Work Text:
Kim Seungmin had always lived for the spotlight.
From elementary talent shows to middle school pageants, she craved applause like it was oxygen. So when her family moved back to Korea and she enrolled at one of the most prestigious high schools in Seoul for her junior year, she was ready.
New city. New stage. New fans.
She would shine brighter than ever.
She had her plan set: join the cheerleading squad, climb to the top, and become the queen bee of the school. Fame wasn’t just a goal—it was her destiny.
But then she met Kim Chaewon.
The full package—brilliant, radiant, and terrifyingly charismatic. Chaewon was the star of the cheer team, the student council’s darling, and the school’s reigning princess. Teachers adored her. Boys worshipped her. Girls WANTED to be her.
And Seungmin? She was just another pretty face foolish enough to think she could challenge a hurricane.
It was infuriating.
“You're the new girl, right?” Chaewon asked with a honeyed smile after cheer practice one afternoon. “You're cute. Try to keep up, okay?”
Seungmin matched her smile—just as sweet, with daggers behind her eyes. “Of course,” she said confidently. “It’s easy to follow when I’m already steps ahead.”
For a split second, Chaewon’s smile faltered.
Then it widened—sharper. Colder.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “I like confidence.”
Her gaze dragged deliberately over Seungmin, slow and assessing, before a cruel smirk curled her lips. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”
And just like that, the war began.
It was subtle at first—quiet, calculated moves wrapped in perfect smiles. But it didn’t take long before the entire school felt the tension crackling between them.
They competed on everything.
Who could hit the cleanest split. Who could hold a cheer the longest. Who could scream louder at games—voices wrecked by halftime—just to hear the crowd roar back. Every performance became a duel. Every applause was silently counted.
When Seungmin dyed her hair a brighter honey-blonde and styled it into sleek, bouncing ponytails, Chaewon showed up the very next week with freshly bleached platinum—cooler, sharper, impossible to ignore beneath the gym lights. When Seungmin upgraded her phone and started posting carefully curated morning vlogs, Chaewon retaliated with a flawlessly lit makeup tutorial that went viral overnight.
Followers became weapons. Likes were tallied. Views were dissected. Whispers followed them down the hallways.
“Did you see Chaewon’s post?”
“Yeah, but Seungmin’s getting more engagement.”
“No way, Chaewon’s trending again.”
But it was never enough.
No matter how high the numbers climbed, the satisfaction never lasted. They always needed more—more eyes, more praise, more proof that they were winning.
So the ultimate battleground, then?
Boys.
Or more specifically—one boy.
Lee Minho.
Minho was the star baseball captain—tall and aloof, with a jawline that could slice glass, a permanent scowl from too many hours under the sun, and the social skills of a brick wall. He spoke little, smiled even less, and moved through the halls like the rest of the world was just background noise.
He didn’t care about cheer rankings or popularity polls. Didn’t lurk on the school’s anonymous confession board. Didn’t show up at parties, didn’t date, didn’t flirt. His life revolved around batting averages, pitch speeds, bruised palms, and practice schedules scribbled hastily in pen.
Which, naturally, made him irresistible.
Untouchable.
The perfect trophy.
“The Winter Formal’s coming up,” Chaewon purred in the locker room one day, dabbing perfume on her neck. “It’s tradition for the cheer captain to go with the baseball captain.”
“Good thing you’re not the only one aiming for captain material,” Seungmin said, flipping her ponytail. “Or his date.”
Chaewon smirked. “You think you can beat me at this game?”
Seungmin shrugged. “Why not make it interesting?” She tilted her head. “First one to get Minho to ask her to the Winter Formal wins.”
Chaewon’s eyes gleamed. “Loser has to announce the winner as the true Queen in front of the entire school. Deal?”
Seungmin extended her hand. “Deal.”
The moment Chaewon strutted away, heels clicking triumphantly, Yeji emerged from behind one of the lockers, arms crossed, brow arched.
“Are you serious right now?”
