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Maybe the last thing Jongseob wanted was to be woken up on a Saturday at nine in the morning on his only day off. But maybe, that’s just what he got.
The pounding came first.
Not a polite knock. Not the hesitant tap of someone unsure if they had the right apartment. It was aggressive, relentless, rhythmic, like the door itself had personally offended whoever was on the other side. The sound carried straight through the thin walls of Jongseob’s apartment and into his dreams, twisting whatever half-formed thought he’d been having into something loud and jagged and impossible to ignore.
Jongseob groaned into his pillow.
He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. He barely even breathed, like if he stayed perfectly still, the universe might let him be.
“JONGSEOB!” a voice shouted from the other side of the door.
Of course.
Of 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 it was Keeho.
The pounding continued, accompanied now by loud, dramatic sighs and the unmistakable sound of someone leaning their entire weight against his front door. Jongseob squeezed his eyes shut tighter, burying his face further into the pillow, his messy black hair fanning out beneath him.
Sunday. His only day off. No classes, no studio time, no work. Just sleep – warm, uninterrupted sleep wrapped in his favorite dark blue comforter patterned with white stars.
The comforter shifted as he rolled onto his side, tucking it closer around himself. The fabric was soft, familiar, comforting in a way that made his chest ache faintly with gratitude. Keeho had gotten it for him last year for his birthday, making a huge deal out of how it was “aesthetic but practical” and how Jongseob needed something that matched his vibe.
Jongseob had pretended not to care. (but he did)
“OPEN THE DOOR!” He heard keeho shout again, voice echoing slightly in the hallway.
Jongseob winced.
Maybe – 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 – he should’ve gotten up the first time he heard Keeho call for him. Maybe he should’ve dragged himself out of bed before the pounding turned into a full-blown public disturbance. But really, who could blame him?
The warmth of his bed clung to him like a promise. His limbs felt heavy, boneless, the kind of exhaustion that seeped deep into your muscles after a long week of classes and late study nights. Sleep hovered just within reach, tempting him to drift back under, to ignore the world a little longer.
Another loud bang rattled the door.
“Your neighbors are judging you!” Keeho added, as if that were supposed to motivate him.
Jongseob let out a long, suffering sigh.
Guilt crept in slowly, unwelcome but persistent. He imagined Mrs. Park from across the hall peeking out her door, lips pursed in disapproval. He imagined someone filing a noise complaint. He imagined Keeho refusing to leave, settling in the hallway like a very loud, very stubborn stray cat.
With a quiet groan, Jongseob finally moved.
He peeled himself out of bed, the sudden chill of the apartment air making him shiver. He wrapped the starry comforter around his shoulders like a cape, cocooning himself in it before slipping his feet into his brown bear slippers. The little stupid ears flopped forward as he shuffled toward the door, eyes half-lidded, movements slow and uncoordinated.
Another knock – lighter this time, almost hopeful.
“Seob?” Keeho called, sing-songy now. “Buddy? Pal?”
“Go away,” Jongseob muttered, voice hoarse from sleep.
The pounding stopped.
There was a pause.
Then – “I heard that.”
Jongseob sighed again, fumbling with the lock. He unlocked the door and opened it slightly, peering out through the narrow gap like someone checking for danger.
Keeho was no longer standing.
Instead, he was sitting crisscrossed on the cold concrete outside Jongseob’s door, hunched over his phone, shoulders slumped dramatically. His hair – perfectly styled, of course – was barely disturbed, and his expression was one of exaggerated betrayal as his thumbs flew across the screen.
Probably spam texting him now.
Jongseob stared for a moment, blinking slowly.
“..Why the hell are you here?” he asked, voice flat. “It’s nine in the morning.”
Keeho’s head snapped up immediately. He scrambled to his feet in one smooth motion, eyes lighting up like he’d just won a medal.
“Oh my 𝘨𝘰𝘥,” Keeho said. “You’re alive.”
“I was asleep,” Jongseob replied. “Like a normal person. On a Sunday.”
“I’ve been calling you for ten minutes!” Keeho protested. “I knocked so loud your neighbors came out and told me to shut up.”
Jongseob winced, glancing down the hallway instinctively.
“You deserved it,” he said, then added pointedly, “Answer my question.”
Keeho hesitated, just slightly.
Jongseob narrowed his eyes.
“Well?” he prompted.
Keeho rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the mall with me.”
Jongseob blinked.
𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦.
“..Right now?”
“Yes.”
Jongseob stared at him with squinted eyes, unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”
“So, is that a yes?” Keeho asked brightly.
Jongseob exhaled through his nose, defeated. “Fine. But I’m getting ready, and you’re buying me breakfast.”
Keeho’s face broke into a triumphant grin. “Anything you want.”
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Twenty minutes later, Jongseob found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Keeho’s car, staring blankly out the window as the small college town passed by.
McDonald’s loomed ahead of them, bright and obnoxiously cheerful.
Keeho pulled into the parking lot with far too much enthusiasm.
Breakfast was acquired quickly – Jongseob with a single egg McMuffin, Keeho with hotcakes and a caramel frappuccino loaded with extra whipped cream and extra drizzle like he was trying to make up for something.
They ate in relative silence.
Once they were done, Keeho wiped his hands and glanced over. “You ready?”
No response.
Keeho hummed softly to himself, waiting. A minute passed.
“You ready?” he asked again.
Jongseob shifted in his seat, finally looking over. “Why do you want to go to the mall so early?”
Keeho stuttered. Just a little. “I want to get a look at clothes before the good stuff is gone.”
“It’s not because you want to see Theo?” He smiled slowly.
Keeho’s ears turned pink.
“Not the reason,” he said quickly.
Jongseob leaned back, smirking. “Historians would call them lovers.”
“We are strictly friends!”
“Friends with benefits..” He whispered to himself.
Keeho cut him off by starting the car.
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The mall parking structure was already half full when Keeho pulled in. The concrete levels echoing with the hum of engines and the distant beeping of cars locking and unlocking. Jongseob squinted as sunlight filtered through the car window, the brightness still a little too much for his not-quite-awake brain.
Keeho parked crookedly, killed the engine, and immediately unbuckled his seatbelt like he was on a mission.
“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s go.”
Jongseob stared at him. “You’re way too energetic for someone who woke me up against my will.”
“That’s because I thrive in chaos,” Keeho replied cheerfully, hopping out of the car.
Jongseob sighed and followed, tugging his jacket tighter around himself as they headed towards the mall entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, letting out a wave of cool, recycled air that smelled faintly of floor cleaner and perfume samples.
