camera from the uni’s art room and brought it home like a secret mission.sunghoon lit up like a child.he took pictures of you brushing your teeth, folding towels, even cutting onions (“you cry every time. i want proof.”) you took photos of him reaching for the top shelf in the kitchen, of his hands holding your coffee mug, of his soft smiles in stolen moments he thought you weren’t looking.

you filled the wall beside your bed with them. careless little snapshots of a life that didn’t feel borrowed anymore. and on wednesday, you taught him how to bake brownies—from scratch this time, not the mix. he wore a ridiculous apron with a cartoon carrot on it, swore under his breath when he cracked the eggs too hard, and got flour in his eyebrows from a sneeze.

you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. “stop laughing!” he groaned, holding up the batter-covered whisk like a weapon. “you’re supposed to be helping!” “i am,” you giggled, dodging him. “i’m emotionally supporting you!”he cornered you near the sink and kissed your cheek, smearing a bit of chocolate on your nose in the process.

you didn’t wipe it off.that night, you stayed up past midnight.he lay beside you, back against the wall, as you scrolled through your old playlist together, adding songs and assigning memories to each. “that one,” he said, pointing to a soft acoustic track. “that sounds like the time we stayed under the blanket fort for hours because it rained.”you hummed. “and that one?” you tapped a mellow indie song. he smiled. “that sounds like you… when you’re brushing your hair in the morning. calm and sleepy and too pretty for the world.”

you looked at him, heart in your throat.“you’re trying to make me fall for you harder, aren’t you?” you whispered.he only grinned. “maybe.”by thursday, the weather had shifted. cooler breeze. less humidity. a gentle reminder that summer was fading.you skipped your last class and dragged him to the tiny park five minutes from your apartment—the one with the old wooden swings and the sky just open enough to see the stars when the lights went out.

he brought your brother’s hoodie again, the one he always wore when he didn’t know what else to reach for. you didn’t say anything.you lay down on the grass side by side, arms brushing, fingers grazing. neither of you moved to lace them. “you scared?” he asked quietly, eyes on the sky.

you turned your head. he was blinking slowly, watching the stars but not really seeing them.

you took a breath. “yes.” “me too.” silence. then he reached for your hand and laced your fingers with his, like he’d just remembered how. “i think i was scared even before i knew,” he said. “even when i didn’t understand what was happening. it always felt like i was… borrowing this. all of it. you. the world. the sunlight. the way coffee tastes. like i snuck into something i shouldn’t have.”

you squeezed his hand. “you didn’t sneak in. you were always meant to find it. to find me.” he turned his head and looked at you—really looked.

and when he smiled, it was soft. a little tired. but still full of that same tenderness that had made you fall for him in the first place. “i don’t want to forget any of it,” he whispered. “you won’t.”

“how do you know?”you shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder, wrapping your other arm around his. “because i won’t let you.” he didn’t reply for a long time.when you looked again, his eyes were damp—but he smiled. “i love you, you know.” it was the first time he’d said it. you didn’t cry right away. you just let yourself feel it.

the warmth. the weight. the truth.and you whispered it back, soft and certain.

“i love you too, hoon.”

and when you both sat up and looked at the stars again, your pinkies still entwined, the wind carrying the scent of rain and grass and something like hope—you could almost believe this wasn’t going to end. the days felt like honey—warm, golden, slow. everything was steeped in softness now. even the pain. you weren’t pretending anymore. not fully.

he knew what he was.

you knew what would happen.

but still, you both chose to stay in the lull between knowing and letting go.like a long exhale neither of you were ready to end.

sunghoon woke before you most mornings now. he’d make tea instead of coffee. he said the quiet bubbling of the kettle was gentler. said your face, when you sleep, looked too peaceful for anything loud.sometimes he’d sit at your little desk, sketching in the margins of your notebooks. scribbles of your hair. your socks. the folds of your blanket. he said he wanted to draw all the things he didn’t know how to name.

you called him ridiculous. he just smiled.in the evenings, you lit a candle on the table while he stirred whatever you decided to cook. you’d play music from your phone and sing off-key and he’d look at you like you were singing just for him.

and maybe you were.you didn’t say goodbye yet.

but everything you did started to feel like one.

on the friday after your last exam, you took him to the campus garden. it wasn’t anything fancy—just a few flower beds, benches, an old wooden swing near the back—but you used to sit there when things were heavy. sunghoon had never been there before. he looked at the lavender patch like it was a galaxy. you let him lie down with his head in your lap, fingers combing gently through his hair while the afternoon sun painted the world in soft, glowing brushstrokes.

he sighed. “what do you wanna do tomorrow?“what do you wanna do tomorrow?” you asked back.he blinked up at you, eyes a little glassy. “make one more memory.” you nodded.that night, he helped you write a list on a sticky note with little stars and hearts. your handwriting and his, side by side.