Seungmin jumped. “Yeji! I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly,” Yeji said dryly. “You’re even doing bets now? With Chaewon? About Minho? What is wrong with you?”
Seungmin rolled her eyes. “Come on, it’s just a harmless competition. Chaewon’s been asking for it.”
“Seungmin, that’s not just any guy,” Yeji said, stepping closer. “That’s Hyunjin’s friend. And Hyunjin is my twin—I know him quite well. You really think this is going to end well?”
Seungmin hesitated. “I just want to beat her. That’s all. I’m not trying to ruin anything.”
Yeji softened slightly, but her voice stayed firm. “You’re playing with someone’s feelings. Minho may look cold, but he’s not a game piece. If you mess with him—”
“I won’t,” Seungmin said quickly. “I know what I’m doing.”
Yeji studied her a beat longer, then sighed. “Just… be careful, okay? Fame isn’t worth hurting people who don’t deserve it.”
Seungmin nodded, certain this was just another thing she knew how to win—like everything else in her life.
She didn’t realize it yet. This one would be different.
• • •
Seungmin had a plan.
A good one. A calculated one.
She had watched enough romantic comedies, read enough fiction, and inhaled enough K-drama tropes to understand the formula: get his attention, charm him senseless, become irresistible, and win the bet.
Easy.
In theory.
On the first day of execution, she spotted Minho in the cafeteria—same corner table, same unbothered posture, baseball cap pushed low. She didn’t hesitate. Sliding into the seat across from him like fate itself had nudged her forward, she placed her tray down and turned on her brightest smile.
“You play really well,” she said casually, like it hadn’t taken weeks of watching from the bleachers to build up the nerve. “The game last week? You were amazing.”
Minho didn’t look up. He stabbed a piece of chicken, chewed without tasting, swallowed.
“Thanks.”
That was it.
Encouragement minimal, but Kim Seungmin was nothing if not persistent. She leaned in slightly. “I was thinking maybe we could—”
“I have practice.”
He pushed back from the table and stood, tray already in hand. The chair scraped softly against the floor before he turned and walked away.
Seungmin stared at the empty seat.
“…Okay,” she muttered. “So we’re doing hard mode.”
She shook off the sting of rejection and turned back to her locker, trying to focus on her own things. But just as she was zipping up her bag, movement across the hall caught her eye—effortless, confident, and impossible to ignore.
Seungmin’s stomach sank. Chaewon.
She wasn’t trying to be casual or cute. She didn’t need to. Chaewon moved with the kind of confidence that came from never being ignored before.
“Minho,” Chaewon said, smooth as silk. “We’re hosting the school rally next week. I need the baseball captain there. Thought I’d steal you for coffee and convince you myself.”
A perfectly reasonable excuse. Public-facing. Strategic.
Minho paused, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I don’t do coffee before practice.”
Chaewon smiled, unfazed. “After, then.”
“I don’t do that either.”
Not rude. Not dismissive. Just final.
Chaewon blinked—once—then laughed lightly, like it hadn’t landed at all. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” Minho said, already turning away.
Chaewon watched him go, lips pressed thin for half a second before she schooled her expression and walked off in the opposite direction.
Seungmin froze.
So it wasn’t her. He was like this with everyone.
Shaking off the brief pang of doubt, Seungmin reminded herself that persistence was her weapon—and she was far from done.
A few days later, she figured a casual approach might work better. She came to the gym, showing up with a chilled sports drink and a fluffy towel she’d bought purely because it matched his team colors.
“You look exhausted,” she said sweetly, offering the bottle with a bright smile. “Don’t overwork yourself.”
Minho barely glanced at her as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I’ve done three sets. I’m fine.”
He didn’t even take the drink, didn’t acknowledge the towel. Didn’t so much as tilt his head in thanks.
She resisted the urge to growl. Who even was this guy? Did he not know how flirting worked?
The next day, she tried a different angle.
After practice, as everyone was clearing out, she “accidentally” tripped over his duffel bag and fell face-first into the grass.