Inside, the mall felt.. quiet. Not empty, exactly, but not alive yet either. Storefront gates were still halfway down, with employees inside pulling racks into place or flipping lights on. A few scattered shoppers wandered through the wide corridors, footsteps echoing faintly against polished tile.
“This is too early,” Jongseob muttered, rubbing his hands across his face. “Nothing’s even open.”
Keeho waved him off. “That’s the 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵. You get first pick.”
“First pick of what?”
“Vibes.”
They started walking, their footsteps syncing unconsciously as they drifted past clothing stores. Keeho dragged Jongseob into at least three places he had no intention of buying from, holding shirts up against his chest dramatically and asking, “Do I look rich?”
“No,” Jongseob answered honestly. “You look loud.”
They almost got kicked out of Bath & Body Works when Keeho insisted on spraying every tester within arm’s reach, creating a fog of conflicting scents that made Jongseob’s nose burn and eyes water.
“This one smells like regret,” Jongseob said, coughing.
“That’s sandalwood,” Keeho replied, looking offended.
Claire’s was worse.
Keeho tried on a sparkly tiara, striking a pose, and knocking down a rack of earrings with his arm. Jongseob ran out of the store, leaving keeho alone to hear the worker telling them off.
By the time they stumbled back into the main walkway, Jongseob was tired again, his initial irritation replaced with a dull fondness he hated to admit.
“Why are we even here?” he whined, dragging his feet slightly, “we can’t afford anything.”
Keeho stopped short, spinning on his heel. “Excuse you. 𝘐 am employed.”
Jongseob raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you get fired for being late too many times?”
Keeho scoffed. “Almost. But the manager realized that I was the only one who did their job, and without me they’d be done for.”
“You got lucky.”
“Don’t question me.”
Jongseob opened his mouth to argue, then paused, suddenly aware of how dry his throat felt. “Can we stop at the food court? I’m thirsty.”
Keeho checked his watch. “Yeah.”
They rounded the corner toward the food court, the space opening up wider and brighter, rows of empty tables stretching out beneath hanging lights. The scent of fried food lingered faintly, mixing with something sweeter.
And that’s when Jongseob saw it.
Blonde hair.
Just a flash of it at first – soft, pale gold peeking over a wall of colorful glass bricks near the far end of the court.
Jongseob’s walking pace slowed, then stopped.
He nudged Keeho gently with his elbow. “Hey.”
“What?” Keeho asked, distracted.
“..Theo.”
Keeho froze like he’d been struck by lightning. “Where.”
Jongseob tilted his head subtly.
Keeho followed his gaze – and immediately straightened, smoothing down his shirt like it might suddenly wrinkle out of spite.
“Is he working today?” Keeho whispered urgently.
“I think so,” Jongseob said. “He sent his schedule in the group chat.”
Keeho scoffed. “I don’t read those.”
“I know.”
“We should say hi.”
“I don’t want a smoothie-”
Too late.
Keeho grabbed Jongseob’s wrist and dragged him forward with alarming strength, practically running toward the smoothie shop.
“Keeho–!”
The shop came into view quickly, bursting with color and warmth compared to the rest of the food court. Palm leaves painted along the walls, bright menus overhead, and a big cheerful sign reading 𝗣𝗟𝗨𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗠𝗢𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗘𝗦 perched above it all.
Keeho made a beeline for the register, still holding onto Jongseob like he might escape. “THEOOOOO~,” he sang loudly, voice echoing across the mostly empty food court.
“Keeho,” Jongseob hissed, embarrassed. “Stop.”
A moment later, Theo emerged from the back, already smiling before he’d even fully stepped out. He wore the shop's uniform – black visor, black shirt with the logo on the chest, apron tied snug around his waist. He looked annoyingly good for someone working a morning shift.
“Good morning,” Theo said warmly.
Then his eyes flicked to Keeho.
“..Dude, you really need to shut up.”
Keeho grinned like that was the best compliment he’d ever received.
“Missed you too,” Keeho replied, leaning casually on the counter.
Theo shook his head, amusement flickering across his face before his attention turned to Jongseob. “What are you guys doing here so early?”
Jongseob glanced at Keeho, silently begging him to answer.
Keeho opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
“..Mall,” he said finally.
Theo hummed. “Compelling.”
“We were looking around,” Jongseob added, trying to sound normal. “Before things got crowded.”
Theo nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced but not pressing. “You ordering?”
“Yeah,” Keeho said immediately.
Theo gestured toward the register. “Go ahead. I’m finishing ice cubes in the back, but I’ll have someone else take your order.”
“Free?” Keeho asked hopefully.
Theo smiled. “Free.”
“Love you,” Keeho said without thinking.
Theo paused mid-turn. “..You really need to stop saying that.” But he was smiling as he disappeared into the back, his voice drifting faintly as he spoke to someone else.
The two watched him leave, Keeho still grinning like he'd won something unspoken. The hum of the shop filled the space again - the sound of dishes being moved, cubes clattering in the back from theo, and quiet chatter from restaurants next door. It was soothing in a way that Jongseob couldn't describe. Then just as he was looking at the menu, that was when someone stepped into Theo's place.
And that – that was when Jongseob’s life quietly derailed.
The new cashier stepped up to the register and asked what they’d like to order.
Jongseob forgot how to breathe for a moment, painfully aware of three things all at once.
First – the shop was far too bright. Tropical colors splashed across the walls, the glass bricks catching the overhead lights and scattering them into fractured rainbows that danced faintly on the counter. The air smelled like fruit and ice and something citrusy-clean, almost sharp enough to wake him up completely if his brain hadn’t just shut off.
Second – Keeho was still standing next to him, entirely too pleased with himself.
And third – most importantly – there was a boy standing behind the register, looking at Jongseob like he was waiting for an answer Jongseob had apparently forgotten how to give.
“Uhm,” the boy said again, softly. His voice was careful, slow, the syllables rounded gently as if he was afraid they might break if handled too roughly. “What can I get you?”
The boy’s Korean wasn’t perfect – he could hear it, the way his words softened, the slight pause between words as he searched for the right ones – but there was something earnest about it. Something sweet, like he was doing his absolute best and hoping that would be enough.
Jongseob stared.
Pink hair, fluffy and slightly messy, falling into big brown eyes that reminded him of boba pearls – dark, glossy, warm. Bunny teeth visible when the boy smiled, just barely, uncertain but kind. He wore the shop uniform like it belonged to him already, black visor sitting low on his head, apron tied neatly around his waist.
He looked.. unreal. Ethereal even.
Keeho noticed immediately.
“Oh,” Keeho said, a grin stretching across his face as he leaned casually against the counter. “I’ll have a large raspberry peach smoothie.”