– go to the park early

– buy matching hair clips from that stall you always pass

– make strawberry milk from scratch

– take polaroids in the photobooth again

– lay on the floor with the fairy lights on

– say everything you’ve been too scared to say

you both stared at the last one in silence.

then sunghoon added one more.

– look at each other like it’s the first time

you looked at him then, heart crumpling, and he smiled like it was okay.

the next day bloomed like a dream. the weather was good. the wind soft. the whole city smelled faintly of bread and clean air. he wore your brother’s hoodie again. you didn’t ask why.

he said your name like it was made of sunlight. you made strawberry milk with cut-up fruit and ice cubes shaped like tiny stars. he kissed your cheek when you weren’t looking.you sat side by side in the photobooth, and this time he leaned in and kissed your temple just before the shutter clicked.

you kept that one. put it in your journal. wrote the date in the corner like it meant everything. because it did. later that night, he lay on the floor beside you while your fairy lights blinked lazily from above. he was smiling at the ceiling. humming something under his breath.

“this is my favorite day,” he said. “me too.” “not because we did a lot,” he added, turning his head to face you. “but because we did it… like us.” you looked at him. “us?” he nodded. “whatever we are. whatever we’ve become. it feels real. even if it’s not supposed to be.”

you swallowed. he reached out, and you let him cradle your face. his thumb brushed your cheekbone, his breath soft when he leaned in. “i want you to remember this part,” he said quietly. “this version of me. not the broken pieces when it happens.”

you tried to blink the tears away, but he kissed them off your cheeks before they fell. “you’re not breaking,” you whispered. “you’re here.”but the silence afterward was heavy. like you both knew the glitch was waiting around the corner. still, you kissed him. because what else could you do? when he pulled back, he touched your forehead to his and whispered, “if this is the end, let it be beautiful.”

you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again.

he glitched the next morning. not a flicker. not a shimmer. it was worse. you were brushing your teeth when you heard the thud. ran into the kitchen with foam still in your mouth. sunghoon was on his knees, hand on the wall, the mug he’d dropped still spinning on the floor. “hoon?” you rushed to him. “what’s—are you okay?”

his skin was trembling. like static. like snow in an old tv screen. his voice cracked. “i saw… them.”you knelt beside him, grabbing his wrist. “what? saw who?” he blinked, dazed. “the panels. i saw them again.” your breath left your lungs. his eyes searched yours. “you knew. you know what’s happening.” you nodded. barely.

he reached for you. clung to you like a man drowning.“i don’t want to go.” you broke. you let yourself sob into his chest. let yourself say it, over and over: i don’t want you to go either. i don’t. i don’t. i don’t— his hands stayed firm on your back. but his outline shimmered again. longer this time. like something was unraveling.

you didn’t know how much longer you had.but you knew one thing.you would remember all of it.no matter what.

the final day arrived quietly.

no warning. no glitch. no crack of thunder.

just… peace. too much peace.

you woke up with your fingers curled into sunghoon’s shirt, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. his arms were already around you, as if he knew. as if he hadn’t slept at all.the sun had barely risen, casting golden shadows across the wooden floor. everything was still.

you tilted your head and looked up at him.

he was already looking at you. he smiled.

but it was different this time. softer. heavier.

“hey,” you whispered. “hey,” he said, just as gently. you reached up to touch his cheek, but before you could, he caught your hand and brought it to his lips. held it there. kissed the inside of your wrist like it was sacred.

you both lay there for a while, not saying anything. then he spoke. voice like a breeze.

“it’s today.” you closed your eyes. not because you didn’t believe him. but because your heart wasn’t ready to say it out loud. when you finally looked at him again, your throat was tight.

“how do you know?”he smiled again, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. “because the story’s been quiet all night. like it’s holding its breath.”

you tried to laugh. it came out broken. “what do we do?” you whispered. sunghoon’s eyes softened. “we live it.”

you made breakfast together. burned the toast again. laughed through tears.he said he didn’t care as long as he got to see you chew and complain like you always did.he brushed your hair behind your ear. you pressed your forehead to his. he kissed you like it was the first time all over again.

you went to your favorite bench at the edge of campus. the one by the mural he always liked.he traced his finger along the painted stars on the wall. “i always thought this one looked like you.”“how can a star look like me?” “bright. a little lonely. but always trying.” you laughed and tried not to fall apart again.

he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

“if there’s something after this… another version of me, another version of you…” you looked at him. “i’ll find you,” he said. “i swear i will.”

you nodded, blinking back more tears. “and i’ll wait.”

“you don’t have to,” he said gently. “you can live. fall in love. laugh. eat burnt toast. have a messy, full life. just… remember me. even if it’s just in a quiet way.” you shook your head, trembling.

“i don’t want a world without you in it.” he smiled. his thumb brushed away the tear sliding down your cheek.

“then i’ll stay,” he whispered. “right here.”

he tapped your chest with his finger, right over your heart. “you kept me alive. you wrote the ending differently. even when you weren’t the author.” you leaned into him, sobbing softly.

he held you. held all the broken parts you didn’t know how to name. kissed the top of your head like he was memorizing it.

by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your apartment was quiet again. you curled up on the bed together. no music. no fairy lights. no distractions. just your breathing. your hands. your silence. sunghoon turned to you, tears in his eyes.