“Ow—owowow,” Seungmin groaned, cradling her elbow like she was auditioning for a melodrama.
Minho walked over, calm as ever. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she pouted up at him.
He kneeled beside her and gave her arm a quick once-over, efficient, practiced—like someone used to checking for injuries. His brow furrowed, “you’re fine. No swelling. Just dramatic.”
“Rude,” she muttered.
She started showing up near the baseball training matches more often.
At first, she just waved casually—awkwardly, sometimes with both hands, once accidentally flinging her pen across the track mid-wave. The pen hit the back of a coach's shoe. She had to crawl over to apologize, laughing it off with a red face while Minho jogged by without so much as a glance.
Then she began bringing iced coffee with ridiculous sticky notes on the cup. One read: “For the guy who frowns like it’s cardio.” Another: “Caffeine makes people smile. Science probably.”
Minho took them. Silently. No thanks, no expression. Just a curt nod. Seungmin would beam anyway.
Next, she studied on the sun-warmed bleachers while the team practiced below—if dropping her highlighter, spilling snacks, and tipping her water bottle straight into her open backpack could be called studying.
“Smooth,” Seungmin muttered to herself, dabbing tissues at her soaked geography notes.
“You okay up there?” someone called. She looked up, startled, to find Minho standing at the edge of the field, squinting at her.
“Oh—yeah! Just drowning in academic despair!” she called back, holding up a dripping folder like a trophy.
Minho blinked, then turned back to his team without a word.
But the next day, he tossed her a spare towel before practice. Didn’t say anything, just dropped it beside her bag. Seungmin stared at it like it was made of gold.
From then on, Minho started nodding when he saw her. Once, when she tripped over her own shoelaces walking up the bleachers and landed flat on her back, he jogged over.
“Do you always fall for attention?” he asked, offering a hand.
“Only when the audience is cute,” she shot back, breathless but unashamed.
Minho pulled her up.
Seungmin thought she caught the ghost of a smile.
Maybe he was starting to notice.
And maybe, without either of them realizing it, something shifted—thanks to cats.
Because she discovered Dori by accident.
It was one of those off days where Seungmin sprinted across campus with her hoodie half-on, barefaced, desperately trying to make it to her locker before the final bell. She turned a corner too fast and nearly crashed straight into someone.
Someone tall.
Someone in sweatpants.
Someone holding a very crinkly bag of salmon-flavored cat treats.
She froze. “…Do you have a cat?”
Minho blinked, clearly not prepared for that question in the middle of a school hallway. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why?”
Her entire face lit up. “No reason! I just—what’s his name?”
“…Dori.”
Seungmin gasped like she’d just been told a tragic love story. “Like Finding Nemo?”
“No,” he said, deadpan. “Like the dori in melodori. It means stray melody.”
She clutched her chest dramatically. “That is the most poetic thing I’ve ever heard. Is he single?”
Minho stared at her like she’d short-circuited the universe.
But—his lips twitched. He was smirking.
That weekend, Seungmin quietly left a gift bag in his locker. Inside was a catnip mouse, a tuna snack pouch, and a handwritten note: “For His Majesty Dori 💛”
No signature—just a tiny crown drawn at the corner.
He didn’t mention it.
Not on Monday morning, not at lunch, not even after practice.
But as she turned the corner after 6th period, Minho was there by her locker. He didn’t say hi. Just pulled out his phone and held it up.
The photo was blurry—Dori curled in his lap, paw draped across his leg, looking thoroughly unamused.
“He likes the toy,” he said.
Seungmin grinned. “Wow, he has taste.”
That was the first time he smiled at her.
And it kept happening.
Minho started holding eye contact a little longer. Listening more. Occasionally—very occasionally—he’d sit beside her during lunch. He still didn’t say much, but he was there.
He hadn’t opened up about himself, but when Seungmin mentioned Dori, something in him softened.
“He sleeps on my pillow when he’s in a good mood,” Minho said, slinging his bag over his shoulder as they packed up to leave.
Seungmin laughed. “And when he’s not?”