The pink-haired boy nodded quickly. “Okay! One raspberry peach..” he repeated, fingers flying over the register screen.
He hesitated.
“..Sorry,” he murmured, brows knitting together as he stared at the buttons, lips pursing slightly in concentration. He tapped one. Then another. Then paused again.
Jongseob’s chest did something strange – tightened, maybe, or softened. He wasn’t sure. He just knew he wanted to tell the boy it was okay. That there was no rush, that he was doing great.
The boy glanced up, embarrassed. “The button,” he said quietly. “I’m finding..”
Keeho waved a hand. “Take your time, angel.”
Jongseob shot him a look.
The boy’s ears turned pink.
After a moment, the order went through with a satisfied little nod from the cashier, who then looked up again – this time directly at Jongseob.
“And you?” he asked.
That was what finally snapped Jongseob out of it.
“O–Oh,” he stuttered, shoulders tensing. His mind went blank, all the usual options dissolving into static. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t even wanted a smoothie. He definitely hadn’t expected to be asked by him.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I– uh,” Jongseob said, then winced internally. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. “Your favorite?”
The boy blinked.
“My.. favorite?” he asked slowly, tilting his head just a little.
Jongseob nodded, cheeks heating. “Yeah.”
For a moment, the boy just looked at him. Then his lips curved into a smile – small at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to smile that big, and then wider, warmer.
“Okay,” he said, typing something into the register. “I’ll make you my favorite.”
Jongseob’s heart dropped straight through the floor.
“Is that all?” the boy asked, glancing between them.
“Yeah,” Keeho said, already pulling out his card. “Put the name as Steph.”
The boy nodded, repeating it softly to himself as he entered it. “Steph.”
The receipt printed, and he tore it off carefully before handing it to Keeho with both hands, smiling shyly. “Thank you.”
Then he disappeared behind the wall of colorful glass bricks, the sound of blenders and running water filling the brief silence he left behind.
Keeho grabbed Jongseob by the sleeve and dragged him a few steps away from the register. “You,” he said, eyes sparkling, “went 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵.”
“Shut up,” Jongseob muttered, face burning.
“Oh, I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵,” Keeho replied cheerfully. “That was adorable.”
Jongseob opened his mouth to argue – then froze as he heard a soft voice call out, “Steph?”
The boy stood by the register again, two smoothies in hand.
Keeho practically skipped over, grabbing them along with two straws. “Thank you!” he said brightly.
The boy smiled. “Have a good day.”
Keeho waved, shouting a loud goodbye to Theo somewhere in the back before turning and walking away, handing Jongseob his smoothie without ceremony.
They walked toward the exit side by side, the mall slowly filling with noise as more stores opened.
Jongseob stared at the cup in his hands. “What flavor?” Keeho asked casually.
Jongseob lifted the straw to his lips and took a sip. Eyes widening and immediately regretting every decision he just made.
𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺.
𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢.
Jongseob froze mid-step, remembering the trauma. The Laffy Taffy incident. The one time as a child he had eaten far too many strawberry banana candies and ended up vomiting spectacularly in the middle of a Barnes and Noble store.
Since then, the flavors had been irrevocably cursed in his mind. And now they were – innocently, tragically – combined in a smoothie he had hoped would be something magical.
He swallowed carefully. “..Strawberry banana,” he said quietly.
Keeho burst out laughing.
Jongseob kept walking, ignoring him, taking small, miserable sips because he refused to waste something he had made.
By the time he got home, Jongseob was back in his sanctuary: his bedroom. Warm blankets, star-patterned comforter, the soft smell of laundry detergent lingering on the fabric. He sank into the familiar nest of warmth, trying to focus on something else, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 else, but his thoughts kept spiraling back.
Pink hair, bunny teeth, and brown eyes so soft looking they could break a heart.
Jongseob’s hands flew to his face, covering it as he whispered to himself, “I.. I think.. I’m in love.” The blush crept over his ears, his neck, even under the comforter. He cursed softly at himself, frustrated at how easily his heart had betrayed him.
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Steam curled up from the center of the table in thick, fragrant clouds, carrying the smell of broth and spices and something rich that clung to Jongseob’s clothes almost immediately. Metal chopsticks clinked against bowls. Someone at a nearby table laughed too loudly, the sound sharp and uncontained, and Keeho – naturally – was doing his best to compete.
“I’m just saying,” Keeho said, leaning forward over the table, sleeves pushed up dramatically, “if you’re going to dip the meat like that, you might as well just drink the broth and call it a day.”
Theo barely looked at him, eyes focused on fishing something out of the bubbling pot with practiced ease. “You say that every time,” he replied calmly. “And every time, you still eat it.”
“Because I’m resilient,” Keeho shot back.
Intak laughed, bright and unrestrained, almost knocking his plate over in the process. Jiung smiled quietly across the table, the kind of smile that lingered a moment too long as he watched Intak steady himself, reaching out without thinking to help him before pulling his hand back again like he’d been burned.
Jongseob noticed.
He noticed everything, even though his mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton.
He sat there with his shoulders slightly hunched, fingers loosely wrapped around his cup, listening to the familiar rhythm of his friends voices wash over him. Normally, this would’ve been comforting. Grounding. Something he could sink into and forget the rest of the world for a while.
Tonight though, his thoughts kept drifting.
“Hey,” Keeho said suddenly, mouth still full. “Theo.”
Theo hummed in acknowledgment, swallowing before responding. “Yeah?”
“Who’s the new hire at the smoothie shop?” Keeho asked, glancing sideways – very pointedly – at Jongseob. He felt his entire body tense.
He brought his cup up just a second too late, the liquid catching in his throat as he inhaled sharply. He coughed. Hard.
“Oh my god,” Keeho said, delighted. “Careful there.”
Jongseob shot him a glare that could’ve killed a lesser man, setting his cup down with a little too much force. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
Theo waited patiently, taking a sip of water before answering like this was the most normal question in the world.
“His name’s Shota,” he said.
Something in Jongseob’s chest fluttered painfully at that.
“He just moved here from Japan,” Theo continued. “Freshman and a Dance major.”
Intak’s head snapped up so fast his chair scraped slightly against the floor. “Dance?” he echoed, eyes lighting up.
Theo nodded, picking up a piece of meat. “Yeah.”
Jongseob didn’t look up. He stared at his plate instead; at the mix of raw vegetables and cooked meat he hadn’t touched in minutes. His appetite had disappeared completely, replaced by a low, restless buzz under his skin.
Keeho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “What else?”
Theo paused, thinking. “During interviews, you know how I have to ask ice breaker questions? During his I asked him what superpower he’d want if he could have one.”