“can i be selfish?” he whispered. you nodded. “

you always could.”

“can i kiss you until it hurts?”

“please.”

and so he did.

again and again and again—

kissing you like it would keep him here. like his lips could rewrite fate. your tears mixed with his.when he finally pulled back, your foreheads touching, you whispered the words you had kept buried for so long.

“i love you.”

sunghoon smiled, eyes glistening.

“i love you too.”

his body started to flicker.

this time, not a glitch.

a fade. gentle, soft—like dust caught in light.

he didn’t panic.

he just held your face, and said it again.

“i’ll find you.” and then—

he was gone.

not in a flash. not in shattering light.

just…

gone.

you sat there, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around the last warmth he left behind. and for the first time in a long time,

you cried.

not because you lost him.

but because you had him.

and he had you.

even if only for a chapter.

you didn’t move at first.

you just stayed on the bed, curled into yourself, arms still tingling from where he’d last touched you. your cheek was damp, your chest hollow, breath shaky like the silence was too loud now that it didn’t include him.

but eventually…

you looked up.

half-hoping, half-fearing—

maybe everything would vanish.

his hoodie on your desk chair.

the cup with his toothbrush beside yours.

the slippers by the door, a little too big for your feet.

the stack of polaroids on the corkboard.

but they were all still there. untouched.

as if the world hadn’t just ended inside you. you stood slowly, bare feet against the cold floor. each step felt heavier than the last, like your body already missed his gravity. like the room knew.

your eyes landed on the tiny desk in the corner, the one he always sat at when he waited for you to finish your readings. a notebook still sat there—your brother’s old one he had adopted—open to a page with a rough sketch of your back, drawn in pen. it wasn’t perfect, but the details were there.

the slope of your shoulders. the shape of your bun. your name written under it in messy handwriting with a heart at the end.

you choked back a sob and turned away. then you saw the polaroids. they were still pinned in that same uneven row along your bedroom wall. every moment you had tried to immortalize was still there. his laughter mid-bite. your blurry smile holding up burnt brownies. the one where he had kissed your cheek and you’d been caught mid-blush.

and the first photo strip —the photobooth tucked at the edge, forgotten by everyone but you and him. you walked over and carefully took it off the wall. your fingers trembled.

the four tiny squares were slightly worn, the corners curling just a bit from being touched too often.you remembered the way he laughed when it printed.

how he softly said, “i like that we can remember this,even if it’s just in four little pictures.”

you clutched the photo strip to your chest.

it was all still here.

his hoodie still smelled like him.

his favorite mug still had a lipstick stain from where he made you tea last night.

the books he picked out from your shelf were still in the same crooked order he left them.

nothing disappeared.

just him.

you sank to the floor, knees drawn to your chest, the photo strip shaking in your hands as the weight of it all pressed against your ribs.

he had been real.

he had been here.

not just in your heart, not just in a screen or a panel of a webtoon—but here, living, loving, laughing in the same space as you.

and now—he wasn’t.

but he didn’t take anything with him.

he left it all for you.

because he wanted you to remember.

because he believed you would keep going.

because he knew the love you shared was too strong to disappear just because he had.

and even through the ache—

that mattered.

that still mattered.

so you stayed there for a while, curled up in his hoodie, photo strip clutched to your chest.

and for the first time since he faded—

you whispered into the quiet room, through tears and cracked breath:

“i’ll find you too.”

TOBIOSBBYGHORL 2025

taglist: @starry-eyed-bimbo @honey-bunnysweet @hoonstrology @diameuwu @aheewonenthusiast @lveegsoi @pshfan0812

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tobiosbbyghorl · 3 days ago

Text

BACKROOM DIPLOMACY ⠀─── PSH

( ꒰ঌ⸝⸝) ⠀─── Folding silk scarves, styling customers, and dealing with the occasional entitled mother—just another day working in luxury retail.

But when Sunghoon gets dragged into his mother’s bussiness, he doesn’t expect to meet you—a sharp-tongued store assistant who’s all too good at pretending not to care.

What starts with a damaged bag ends with a secret affair neither of you saw coming.

wc ꒱ 6.3k — legislative assistant! sunghoon ⨯ store assistant!fem. reader

warnings! 18+ smut, angst, pwp ✸﹕ oral(fem), petnames, affairs & cheating, exhibitionism, arranged marriages — TOTALLY INACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF PSH’ MOTHER

an ·˚ ༘ first piece for this account! reader realises a bit ate shes the side piece…

The perfume section always smells like bitterness and exhaustion, laced with overpriced musk.

To the rich, though, it’s intoxicating — the scent of spending for the sake of it.

Iris and sandalwood might be comforting in a home. But here? Under glass lights and superficial smiles, they settle like dread beneath your skin.