“He disappears,” he replied without missing a beat. “Then comes back with glitter on his fur.”
She stared at him. “He sounds like a king and a menace.”
“He’s both,” Minho said, quieter this time. “Like you.”
Seungmin blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness of it.
And then she smiled.
• • •
It happened on a chilly Thursday afternoon when Seungmin decided—on a whim, obviously—to surprise Minho by watching baseball practice.
She bundled up in her oversized cheer hoodie, pulled on her glittery mittens, and packed a thermos of hot chocolate. Because she was thoughtful. And because it was freezing.
She also made a sign. A giant one.
“GO MINHO, SHOW THEM WHO’S BOSS!” it read in all caps, outlined in red, bedazzled within an inch of its life. It looked like an overly enthusiastic raccoon had gotten into the craft drawer. She was proud of it.
Climbing the bleachers, she immediately tripped on the second step. Her thermos nearly exploded against her jeans.
A couple of underclassmen glanced over.
“Nice entrance,” one snickered.
Seungmin just grinned and flashed peace signs. “You don’t get noticed by blending in, babes.”
She plopped down and raised her sign like she was cheering on a toddler at a pageant. From the field, Minho hadn’t noticed her yet. He was locked in—tight jaw, calling out drills, moving like every step was carefully calculated.
Watching him made her chest tighten in a weird, unexpected way. He was serious. Intense. Kind of devastatingly beautiful.
Then it happened.
One of the batters mishit a ball. The baseball flew off the bat with a sharp crack, slicing foul and screaming straight toward the bleachers.
“WATCH OUT!” someone shouted.
Seungmin looked up just in time to get smacked square in the forehead. The thunk was loud. Her sign went flying. So did her mittens.
Everything went black.
When she woke up, her head was pounding. She was lying on a bench under the dugout overhang. Someone’s jacket was draped over her shoulders.
Minho’s jacket.
She groaned softly.
“Am I dead? Is this concussion heaven?”
“No,” came a dry voice. “But you’ve got a bump the size of Jeju.”
Her eyes cracked open. Minho crouched beside her, frowning.
“You okay?”
“I think I met the baseball god,” she muttered.
Minho snorted. “You got nailed. Foul ball. Thought you fainted.”
“I did faint.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
She sat up slowly, clutching her head. “Ow. Wow. I am not built for this sport.”
“Or for sitting quietly.”
“Rude,” she pouted. Then paused. “Wait—did you stay?”
He looked away. “Yeah. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Captain Lee Minho, caring? That’s rare.”
“I care about people who get concussed at my practice.”
She squinted. “That sounds fake, but okay.”
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Simply quiet.
“Why’d you come today?” Minho asked eventually.
Seungmin shrugged, staring at the thermos beside her. “I dunno. Just wanted to see you. Thought it might make you smile.”
He tilted his head. “You made a sign.”
“With glitter.”
“I saw,” he said, huffing a laugh. “Subtle.”
“I’m an artist.”
“You’re something.”
She nudged his leg. “Admit it. You were worried.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer, almost reluctant: “Yeah. I was.”
Something tightened in her chest.
They sat there, the cold seeping through the bench. But Minho’s jacket was warm.
“People don’t really stay,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“I’m not people,” Seungmin said quietly.
He looked at her then. Really looked. Like she wasn’t just a cheerleader or a girl with a glitter obsession. Like she was something else. Like she was just… Seungmin.
“Thanks,” he said finally. “For showing up.”
She smiled. “Always.”
After that day, everything changed.
Slowly. Quietly. With soft edges—like turning pages instead of flipping them.
It started small.
Minho walked her to the bus stop that evening, his jacket still around her shoulders. He waited until the bus pulled away before turning back, like leaving first hadn’t crossed his mind.
The next week, it rained.
Seungmin was debating a very damp run home when a familiar car rolled up beside the curb. The window slid down. Minho didn’t say anything—just nodded toward the passenger seat.
She blinked. “You’re offering?”