Jiung tilted his head, intrigued. “And?”
Theo’s lips twitched, just barely. “He made a fist and expanded it, then said, ‘World, poof.’”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jiung snorted. “So he wants to destroy the world?”
“You hired a menace,” Keeho deadpanned.
Intak laughed again, softer this time, but Jongseob didn’t. He couldn’t. Because he could picture it.
The way Shota's hand would curl into a fist. The seriousness in his eyes as he answered honestly. The way his accent would soften the words, turning something dramatic into something almost.. cute.
World, poof.
The conversation drifted on after that – something about Keeho’s latest project, Theo complaining about media theory readings, Intak rambling excitedly about choreography, and Jiung just nodding along – but Jongseob stayed quiet. Too quiet.
His gaze kept dropping to his plate, fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his bowl as his thoughts spiraled.
He wondered what Shota was doing right now. If he was nervous in a new country, If he missed home. If he was eating dinner alone somewhere, carefully choosing words in a language that still felt foreign in his mouth.
Jongseob swallowed.
There was something unsettling about the realization that he cared this much already.
“Seob?” Theo’s voice cut through his thoughts gently.
Jongseob blinked, startled. “Huh?”
“You okay?” Theo asked, eyes flicking toward him briefly before returning to the pot.
Jongseob hesitated. Then shrugged. “Yeah.”
Theo didn’t push.
But Keeho noticed. He always did.
Keeho smirked into his drink, eyes gleaming with knowing amusement. “You’re thinking about him.”
Jongseob’s ears burned. “I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m not.”
Jiung glanced between them, then smiled softly. “You kind of went quiet when Theo started talking about Shota.”
Jongseob stared at Jiung, betrayed. “Why are all of you like this?”
Intak leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. “You like him,” he said, not teasing – just stating it like a fact.
Jongseob looked down again, voice barely above a whisper. “..I don’t even know him.”
Keeho laughed gently this time, less mocking, more fond. “That’s how it starts.”
Jongseob didn’t respond, because deep down, something in his chest had already shifted – settled into place with frightening certainty.
Later that night, alone in his room, Jongseob lay staring at the ceiling. The smell of hot pot still clung faintly to his clothes, his phone sat untouched on his nightstand. He rolled onto his side, pulling the comforter up over his head. “…I’m in trouble,” he whispered to no one but himself.
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The grocery store was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, aside from the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of a cart on the linoleum floor. Jongseob stood in the dairy section, his hands full of two different cartons of milk – 2% and whole – staring at the labels like they were the most important thing in the world.
What's the actual difference anyway? he muttered under his breath, tilting his head and squinting. 𝘋𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳? 𝘞𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 2%.. 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘬. He tapped one carton lightly against the other, lost in thought.
Then he saw it.
A flash of soft pink hair in the corner of his eye made his stomach drop. He froze, milk cartons still clutched in his hands, as he took a careful step forward.
There he was. Shota. Every little detail about him hit Jongseob all at once: the soft pastel pink hair, falling loosely over his forehead, the oversized light-wash jeans that pooled slightly over clean white sneakers, a simple green wool sweater layered over a crisp white shirt; and accessories so minimal yet so deliberate – a silver necklace, and two chunky rings with designs he’s identified as dogs, glinting faintly in the harsh overhead lights.
Shota’s brows were furrowed, lips pursed in concentration as he examined an entire row of coffee creamers. Jongseob’s eyes traced the line of his jaw, the careful tilt of his head, and the way he seemed to pause slightly before moving his fingers to pick up another bottle. Every small, precise movement made Jongseob’s chest tighten.
𝘊𝘶𝘵𝘦.. 𝘯𝘰, 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.. 𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯, he thought, trying to steady his breathing.
He hadn’t even noticed the aisle shift until Shota’s head tilted slightly, scanning the space, and their eyes met. Big, soft brown eyes blinked slowly, hesitating, and then the pink-haired boy smiled. A small, careful smile at first, then a little wider, toothy and bright, bunny teeth showing just enough to make Jongseob’s stomach flutter.
“Hello,” Shota said, voice soft and slow, accented but perfectly intelligible, careful like he was talking to a fragile creature.
Jongseob froze mid-step. His throat felt tight, words lodged somewhere behind his teeth. “Hey,” he managed, forcing his legs to move toward Shota. “I.. uhm.. Saw you working at the smoothie shop a few weeks ago.”
Shota's head tilted slightly, fingers tracing the edge of a carton, and he smiled a little more. “Ah, yes, I didn’t get your name,” he said slowly.
Jongseob’s heart skipped. 𝘖𝘬𝘢𝘺. 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks heating. “I’m Jongseob,” he said softly.
Shota's eyes widened slightly, and his lips moved as he tried to repeat it. “Jon.. Jo.. Sob.?”
Jongseob couldn’t help but smile, soft and awkward. He held up his hands gently, like he could physically guide the words into Shota’s mouth. “Jong.. seob. Jong.. seob. Like this,” he repeated slowly, syllable by syllable.
Shota mimicked him carefully, a small crease of concentration on his forehead. “Jong.. seob..” Not perfect, but close enough that Jongseob’s chest felt warm.
“Good,” he muttered quietly to himself, barely able to contain the flutter in his chest.
For a moment, there was silence. Neither moved, each acutely aware of the other. The distant hum of the store seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet beat of Jongseob’s heart.
“So, uhm.. I was wondering,” Jongseob began, his voice almost a whisper. “Would.. Would you like to hangout sometime?”
Shota blinked, slowly processing. Then a small, radiant smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he said softly. He reached into his bag and pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper, writing something carefully before handing it to Jongseob. Jongseob took it, feeling the slight brush of Shota’s fingers. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.. 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵.. he thought.
He looked down at the paper. A number. Shota's number. The paper felt impossibly heavy in his hands, carrying the weight of promise, of hope, of something entirely new.
“Thank you,” Jongseob said softly, unsure if he was speaking to the paper or to Soul.
Shota nodded shyly and returned his attention to the creamers, picking one out and muttering a quiet “bye” over his shoulder. Jongseob stayed rooted in place, milk cartons still clutched awkwardly, feeling like the world had narrowed to a single, perfect point.
A small smile tugging at his lips. He finally set the milk back in the fridge, the labels now meaningless, and walked toward the exit, clutching the scrap of paper like a lifeline.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ Ი𐑼 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The wooden floor of the dance studio gleamed under the afternoon sunlight that filtered through the tall windows. The faint scent of sweat and polish lingered in the air, comforting yet grounding. Jongseob sat against the mirrored wall, legs stretched out, his phone resting loosely in his hand. He wasn’t scrolling for anything in particular – his mind was too occupied with the events of the past few weeks, the memory of soft hands and crooked teeth replaying over and over like a song stuck on loop.