And that dread only festers the longer you look at the woman in front of you.

Her previously smooth, glassy skin now creases around a permanent snarl. Her dark bob is razor-straight and shoulder-skimming, not a strand out of place. A Celine Triomphe necklace gleams against her sternum, rising and falling with every syllable she spits.

“This is truly unacceptable. Never in my life would I have expected such terrible service.”

“Ma’am, as I said, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry does not cut it.”

You force your brow to unfurrow, fighting to keep your expression neutral. Six years in luxury retail, and somehow the worst part of the job is still pretending someone like this is always right.

“Ma’am, the lady who helped you last week is a trainee. It was an honest mistake — she gave you the display model by accident. Unfortunately, we’re out of stock on that item.”

“What am I supposed to do with this mess?” Her voice rises. “The lacquer on the straps is melted.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand. We can send it to France for repair, but—”

“I don’t have a week!”

You flinch. The glass display table between you offers little defense.

She’s tall. Elegant in a cold, precise way — five foot ten, in pointed kitten heels that echo like threats against the marble. A Mini Lady Dior dangles from her manicured fingers as if warning you.

You had just sold the last Oura bag — THE 8TH HOUSE’s viral release — ten minutes before she arrived. You left that part out. Mistake.

“I bought this bag to wear for a special dinner in 4 days,” she snaps. “As a paying customer, I expect a partial refund — and a replacement. Now go check the back.”

“Ma’am, as I said—”

“I don’t like your attitude.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Do you know who my son is?”

And just like that, you’re done for.

No, you don’t know who her son is — but from the way she’s dripping in gold, and you’re dripping in sweat, you know it’s about to get worse.

“May I take a name?”

She tongues her cheek. “It should be on file.”

Now playing Guess Who, you reach for the store tablet, pretending to type. She watches you like a hawk with dangly earrings.

“You know what? I’ll call him myself.”

“Ma’am, that’s not necessa—”

Three rings. A pause. Then:

“Darling, hi honey. I’m sending you my location.”

A low murmur vibrates through the speaker.

“Don’t be like that — I need help. Terrible service! I think I’m being scammed. Should’ve just bought the Kelly instead.”

Another pause, followed by a curt response. Then:

“Thank you, sweetheart. Please come as soon as—”

The call ends. She turns back toward you, expression smug.

“My son works in the government. He’ll deal with this. He has power. He can get you fired.”

You barely open your mouth before she continues.

“Surely there’s someone with a bit more authority who could’ve handled this. I was told this boutique had standards.” She judges, eyeing the store’s shelves of purses, mannequins posed with elegance.

“My Son’s fiancée recommended this place. She’s a proper woman, well-raised. Polite.”

The woman only continues with her remarks for what seems like hours, leaving you no choice but to be verbally beaten. You’re one passive-aggressive breath away from quitting on the spot—

—but then the door chime ring; soft, high pitched, delicate.

And the room goes still.

Not the kind you get when a customer’s thinking. The kind that spreads in the air when something powerful walks in.

You keep your head down, still reeling from the mother’s constant barrage — until the shift in the room makes it impossible not to look up.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

His steps are smooth and deliberate. The tap of leather dress shoes against marble echoes like a countdown.

And then you see him.

Tailored charcoal blazer, cinched just right at the waist. Crisp white dress shirt underneath, with sleeves that don’t wrinkle. Broad shoulders. A jaw sharp enough to cut through pleasantries.

And a face. God, the face.

Smooth ivory skin, cool-toned and clear. A beauty mark dusted beneath his right eye. Straight, dark brows. Deep eyes that look at you — like he’s trying to memorize you on sight.

You swallow. Too loudly.

“Sunghoon, my dear,” his mother says, voice suddenly sweet. “Listen carefully—”

“Please step aside, mother.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

He walks past her, long strides cutting straight across the store toward you. You’re already standing, but somehow you still feel like you need to rise to meet him.

“Sir,” you manage, stiff and formal. “I’m deeply sorry.”

“I was pulled out of a meeting with a constituent.” His voice is calm, smooth, but carries weight. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Your mother was given a damaged item by a new trainee. I offered a full repair or a refund, but both options will take a week or more.”

A long breath leaves him. Not annoyed — more resigned.

Then, he reaches into his inner pocket.

And pulls out a sleek black card. He lays it on the glass counter between you, perfectly centered.

“Take my card. Source the bag from anywhere. Overnight it if you can. Charge whatever you need, just make sure it arrives before her event.”

You blink, words tangled on your tongue.

“Sir, I’m not sure we can guarantee delivery that fast—”

“That’s fine,” he cuts in gently. “Do your best. That would be greatly appreciated.”

You feel your chest jump.

Polite. Hot. Rich. You’re in actual danger.

You’ve spent your whole shift aligning belts and folding scarves, and now you’re talking to someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover and speaks like he was born in diplomacy.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Mother,” he says, turning without looking at you. “I’ll handle the rest. I’ll bring the new bag to your house once it arrives.”