He shrugged. “It’s raining.”
She got in without another word.
After that, it became a thing. Not planned. Not discussed. Whenever the sky opened up, Minho appeared. No texts, no explanations.
She started bringing snacks after the third ride.
The first time, it was a packet of honey butter chips she shoved at him like an afterthought. “Payment,” she said.
He took them. Ate them in silence. The bag was empty by the time he dropped her off.
So she kept doing it.
Convenience store pastries. Protein bars she knew he pretended not to like. Once, hot fish-shaped bread wrapped carefully in napkins, still warm when she pressed it into his hand. He never commented on them. Never asked what she’d bring next.
But he always accepted.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. The radio stayed low. The windshield wipers set a steady rhythm. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t romantic in any obvious way.
It was just… easy.
One afternoon, instead of heading straight toward Seungmin’s house, he cleared his throat and said, “I need to stop by my place first. To feed Dori.”
Seungmin’s head snapped up. “I get to meet him?”
He hesitated. “If you want.”
“I want very badly!”
His apartment was small and clean, faintly scented with laundry soap and something warm—coffee, maybe. The moment Minho opened the door, a blur of fur shot across the floor.
“Dori,” Minho warned.
Too late.
The cat skidded to a stop in front of Seungmin, stared at her for a full three seconds, then launched himself at her chest like a missile.
“Oh—hi—HELLO—” she laughed, barely catching him as he sniffed her face enthusiastically. “You’re real. You’re so real.”
“He likes you,” Minho said, sounding mildly surprised.
Dori kneaded her hoodie, then promptly claimed her lap like it had always been his rightful place.
“He’s perfect,” she whispered reverently. “I would die for him.”
Minho watched her for a moment, something soft and unreadable flickering across his expression.
Seungmin, meanwhile, had started narrating.
“Well, Your Majesty,” she told Dori solemnly, adjusting his paws, “this is your kingdom. Very cozy. Good lighting. Five stars.”
She glanced down at her shoes, then abruptly shifted her voice. “Do you think she’s worthy?” she said in a deeper tone.
Then higher, “Of course she is. Look at her face.”
Minho paused mid-step.
“Why do you always act like a cartoon character?” he asked, genuinely curious.
She gasped, clutching her chest. “Excuse me?!”
“You’re clumsy, loud,” he continued evenly, “and your reactions have subtitles.”
She huffed. “That’s who I am! What, you want me to be a mysterious cool girl who says two words and never blinks?”
Minho studied her for a long moment—quiet, thoughtful, like he was choosing something carefully.
“No,” he said finally. “I like that you’re real.”
Seungmin blinked.
Her heart skipped—too loud, too sudden.
Dori chose that exact moment to flop dramatically onto his back, paws in the air.
“Well,” she said weakly, scratching his chin, “at least someone here has standards.”
Minho snorted, turning away to hide his smile.
They sat in the quiet that followed, the apartment settling around them in soft domestic sounds—the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock. Dori eventually migrated from Seungmin’s lap to the back of the couch, tail flicking lazily.
Minho lingered instead of moving, leaning against the counter as he checked his phone. Slid it back into his pocket. Checked it again. His jaw tightened, then loosened, like he was arguing with himself and losing.
“I usually go somewhere after practice,” he said finally.
She tilted her head. “Somewhere?”
“My mom’s in the hospital.”
Seungmin blinked. “Oh… I’m sorry.”
He nodded slowly. “She’s been sick for a while. I visit her most days. That’s why I don’t really… hang out.”
It clicked—quietly, all at once.
The way he vanished after practice. The parties he never attended. The distance he kept from everything that didn’t fit into his rigid routine of games and training.
It hadn’t been disinterest. Or arrogance.
It had been responsibility.
“That makes sense,” she said softly, and this time, there was understanding in her voice.
Minho exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction.
“People think I’m cold,” he went on. “But mostly, I just don’t see the point in pretending things are lighter than they are. Life isn’t a movie. You don’t get background music telling you when it’s okay to relax.”