Intak was practicing a choreo for his upcoming class, his movements sharp yet fluid, but every so often he would glance at Jongseob and smirk knowingly. After a particularly complicated step, Intak stopped, leaning against the mirrored wall with his arms crossed.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, voice soft but teasing. “What’s up with you?”
Jongseob sighed, fingers drumming nervously on his phone. “I.. saw him,” he admitted quietly, letting the words escape.
"Him?" Intak tilted his head, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah” Jongseob whispered, cheeks warming immediately. “Shota. At the store.. he gave me his number.” He fumbled with his phone, as though holding it tightly would somehow contain his rising nerves.
Intak let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Ahhh, that explains the blank, glazed-over stare you’ve had this whole time. So, are you actually going to text him?”
Jongseob groaned softly, hiding his face behind his hands. “I.. I don’t even know how to start.” His heart raced, every beat echoing in his ears. “I don’t want to sound dumb or too eager.. or–”
Intak interrupted with a light chuckle. “Hey, relax. Just be yourself. He liked you enough to give you his number, didn’t he?”
Jongseob peeked through his fingers, blinking at Intak. “I mean.. yeah, but what if he thinks I’m like.. weird or something?”
Intak raised an eyebrow. “Jongseob, he already knows you’re.. well, you. And he gave you his number. That’s a good sign.”
Still unsure, Jongseob shifted in place. “I.. okay. Maybe. I think.” He hesitated, staring at his phone as if it held the answer to all the universe’s problems. After a long moment, he tentatively started typing.
_____________
Jongseob: hey, it’s jongseob from the store yesterday :)
_____________
He paused, staring at the screen. The small smiley felt necessary, like a safety net for his nerves. Then suddenly, his phone buzzed.
_____________
Shota: hello! I remember. how are you? (..◜ᴗ◝..)
_____________
Jongseob’s chest lifted. He remembered him. Carefully, he typed.
____________
Jongseob: I’ve been good, you?
Shota: me too! are you doing right now?
_____________
Jongseob bit his lip, hesitant. Do I ask him to hang out? Too soon? Not casual enough? He finally typed, fumbling with each word:
_____________
Jongseob: Nothing much.
Jongseob: Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to plan that hangout?
_____________
Intak leaned slightly forward, smirking knowingly. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Jongseob exhaled, relief washing over him, a rush of warmth spreading through his chest.
“Planning a date?” Intak laughed softly, shaking his head.
Jongseob groaned, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not a date,” he muttered, muffled.
“Uh-huh,” Intak said, voice teasing. “Just a hangout, right. Totally innocent. No butterflies, no racing heart, nothing.”
Jongseob peeked out between his fingers, annoyed but flustered. “Shut up.”
He rolled his eyes, trying to focus on something other than the warmth spreading through his chest every time he imagined seeing Shota again. But then, his curiosity flickered elsewhere. “Wait, Intak.. what about you and Jiung?” he asked suddenly, tilting his head. “Are you.. are you dating or something?”
Intak froze, caught mid-stretch, his face coloring immediately. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “N–No.. we’re.. we’re only friends,” he admitted, voice a little too fast, eyes darting away.
Jongseob squinted at him, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “No way.. No way you still have that crush from freshman year. I’ve seen the way he looks at you – how he laughs at your jokes, sneaks glances when he thinks you’re not looking.. You know, the soft little things.”
Intak mumbled, embarrassed, his shoulders stiff. “I.. I’ve never had the guts to confess. I’m scared I might ruin our friendship or something.”
Jongseob’s jaw tightened, his own confusion bubbling up. “I know he likes you back. He’s too obvious. He’s just.. subtle about it.”
Intak’s blush deepened, and he rubbed the back of his neck again, muttering, “Maybe.”
Just as Jongseob was about to respond, his phone buzzed in his hand. The notification pulled him from the conversation entirely. His thumb hovered over the screen as he unlocked it, heart hammering.
_____________
Shota: oh, sure! When are you free?
_____________
Jongseob froze, the world narrowing down to the simple text. His mouth went dry, hands slightly trembling as he stared at the screen, mind spinning.
_____________
Jongseob: I’m free the entirety of Sunday next week?
Shota: that works for me. ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)
Jongseob: great, see you then :)
_____________
The notification cleared, leaving Jongseob staring at the screen, heart hammering in his chest.
Intak only chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “You’re screwed,” he said quietly, but not unkindly. “Completely and utterly screwed”
Jongseob’s lips quivered into a small, almost involuntary smile.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ Ი𐑼 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Jongseob’s heart was doing something destructive in his chest. Not just “doing something destructive” – it was more like someone had hired an entire marching band to play inside his ribcage while fireworks exploded in his stomach. He wasn’t nervous. That would be too small a word. He was full on panicking.
He had changed his outfit three times. The first choice was too casual, the second too formal, the third.. well, it had been a compromise that still left him feeling like he might be overdressed or underdressed, depending on which way the wind of Shota's judgment blew. He had double-checked his hair, fixed his half-ponytail, smoothed down stray strands, and made sure every crease in his oversized hoodie looked intentional, not frantic.
He had even, and he couldn’t believe he was admitting this to himself, looked up “casual friendly greeting” on Google. How to approach someone for a friendly hangout. “Tip #3: Smile naturally. Maintain eye contact.” He had stared at the screen for ten minutes, thinking about what “naturally” even meant in this context.
He even chewed an entire pack of gum in the thirty minutes it had taken him to psych himself up. His jaw ached slightly now, and there was still a lingering minty bitterness that did nothing to calm the rest of him.
It had been a whole week since he saw Shota at the store. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Four thousand sixty-eight minutes. And yet, here he was, sitting in a small café just a ten-minute walk from campus, and he could still see Shota's face in his mind as clearly as if he were standing right in front of him: the soft pink hair that flopped slightly over those enormous brown eyes, the gentle curve of his bunny teeth when he smiled shyly, the silver rings catching the store’s headlights in a way that made Jongseob’s chest twist with something he didn’t even have words for yet.
𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥, he told himself, voice tight in his head. 𝘐 𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘶𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩.. 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴.
And yet, sitting here, his palms sweaty on the table, and his fingers drumming nervously against the laminated menu, he felt anything but prepared.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. “Okay. You’ll be okay. It’s fine. Just.. a
hang out. Casual. Friendly. Relaxed.” He tried to repeat it like a mantra, the words scraping across his tongue in a dull rhythm.
But the second he looked out the window and saw a few students passing by, laughing and leaning close together, his stomach flipped. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧.. 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧..