She nods once, satisfied. The mask of arrogance slips right back into place.

“I’m glad we could come to an understanding. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then to you, her voice sharper again:

“Next time, let’s make sure it’s handled correctly the first time.”

She spins on her heel and glides toward the exit, her skirt swaying dramatically with each step.

You watch her go. And then — finally — exhale.

Your shoulders slump in relief. The worst is over. You’re alone now, finally.

Until:

“Not going to be a next time for her until she fixes that bob.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Silence.

Then a soft chuckle.

“What’s the issue with her haircut?”

You freeze.

He heard you. He heard you.

Your eyes shoot up, wide and panicked.

He’s still there, tilted slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

“You look like a gaping fish.”

“Sir—”

“You’re quite brave for that comment.” He pauses. His gaze sweeps the store like he’s trying to understand it, deep in thought. “Though I can’t imagine what she said to you. She becomes cruel, sometimes. For that, I apologize.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something under it. Weight. Restraint. The air around him feels… taut. Like he’s holding back.

You straighten up without thinking.

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“You’ve handled her better than most.”

And then — a flicker of a smile. Subtle, but it knocks the breath out of your lungs all over again.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he nods once, a quiet conclusion to the chaos.

Turning, the soft click of his shoes echo again, that same calm intensity he arrived with, except now with the tension lifted and resolving.

He reaches the glass doors, pushing them open.

And pauses. Just long enough for you to catch it.

“Thank you.” He says, voice low — not out of shynes, control. “I know you didn’t have to handle it the way you did.”

You blink, surprised. The store feels too quiet again.

The door swings shut behind him with a soft chime.

Just like that, he’s gone. However, it feels like he left something behind.

You exhale, finally, letting your shoulders drop.

Your fingers reach up, absently smoothing your shirt collar — like you could erase the way he looked at you. The way his gaze didn’t linger, but settled.

‘What the hell was that?’ you mutter under your breath.

The display mannequins don’t answer.

You’re not sure you want them to.

You found a bag that same night.

Laptop open, notebook at your side with scribbled codes and international numbers, you combed through headquarters one by one until you finally located it — Bangkok. Last in stock.

The next morning, you placed the order through the boutique’s internal system. It wasn’t cheap — express international shipping never is — but Sunghoon’s black card handled it.

A day later, you sent a short confirmation text to the number linked to the card.

The bag is ready.

And the day after, the same familiar chime rang out,

However it wasn’t a rampage that walked in, instead, refinement.

A stark black tux.

Hair parted clean down the centre, styled just enough to look effortless. A few loose strands fell forward, deliberate in their messiness.

He looked like he stepped out of a campaign shoot.

Straight toward the glass counter. The same one where he’d first met you.

“Good afternoon.” his voice is the same, low, even.

You hate that it still sounded like silk. Hated it more that you remembered it exactly. Dreamed of it, even.

‘I’m here to pick up the replacement bag for my mother.’

‘Of course sir — right this way.’

You lead him past the counter to a teak table — smooth, low, with a warm ivory lamp and curated bottles of cologne lining its edge.

He follows in silence.

His gaze trails over you: the soft trail of your perfume, the gleam of your earrings, the clean movement of your skirt. His eyes linger too long on the way the fabric hugs your hips.

Your voice pulls him back.

‘One moment, Sir. I’ll go get the package.’

You disappear to a back door, heels softly clicking. Only now, you emerge with an ashen grey box with the store’s logo pressed into the middle, gently settling it onto the table.

The box feeling weightier than usual, and you lift the lid, unveiling the pristine bag.

“Here it is,” you say, calm and measured. “I secured the last one from Bangkok. Express shipping has been charged to your card.”

You slide the matte black metal card back across the table toward him.

‘If all is correct, I’ll have this packaged and ready for you, Sir.’

‘Delightful.’

Cutting black silk ribbon and wrapping the box corners, your line of sight is diverted to a lighter grey shopping bag sliding onto the table.

Paying no mind towards it, you continue your task only pausing when Sunghoon stares at you expectedly.

‘Sir?’

‘This is for you.’

You blink. ‘For me?’

‘An apology for the other day.’

You glance into the bag, half-expecting some overpriced chocolate.

Instead — a candle. Heavy glass. Minimal label. Tom Ford.

The label reads: ‘Bitter Peach’

Upon reading, you snort. ‘Subtle.’

Sunghoon tilts his head, replying ‘It felt… appropriate.’ His face unchanging, but his eyes glint — barely.

Resuming your task, you gently place the box into a matching gift bag, tie the ribbon seal, and face the bag logo towards Sunghoon. Suddenly aware of his staring, you look back.

‘So’ you murmur, ‘the government pays you to harass boutique staff and deliver passive - aggressive gifts?’

A blink.

‘I’m not usually this involved in retail diplomacy.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’

His lips twitch. Just slightly.