She watched him carefully. “So you don’t fake it.”
“I don’t know how,” he said simply. “And I don’t want to.”
Seungmin smiled, small and thoughtful. “I do.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her. Not judging. Just curious, like he wanted to understand.
“I like being loud,” she admitted. “I like being seen. When people laugh or look at me, it feels like proof that I exist in the room. That I matter.”
“That’s not shallow,” Minho said immediately.
She blinked, surprised.
“My mom says,” he continued, quieter, “people cope in the ways that keep them standing. Yours just happens to be brighter.”
Something warm settled in her chest, unfamiliar and heavy, and she held it there carefully.
Another pause stretched between them, comfortable now.
Then, softer, almost careful, like the words might shatter if he said them wrong, “Do you want to come with me next time?”
Seungmin looked at him, surprised. “I—Are you sure?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Her smile was small, but warm. “Okay then.”
• • •
Minho kept his word the day after.
The drive was quiet at first. Not awkward. Just careful. The kind of silence where both people were thinking too much.
She tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie. “You’re sure it’s okay? I mean—me being there.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to come.”
Seungmin swallowed, the reassurance sinking in slowly, the way truths did when they mattered.
She tried not to fidget, but her nerves buzzed under her skin. This didn’t feel like some parts of the plan anymore. There was no audience. No competition. No spotlight to perform under.
This was real.
They parked at the hospital just as the first lights flickered on inside. The air smelled like rain and concrete. Inside, the hallways were quiet, washed in pale light and the faint scent of antiseptic and old coffee.
Minho led the way without hesitation, confidently and silently, like he’d walked this path too many times to count.
“Room 412,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “She’s been sick since I was twelve. Some days are better. Lately…” He exhaled. “Not so much.”
Seungmin nodded, afraid if she spoke, her voice might crack.
He knocked once before pushing the door open.
His mom was propped up against the pillows, a book resting in her lap. Her face brightened instantly when she saw Minho.
“There you are,” she said warmly. “I was starting to think baseball kidnapped you.”
He smiled—small, but real. “Sorry, Mom.”
Then her gaze shifted to Seungmin, curious and gentle. “And you must be the girl he won’t stop talking about.”
Seungmin froze. “Oh—um—hi, Mrs. Lee. I brought pudding.”
His mom smiled, soft and bright. “You’re already my favorite.”
They stayed for over an hour.
At first, Seungmin perched on the edge of the chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, answering politely when spoken to careful, like she was afraid of taking up too much space.
“So,” Minho’s mom said gently, setting her book aside, “how do you know my son?”
Seungmin glanced at Minho, as if checking whether this was okay, then looked back at the older woman. “Um… baseball. And cheering. We kept… running into each other.”
Minho huffed quietly. “You mean you kept almost getting injured.”
“That only happened once,” she protested. Then, softer, “He did save me from a concussion.”
His mom’s brows lifted. “Is that so?”
Minho shifted. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“You carried me off the bleachers,” Seungmin said reasonably. “That feels like it counts.”
His mom laughed. “Oh, I like her.”
The conversation came easily after that. She just asked what grade Seungmin was in, how long she’d been cheering, whether she liked school.
Little by little, Seungmin loosened.
She talked about cheer practice—about how she still couldn’t land a perfect basket toss without wobbling, how her coach yelled like volume alone could defy gravity.
“He shouts like the floor personally betrayed him,” she said seriously.
Minho’s mom chuckled. “And you still go back?”
“Yeah,” Seungmin nodded. “Cause I like it. Even when it’s hard.”
The oldest hummed thoughtfully, glancing at her son.
Encouraged, Seungmin went on.
She told the story about the party—the one where she confidently scooped what she thought was perfectly ripe avocado onto her plate.
“I was like, ‘Wow, this guacamole is aggressive,’” she said. “And then my eyes started burning.”
Minho’s mom was already amused.
“I tried to play it cool,” Seungmin continued. “I nodded. Took another bite. Immediately regretted every life decision I’ve ever made.”