Jongseob rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, desperately trying to will his heartbeat back into a manageable pace. He glanced down at his phone, but there were no new messages yet. Of course there weren’t. He hadn’t even told Shota he’d arrived early – he wanted to get his bearings, wanted to somehow practice being calm, whatever that meant.
The café was quiet, almost eerily so, except for the soft clatter of cups and the low hum of conversation. It should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. Every small noise made him startle slightly, fingers twitching on the table. He felt absurd, like a cartoon character with steam practically pouring from his ears.
𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. He inhaled sharply, counted to three, exhaled and immediately started over because his chest had resumed its panicked routine.
He shifted in his seat, trying to look casual while internally cursing every single hair strand that had refused to stay where he wanted it. He tugged at his hoodie, straightened the edge of his sleeve, adjusted the angle of his phone on the table.. a dozen tiny motions that made him feel like he was physically incapable of just.. existing in a normal, human way.
His mind wandered to the week since the shop encounter. He had replayed that moment at least fifty times. Shota standing there, hair catching the fluorescent lights, awkwardly typing the order into the smoothie machine, turning to look at Jongseob with that little toothy smile that had stopped his heart mid-beat. The way Shota's Korean had forced him to lean in slightly to hear properly. The way his hands had fidgeted with the rings on his fingers, absentmindedly, almost like a nervous tic..
Jongseob bit his lip, feeling warmth rush to his cheeks just thinking about it. 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘐’𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘚𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰.. 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨.
He looked down at his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Maybe he should’ve sent a message, just a tiny “Hey, I’m here” to ease the tension. But no. He wanted to do this in person, Face-to-face, like normal people.
Another long breath, one that felt like it should calm him but did nothing except make him more aware of his clammy palms and jittery knees. He straightened his back in the booth, trying to act composed, though the reflection of himself in the window reminded him that his posture was stiff, his smile probably awkward, and his hair slightly mussed from thirty seconds of nervous tugging.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, he whispered, silent to the world but loud in his head.
Then suddenly, the bell above the door chimed.
Jongseob’s chest lurched, his hands gripping the edge of the table. He looked up slowly, like he was afraid to see, afraid his mind would betray him with excitement or panic.
There he was. Shota. Hair, slightly messy in a way that was undeniably cute, soft brown eyes scanning the room cautiously, lips curved into that shy, tentative smile that had haunted Jongseob’s dreams for the past week. The sweater, baggy jeans, and white sneakers somehow made him look both effortlessly comfortable and impossibly pretty at the same time. Jongseob’s brain short-circuited.
Shota's gaze flicked around, stopping when it landed on Jongseob. For a fraction of a second, their eyes locked, and Jongseob could feel his entire body buzzing, almost as if electricity had sparked along his skin. He opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it again, realizing he had no idea what words sounded normal right now.
“Hi,” Shota said softly. His voice hesitant but warm, yet it was enough to make Jongseob’s knees go weak.
“Hey,” Jongseob stammered, standing so quickly he almost knocked over the chair. “Sit, please,” he added, waving vaguely toward the empty seat across from him. His throat felt dry, tongue heavy, every movement exaggerated in his own panicked awareness.
Shota tilted his head slightly, blinking with a soft curiosity, before sliding into the booth. His hands rested neatly in his lap, fingers brushing the silver rings he always fidgeted with. “Thank you,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to meet Jongseob’s.
Jongseob sank into his seat, trying to anchor himself to the table as if its surface could steady his rapid heartbeat. “Of course,” he muttered, almost under his breath. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮, 𝘑𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘣. 𝘈𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭. 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭.
Yet again, the café was quiet, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of cups filling the space between them once more, but in that moment it all seemed muffled, like the world had shrunk to just this small booth and this one pink-haired boy. Jongseob found his fingers twitching involuntarily, drumming lightly on the laminated tabletop as if that motion could steady his internal chaos.
Minutes went by when a waiter appeared at the table, clipboard in hand. “Can I get you two anything?”
Jongseob’s mind went completely blank. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried to think of something simple, normal. “Uhm.. a chai latte and chocolate scone,” he managed, voice tight and slightly trembling. He forced himself not to look like a complete mess, though judging by the way Shota’s eyes softened and a tiny smile tugged at his lips, he probably failed.
Shota glanced down at the menu, brow furrowed in concentration, then back up at Jongseob. “Citrus.. fruit tea,” he said softly, voice slow and careful. His pronunciation was tentative, deliberate, and every syllable seemed to pull at Jongseob’s chest in a strange, aching way.
The waiter nodded, scribbled down their order, and left, leaving them alone again. Jongseob let out a shaky breath, fumbling to place his hands in his lap.
Shota's eyes darted briefly to the side, then back to him, a soft pink tint creeping across his cheeks. Jongseob felt himself melt a little. “So, why Korea?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice came out tight and clipped.
Shota's fingers tightened around the edge of the table for a moment, then relaxed as he answered slowly, carefully, as if choosing each word with extreme care. “School had a good opportunity for me.”
“Which school?” Jongseob asked, blinking.
“I think.. Theo told me same as you,” Shota nodded. “I have night classes though, so if you don’t see me that’s probably why,” He hesitated, brushing a strand of pink hair behind his ear. “I’d probably be too shy to talk even if you did see me.”
Jongseob’s chest constricted, because he knew that feeling. 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. “Makes sense,” he said softly.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other, neither speaking, each silently taking in the presence of the other. Jongseob’s hands twitched. He wanted to reach out, to somehow touch the rings Shota kept fidgeting with, but he froze, afraid that any movement might be too much, or not enough.
Then, unexpectedly, a soft, shy giggle escaped Shota's lips.
Jongseob blinked. “What?” he asked, completely unprepared for the sound, for the way it made his stomach flip and his chest constrict with warmth.
“You look nervous,” Shota said, tilting his head slightly, eyes sparkling. “Funny.. cute.. nervous.”
Jongseob felt his face heat immediately. “I– uh– maybe,” he stammered, tugging awkwardly at his sleeves. “I just.. really wanted this to go well.”
Shota's head tilted a little further, fingers brushing against his necklace – a small, delicate gesture that somehow made Jongseob’s heart jump. “It’s going well, yes,” he said softly.
Jongseob’s lips curved into a small, involuntary smile. He leaned slightly forward, drawn to the warmth in Shota's gaze, the careful cadence of his words, the soft movements that seemed to speak louder than anything else.
The waiter returned with their drinks, a steaming chai latte and chocolate scone for Jongseob, a citrus fruit tea for Shota. “Enjoy,” the waiter chirped, before walking off.