Your eyes darted across him again, small details further push your daydreams for later tonight. He doesn’t fidget, thinned lips plush and moistened — which was irritating in itself.

After a beat, you speak again.

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘No.’ He replies softly, but final, ‘I wanted to.’

‘Thank you.’

He nods slightly, taking the bag to leave, only turning before stepping away too far, glancing back.

‘You’re not like the people I usually deal with.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Still deciding.’

And he takes his leave, leaving you only with the faint scent of his cologne, and a candle on the table.

He started coming in more often after that.

Always with a reason. A question about leather treatment, a last-minute gift, coming in to ask what tie colour would go well with a new suit — exchanges he easily could’ve sent someone else to do. He never said anything too forward, but the way he looked at you… it was far from businesslike.

You got used to the smell of white musk and clean linen, and the way your breath would hitch just a little when it was him.

Eventually, he asked. Quietly. Smoothly. The way Sunghoon always speaks when he wants something.

“Dinner — unless you’ve got a policy against those who make them.”

You said yes.

One date turned into two. Then three.

And each time, he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You made him smile. He kept you steady.

Suddenly your apartment was filled with flower bouquets every other day; roses, dahlias, peonies.

Your kitchen island went from being empty to being covered in shopping bags full of jewellery, perfumes and shoes.

It felt like a permanent state of bliss, one that created a hazy filter every time you were together — sweet and serene.

Until today.

The work day was busy, customers coming for gifts, new season releases and more. You couldn’t recall how many times you’ve given lipstick samples today, but the crowd slowly lessened as the day passed.

Now, the store was quiet — late afternoon light glinting off the perfume bottles. Suddenly, the door opened again, the small bell ringing out.

You looked up — and it was him.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman walked beside him. Beautiful in that way that doesn’t even try. Everything she wore was sleek, tasteful. Cream-like skin caught in soft daylight, framed by brown silk-smooth hair that fell in deliberate, brushed lines. Her eyes, wide and clear, and her cheeks were delicately blushed.

And she was a regular customer, one who's racked up plenty of store credit.

Your spine stiffened as they approached. You could barely look at him — you couldn’t

Sunghoon stood behind her as she smiled, soft and sweet. She greeted you as you did numerous times in the past when you served her. But now as you smile back, your lips crack and your chest feels bitter.

You wanted to hate her. Couldn’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She didn’t even know.

“Hello again. I was wondering if you could help me and my fiancée find a few pieces?”

Fiancée.

A surge of vivid memories crashed over you, taking you back to that memorable first encounter with his mother.

My son. His fiancée.

You nodded. “Of course. Right this way.”

You led her to the lounge, walked her through options, gave polite suggestions from necklaces to sunglasses, all while your chest burned with something between anger and humiliation.

He watched you. The whole time.

And you never met his eyes once.

Eventually, she excused herself to the changing room, a few options draped over her arm. You moved to restock a few things — anything to keep your hands busy, anything to avoid him.

You didn’t notice him approach until you felt his presence at your side.

“Angel.’

You didn’t answer. Just kept folding a scarf that was already perfect.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t.

Sunghoon reached out — a hand barely brushing your wrist. “Y/N.”

You turned, sharply.

“What?” you seethed. “You want styling advice for her too?”

His jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

You stepped back half a pace. “No? What is it like, then? Because from where I’m standing, I’m the mistress that you picked up when you got tired playing house.’

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re not playing fair,” you muttered. “Bringing her here. Where you knew I’d be.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared at you like he was trying to find the right words — and failing.

But then he stepped closer.

Too close.

The air thickened. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You didn’t look at me once,” he said quietly.

You scoffed, “Was I supposed to?”

“No — but I wanted you to.’

You opened your mouth to say something — anything.

But he didn’t wait.

His hand slid behind your neck, pulling you in with the same calm intensity he always carried — and he kissed you.

No hesitation.

No apology.

Just tension finally, finally breaking.

You kissed him back — angry, confused, burning.

Soft lips melded together, holding and wanting to stay.

When you finally pulled away, the space between you sparked like static.

“She’s trying on dresses,” you whispered.

His voice was low. “You think I care?”

You stared at him, breath trembling, heart louder than your thoughts.

And for a second, it felt like in the whole store, it was just you two again.

You took a full step back, pulse still hammering behind your ribs.

His gaze followed you, lips parted like he still hadn’t come down from the kiss.

You turned away, suddenly needing space. Distance. Breath.

And then — the sound of a velvet curtain pulling back.

“Sunghoon?”

You froze.

She stood in the changing room doorway, one arm hugging a dress to her figure. A neutral beige silk clung to her like it had been tailored hours ago. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, eyes searching the boutique calmly.

“I think I found one I like.”

Sunghoon didn’t move for a beat.

He then stepped toward her with practiced ease, voice sliding back into something smooth. Controlled.

“Let’s see.”

She turned toward the mirror, shifting her weight in the heels. “It’s hard to tell if it’s too plain… what do you think?”