Jongseob took a tentative sip of his latte, but the sweetness was lost under the overwhelming intensity of the moment. Shota stirred his tea gently, eyes meeting Jongseob’s occasionally, and
every tiny glance made his heart thump erratically.
“Any hobbies?” Jongseob asked, voice softer than intended, fumbling slightly.
Shota's eyes lit up, small and bright, and he leaned forward slightly, hands still twisting around the silver rings once more. “Video games, dogs.. my dogs especially. Mochi and kinako, both french bulldogs,” he said softly, each word deliberate, full of quiet affection.
Jongseob’s chest swelled. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.. 𝘐𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭, “Frenchies? Cute. I like dogs too,” he murmured, heart melting.
They talked more, slowly, carefully, letting the conversation ease around shy laughter, quick smiles, and the subtle blush creeping across both their cheeks. Jongseob found himself leaning in without realizing it, captivated by the quiet gravity of Shota's presence, by the meticulous way he spoke, by the way every little gesture seemed to pull him closer.
By the time the drinks were gone, Jongseob realized, with sudden clarity, that he was falling harder than he’d thought possible. Every soft word, every careful movement, every nervous smile – he was completely, utterly, hopelessly enraptured.
As Shota reached for his card to pay, Jongseob’s instincts flared. “I got it,” he said softly, hands brushing the counter. Shota's eyes widened, and a quiet “thank you” slipped out, enough to make Jongseob’s chest ache pleasantly.
Walking out together, stopping briefly at the café window, Shota looked at him, cheeks pink. “Thank you for everything,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Jongseob said, voice low, soft, a blush creeping over his face.
And as they parted ways, Jongseob walked home with the scent of citrus and chocolate lingering in his mind.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ Ი𐑼 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The dorm room was a chaotic blend of lived-in comfort and organized chaos, a perfect reflection of Keeho’s personality. Faint sunlight filtered through the tall windows, brushing over the scattered snacks, the art projects leaning against the walls, and the carefully stacked fashion magazines Keeho had lying around. The smell of buttery popcorn mingled with the faint aroma of Keeho’s coffee still lingering from the espresso machine he had used earlier, and it made Jongseob’s stomach growl despite the fact that he’d eaten just a few hours ago.
He tried to focus on the TV, half-watching Keeho scroll through his phone, but it was impossible. Every sense in the room, every slight motion or laugh, only reminded him of how off-balance he felt whenever he thought about Shota. That pink-haired boy was practically omnipresent in Jongseob’s mind, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop replaying their grocery store encounter, the soft way Shota had spoken, the little fidgeting with his rings, that grin that somehow melted Jongseob from the inside out.
“Hey,” Keeho’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and teasing, practically vibrating with energy. He had flopped dramatically across the couch, arms splayed behind his head, and eyes that immediately locked onto Jongseob. “You. Stop spacing out. Tell us what you’re thinking about.”
Jongseob froze mid-breath. “Uh.. nothing?” he muttered, but his voice cracked almost immediately. He knew Keeho wasn’t buying it. Not for a second.
Jiung, sitting neatly on the opposite couch with his journal open, didn’t even glance up from his writing. “He’s thinking about Shota,” he said smoothly, voice calm, as though it were fact rather than observation.
Jongseob’s head snapped toward Jiung, eyes wide. “What? No! I mean.. maybe a little,” he admitted reluctantly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks instantly. Keeho’s grin widened
“Ah ah ah,” Keeho crowed, sitting up a little on the couch, elbows resting on his knees. “I knew it. Obsessed. Totally obsessed. Admit it, Jongseob. He’s all you think about.”
“I’m not obsessed!” Jongseob protested, though the flush creeping across his face betrayed him entirely. “I just.. like him. That’s all.”
Theo, lounging lazily on the other couch, bag of chips in hand, finally looked up, his expression that perfect blend of amused and knowing. “Looks like someone’s smitten,” he said with a slow, teasing smile.
Jongseob groaned, burying his face in the pillow on his lap, wishing the ground would just swallow him whole.
Keeho leaned forward, tapping a finger on his knee like a predator observing prey. “I’m telling you, he’s completely obsessed. Look at him: blushing, flustered, fidgeting with that pillow like it’s a lifeline. You’re falling way too fast, Jongseob, and it’s glorious to watch.”
Jongseob rolled his eyes, though it was mostly for show. Internally, his heart was thumping, thinking of Shota's pink hair, the soft way he had pronounced Jongseob’s name, and those big brown eyes that somehow felt like they always knew what he was thinking about. How am I supposed to keep it together?
Trying to distract himself, Jongseob looked at Jiung and asked, voice tentative, “How.. how’s it going with you and Intak?” The words came out almost unconsciously, a mix of curiosity and the lingering conversation from the dance studio.
Jiung’s pen hovered over his journal for a moment before he glanced up, a faint blush on his cheeks. “We’re.. just friends,” he said quietly, voice low, almost shyly, before returning to his writing as if that explained everything.
Jongseob frowned. He didn’t believe him. “Jiung, I’m like one hundred percent positive he likes you back. You just need to be the one to say something first, you know how he is.” he said, squinting.
Jiung muttered something, cheeks deepening in color, retreating further into his journal. Keeho, naturally, leaned in closer, grinning from ear to ear.
“This room is dangerous,” Keeho said dramatically, flopping back on the couch. “It’s like watching someone drown in their own feelings. You’re all hopeless and I’m here for it.”
Theo, still half-focused on the TV, tossed a chip into his mouth and raised an eyebrow at Jongseob. “Thinking of confessing, Jongseob?” he asked casually, tone light but pointed.
Jongseob’s eyes widened, and he groaned into his pillow. “I’ve been planning on it..” he admitted, voice shaking slightly.
Theo’s lips curved into a small, amused smile. “Lucky for you, Shota closes by himself next Sunday,” he added, eyes still on the TV.
Jongseob’s brain froze. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, panicked.
Theo shrugged lazily. “Just in case you wanted to know,” he said, casual but teasing, letting the words hang in the air.
Jongseob buried his face in the pillow again, muttering, “I need help,” as Keeho leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “You’re obsessed, Jongseob. And we all see it.”
Theo snickered from where he was sitting, eyes still on the tv.
Keeho leaned back, dramatic as ever. “Just remember, Jongseob. You’re already in too deep. No turning back now,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial.
Jongseob groaned again, flopping onto the floor, heart thudding. He was nervous, excited, and terrified all at once. And somewhere beneath it all, he realized that maybe he was completely, hopelessly in love.
Theo, tossing another chip into his mouth, grinned slyly. “Maybe if you spoke to him more, you’d figure out what to do,” he teased.
“I do speak to him! Just, not a lot..” Jongseob blurted, cheeks burning.
Keeho leaned back, satisfied. “Then it’s only a matter of time before you’re doomed,” he said with mockery. “Which.. I’m excited to watch.”
Jongseob groaned one last time, face in the pillow, heart racing. He was going to talk to Soul more. And that, he realized with a mix of dread and exhilaration, was going to change everything.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ Ი𐑼 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Jongseob had thought about this moment endlessly. Every night, on his way home from classes, in the quiet between homework and sleep, he would imagine it: the way he would see Shota, the words he would say, the way his hands might shake, and how his voice could betray him. And yet, despite all that thinking, none of it made this moment any easier. He had convinced himself that he’d be ready, that he could act calm, collected - but now, sitting a few tables away from Plus One Smoothies, he felt like a balloon about to pop. His hands were clasped together in his lap, knuckles white, and his foot tapped an endless rhythm against the floor.
He had no plan. Not really. All he had was a memory of Keeho smirking at him, elbows propped on a countertop somewhere, saying, “Just go with the flow, man. You’re thinking too much.” Jongseob could hear Keeho’s voice in his head, insistent, teasing, oddly comforting. So he had decided to follow that advice, even though the idea of “going with the flow” felt terrifying, like jumping off a cliff and hoping the ground would soften.
The mall was almost empty at this hour. The bright overhead lights reflected off the polished floors, creating long, pale streaks across the tiles. A faint scent of citrus lingered in the air from the janitors’ soap, the smell oddly grounding and domestic, a strange comfort amidst the panic coiling tight in his chest. Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, the shuffle of someone closing a shop, the occasional beep of a register being counted down. Jongseob’s ears picked up everything, every small sound amplified in his own heightened nerves.
He glanced at his phone again, checking the time for what must have been the twentieth time in the last five minutes. 6:45. Fifteen minutes until closing. Fifteen minutes until this would either go perfectly.. or disastrously. He straightened in his seat, tugging nervously at the sleeves of his baggy jacket, taking a shaky breath that did nothing to calm the pounding in his chest.
Without realizing it, he stood, legs stiff, heart hammering, and walked toward the shop. Each step was deliberate and careful, though his hands twitched at his sides. By the time he reached the edge of the counter, he felt like he had already crossed miles in his own head. The hum of the blenders and the gurgle of running water reached him, making his stomach twist in anticipation. Shota was there, in the back, moving gracefully, hands swift and practiced, completely absorbed in his work. His pink hair caught the light from above, soft and bright, making Jongseob’s chest tighten.
It should have felt surreal, seeing him like this, but instead it felt painfully normal. This was just Shota being Shota, gentle, precise, almost floating through the motions that Jongseob had memorized in his mind for weeks. Jongseob’s stomach flopped, his hands curled into fists, and he swore he could feel heat crawling up his neck. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭? he thought.
Workers from nearby shops began closing for the night, wiping down counters, counting cash, pulling down gates. Jongseob noticed them only in passing. His eyes were fixed on Shota, on the small movements, the delicate tilt of his head as he checked a cup, the way his lips pressed together ever so slightly when he concentrated. Jongseob’s mind raced, trying to find the right words, trying to shape a plan for the next step, but all he could do was fidget with his own sleeves, tugging at them nervously.
Then, Shota emerged from the back, carrying his bag and a cloth. His eyes swept across the shop before they landed on Jongseob. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Shota's expression softened instantly into a small, hesitant smile. The kind of smile that tugged gently at Jongseob’s chest, made his stomach twist with nervous energy, made his heart feel impossibly heavy and light at the same time.
“Jongseob?” Shota's voice was quiet, soft, careful - as if speaking any louder might shatter something fragile between them.
Jongseob froze entirely, fumbling awkwardly with the hem of his jacket. “Hey,” he managed, his voice cracking slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, and his stomach flopped again, heat rushing to his cheeks. He exhaled shakily, trying to gather himself, hoping his words to form themselves in a coherent sentence.
Shota tilted his head, one soft eyebrow arching slightly, that familiar quizzical expression that always made Jongseob’s chest clench. “What.. what are you doing here?”
Jongseob opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again. “I.. uhm, I wanted to.. I wanted to ask you something.” His voice faltered, trailing into silence as his throat tightened. Shota's gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t frown, didn’t look impatient. He just waited, silently, patiently, giving Jongseob the courage he didn’t feel.
Okay. Slow. Careful. Choose your words like glass, he told himself. Don’t let them shatter.
“Would you like to go out with me?” The words came out shaky, uneven, but deliberate. Each syllable felt like it weighed a ton in his chest, like a small stone he had been carrying for weeks and was finally laying down.
Shota blinked, soft brown eyes widening. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Jongseob’s hands twitched at his sleeves, his knuckles white, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. He watched as Shota's fingers moved to his necklace, twisting it gently, a nervous habit, and it made Jongseob’s chest ache. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.. 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵.
Then Shota spoke, softly, and the world seemed to exhale along with him. “I would love to.”
Jongseob’s eyes went wide. His knees felt weak. “Really?” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, heat creeping up his ears. “I.. I didn’t think.. I mean.. I didn’t think I’d get this far, honestly.”
Shota giggled softly, that airy little laugh that made Jongseob feel like he’d just inhaled sunlight. “I’m free right now,” he said, calm, warm, inviting.
“That’s.. that’s perfect,” Jongseob said quickly, leaning slightly against the counter, trying not to look like he might fall apart. The panic that had gripped him all week didn’t vanish entirely, but it softened, replaced by something lighter, gentler.
Shota placed his bag down and asked carefully, “Do you.. want a smoothie?”
Jongseob’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He nodded quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He leaned on the counter just a little, watching Shota move with that quiet precision he couldn’t stop staring at. His chest tightened, but in a good way. For the first time, he felt like the chaos in his chest made sense - it belonged here, with Shota, in this soft, intimate moment between them.
Shota tilted his head again. “What flavor do you want?”
Jongseob’s mind went blank. He chewed his lip, hands tightening slightly. Then, slowly, courage rising in tiny increments, he said, “Your favorite.”
Shota's grin spread wide, toothy, bright, heart-melting. Jongseob felt his chest constrict and expand all at once. Shota disappeared to the back, leaving Jongseob alone for a moment, leaning against the counter, heart hammering, trying to slow his breathing.
𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? he thought, staring at the empty space where Shota had been. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦. 𝘐 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.. 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸.. 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦.
The blenders whirred in the background, a soft, comforting hum. Jongseob took a shaky breath, sipped the air scented with faint fruit and citrus cleaner, and let himself lean into the moment. "This feels right,"