You forced a smile. “It’s elegant. Minimal. It’ll layer well with accessories.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Sunghoon said. His tone was light, effortless. Like nothing had happened.

But when his eyes flicked to you — just for a second — they weren’t weak at all.

You dropped your gaze immediately, heat crawling up your neck.

She moved back toward the fitting room, mumbling something about trying another size.

And as soon as she disappeared behind the curtain, Sunghoon turned toward you again.

But this time, you stepped away before he could speak.

“I’ll prepare a few alternatives,” you said, almost cold.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, silent in his perfect suit, in a store full of mirrors and unsaid things.

it was a last minute reschedule.

A senior stylist had called in sick. With half the team scrambling to rearrange client slots, your manager kindly booked you for the 4PM appointment.

You didn’t think twice. Not until you saw the name on the tablet.

Park Sunghoon.

Too late to swap shifts. Too late to call out.

The boutique was silent as you walked out the elevator doors, slowly approaching the showroom with the feeling of impending doom.

The muted hum of air vents and the soft scent of cedar wood from the new display candles filled the silence.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him.

Dark slacks. Crisp shirt. No tie this time.

Still immaculate. Just as infuriating.

He stepped into the showroom like he belonged there, meeting your eyes upon the sound of your heels.

“Miss,” he greeted, voice smooth as ever.

You didn’t smile. “Mr. Park.”

His eyes flicked over you. Not intrusive — but not neutral either.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” he said quietly.

“Your stylist called in sick.” you replied sharply, leaving no room for empty small talk.

You turned towards the table without answering. ‘I’ll walk you through the selections as your assistant requested. If you have any preferences before that, let me know.’

Silence behind you. Until,

“So we’re doing it like this?”

You looked up from the layout. “Doing what, sir?”

He blinked at the formality, his jaw clenching under the pressure of his bite.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

“I’ve been working.”

“For two weeks?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gestured to the curated items organised on the table. “These were brought in from the Milan line — cashmere. Limited run.”

He stepped forward, stopping just across from you. The air felt thinner between you. He didn’t look at the clothes.

“Why are you pretending none of it happened?”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Because it shouldn’t have.”

His expression shifted — barely. A flicker of frustration, or something heavier.

“Right.” he muttered. ‘Back to be being professional”

“I’m doing my job.”

“We kissed.”

Your breath caught, just a little.

“And then you brought your fiancé here. Remember?”

His voice dropped. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

“She tried on champagne silk and asked if it looked plain — you said nothing.”

“I didn’t plan that. I didn’t plan any of this.”

“But you let it happen.”

That silence again. Sharp and close and intimate.

Then, the softest he’s ever spoken. “You disappeared.”

“I had to.” you sighed deeply, your chest aching, “Sunghoon, this isn’t professional.”

His fingers grazed the edge of the table. “I didn’t want you to.”

You looked away, pulse climbing. “You still have a ring in your finger.”

“It’s arranged.”

That made your gaze snap back.

‘The engagement,’ he says. Voice flat, like the words taste sour. ‘It’s a contract. A bussiness move.’

‘And that's supposed to make what you did okay?’

‘No it doesn’t,’ he says. ‘But I need you to know it wasn't fake. None of it.’

You face him, hugging yourself with your pulse hammering.

‘Why tell me now?’

‘Because you won’t even look at me,’ he says — low and raw. ‘And I’m going insane not being able to fit it.’

You falter as he steps closer.

For the first time, Sunghoon looks almost unguarded. His thick brows draw down in stress, while his eyes speak a thousand words.

You allow him to get closer, closing the distance between you two until you feel your back hit the edge of the display table.

His gaze intense, you meet his eyes properly for the first time in weeks, ‘I’ve wanted you the moment I saw you. Please believe me when I say I didn’t choose her, but you.’

It was the unravelling.

With both hands you pull on Sunghoon's collar, bringing your lips together in a harsh kiss.

His lips were as good as you remember, perfectly fitting and moulding to yours. You pulled him by the collar and kissed him hard. He met you with equal force; tongue, teeth, and hands. Nothing gentle. Months of repression dissolved into that kiss. You both fight for dominance, tugging on any surface of each other you can grasp, teeth hitting each other as the kiss becomes louder, messier.

Sunghoon groans into the kiss, his hands finally finding purchase on your hips, however, the intensity doesn’t fade as he tightens his grip, pushing a knee between your legs.

‘You’ve made me wait so long for this.’ he says, separating the kiss whilst still slightly brushing his lips against yours.

You laugh softly, looking up into his eyes that pool with yearning, ‘You deserve it.’

His lips twitched against your neck.

Gentle kisses turn into rough sucks and bites along your neck as he bit down, leaving swelling reds and deepening purples in his wake. He takes his time, slowly trailing the slope of your body, his lips placing one last gentle kiss on your sternum before he begins to unbutton your blouse — unwrapping you like a secret he already knew was his.

‘Turn around for me angel.’

You turn around, hands mounting your body weight onto the display table as you slightly arch your back. Shivers travel down your body as Sunghoon smooths his hands down the contours of your body, as if memorising the shape.

Slowly unzipping your pencil skirt, he lets it drop and pool around your ankles. You whine in anticipation, the air conditioning hitting your skin through the mesh material of your hosiery.

You feel Sunghoon lightly palm your ass, the hosiery giving friction against his as he lightly slaps your thigh.

‘Sir,’ you whisper, looking over your shoulder to see Sunghoon’s hungrier eyes absorbing your form.

Then a soft tug.

riipp

A sharp gasp left your mouth as sunghoon tore your hosiery open, a stretching hole between the seam revealing your lace underwear exposed to lustful eyes.

You felt yourself clench, the cold air making you feel even more exposed, your blouse slowly dropping off your shoulders and the balls of your feet prickling with heat in your heels.

‘Fuck, youre soaking already.’ Sunghoon relishes, sinking to his knees in his perfectly tailored dress pants.

“The black looks stunning on you, angel,” he breathes, his voice low and enticing as he inches closer, his nose teasing the damp fabric. “But just imagine how breathtaking you’d be in white. Light pink would be absolutely mesmerising.”

You moan at the friction, the tip of his nose bumping your clit, with whines spilling out of you.

Instead, he pushes the lace aside, dragging his tongue in one long, aching stripe from your clit to your dripping entrance. You jerk forward from the shock of it, steadying yourself on trembling forearms.

Then again — slower. Deliberate. Lapping at you like he’s savouring every second.

You feel his lips curve.

His voice, a low murmur, brushes against your warmth. “You taste so sweet," he whispers, savoring each word as if it were a delicacy.

You moan, louder this time. He chuckles before flattening his tongue and sucking your clit into his mouth, the suction enough to make your knees buckle.

Slap.

You cry out, half from surprise, half from pleasure as he lands a light smack to your thigh. When you squirm, he holds you tightly. “Don’t run.”

He spreads you wider with both hands, thumbs digging into your skin like he owns it, and sinks his tongue into you, fucking you with long, steady strokes. Wet, obscene sounds echo between your thighs, louder than you expected in the echo of the boutique.

“Sir—” You gasp, voice breaking.

He hums against you, his own arousal visible in how his hips grind subtly against the floor. It’s messy, uncoordinated, completely unprofessional, but youve never wanted something more in your life.

Your orgasm builds fast, embarrassingly fast — but he knows it. Of course he knows.

He pulls back for only a moment, replacing his tongue with two fingers — long, precise, curling deep as he wraps his lips around your clit again and sucks harder.

You see stars. Heat rushes up your spine, and with a strangled gasp, you unravel completely — shaking and moaning his name as your orgasm rips through you like fire.

Your body sags forward, trembling.

But Sunghoon doesn’t stop.

You whimper. “Hoon—too much—”

He groans, almost annoyed, standing swiftly. His fingers dig into your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“Do it for me baby, I know you can” he murmurs into your shoulder, pecking it lightly.

Your lips part, breathless. You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

You reach for his belt.

He catches your wrist — just for a second. His eyes bore into yours. “Tell me you want this.

“I do,” you breathe. “I want you.”

The restraint he’s clung to finally snaps.

His belt unclicks. Zipper down. You only manage to glimpse the flushed head of his cock before he’s nudging the tip between your legs, sliding it slowly through your slickness.

He groans deep in his throat. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You brace your hands on the edge of the table. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.” He grips your hips and finally thrusts in — one smooth, hard stroke, bottoming out with a strained exhale. “God. You fit like a dream.”

You cry out, the stretch fiery but addicting. He gives you only a moment before he pulls back and thrusts again — deeper, harder, his grip bruising.

The table rocks beneath you with his body caging you in, jostling as you push your hips back to meet his.

He leans forward, pressing his chest to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“I smelt the candle on you, that one i bought you,’ gasping with each thrust, ‘Do you know what that did to me? Every time I smell that fragrance in public?’

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth. The kiss is raw, hot, all teeth and tongue and sweat.

He thrusts deeper. Harder.

Your walls flutter around him. He swears against your skin.

“Close,” he mutters. “So fucking close—”

You whimper, words slurred. “Want you to come inside.”

That’s all it takes.

‘Fuck, let me spoil you, angel.’ He groans, ‘Let me buy you everything baby. You won’t need anyone else.’

Burying himself in you with one final thrust as he spills inside. Sunghoon clutches you tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

The room goes quiet. Just the sound of breathing. Your trembling knees. His weight draped along your spine.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, his hand splayed against your lower belly, as if trying to feel the way you still pulse around him.

‘Don’t leave me again.’

‘Just make sure you remind her that champagne isn’t her colour.’

#rie’s fic rec!#JUST BLOWS MY MIND!!!#PLEASE PLEASE MAKE PART 2😔😔 and dont make it hurt pls achkkk #the fact that his respectful but did that to her— would be okay with it tbh😁#sunghoon x reader #enhypen x reader

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