“Oh, sweetheart—”
“I almost cried in the bathroom,” Seungmin admitted. “Someone knocked and asked if I was okay, of course I said yes while actively dying inside.”
By then, Minho’s mom was laughing so hard she had to stop, wiping at the corners of her eyes and shaking her head. “You sound like trouble,” she said fondly. “In the best way.”
Seungmin ducked her head, smiling. “I promise I’m responsible sometimes.”
Minho mostly listened.
He watched the way Seungmin leaned forward when his mom spoke, how she instinctively reached out to smooth the edge of the blanket when it slipped, how she reacted with her whole face—bright, open, effortless.
The room felt different with her in it.
Lighter. Warmer.
Like something had shifted quietly into place.
When they finally stood to leave, Mrs. Lee reached out and took Seungmin’s hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For making my son smile. He forgets how sometimes.”
Seungmin swallowed. “It means a lot that I could be here.”
Back in the parking lot, they sat in the car with the engine still off, the world quiet around them.
“I don’t bring people here,” Minho said finally. “Not really. Not even Hyunjin comes much.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted you to know me. Not the captain. Not the guy everyone thinks is cold. Just… me.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you did.”
He turned to look at her then, something open and unguarded in his expression.
“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted.
She smiled softly. “I get that a lot.”
“It’s a good thing,” he said.
They stayed there for a while—two imperfect people sitting in the quiet, learning how it felt to let someone else see them.
For the first time, Seungmin didn’t need a spotlight to feel seen.
Because Minho was looking right at her.
She was falling.
And she knew she wasn’t acting anymore.
• • •
“You like him.”
Seungmin groaned and dropped her forehead against the locker mirror. “No, I don’t. I like the idea of winning.”
Yeji crossed her arms, unimpressed, watching Seungmin struggle to fix the bow in her hair for the third time. One loop kept slipping, stubborn and crooked.
“Right. And that’s why you blushed so hard earlier when he opened his locker next to yours that you almost stabbed yourself with an eyeliner pencil?”
“That was humidity,” Seungmin muttered. “And bad lighting.”
“Mhm.” Yeji leaned closer, lowering her voice as a group of girls passed behind them. “Minnie. You don’t get like this for attention. You get like this when you care.”
Seungmin’s hands stilled.
For a moment, she just stared at her reflection—at the girl looking back at her. Softer lately. Less sharp around the edges. Like she’d stopped bracing for something she couldn’t name.
“I can’t,” she said quietly. “I just let it go further than I meant to.”
Yeji sighed, her expression softening. “That’s what I’m worried about. Just… don’t lose yourself trying to impress someone else. Especially not Minho. He’s not a game. He’s not someone you mess with and walk away from.”
Seungmin swallowed, cheeks warm. “I know,” she whispered. “I really do.”
Across campus, the locker room was mostly empty, the echoes of showers and laughter fading as cleanup wrapped up. Minho was shoving gear into his bag when Hyunjin leaned against the bench beside him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“You smiled yesterday,” Hyunjin said casually. “Twice. With teeth.”
Minho didn’t look up. “You’re imagining things.”
“I am absolutely not,” Hyunjin said, grinning. “I’ve known you since middle school. You only smile like that for three reasons: cats, walk-off wins, and—”
“Stop,” Minho warned.
Hyunjin ignored him. “—romantic emotional awakenings.”
Minho zipped his bag a little too hard. The sound cut sharp through the room. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Hyunjin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “So. You catching feelings, Romeo?”
Minho shoved him, but there was no heat behind it. Just nerves. He stared at the scuffed floor between his shoes, jaw tight and breathing uneven. Thought of Seungmin, showing up. Thought of how he’d stopped guarding himself when she was around.
It took him a second to answer.
“Maybe,” he muttered, eyes flicking away.
Hyunjin froze. Slowly, dramatically, his jaw dropped. “No. No way. You did not just say maybe.”
Minho groaned. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“You’re Lee Minho,” Hyunjin said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Captain of emotional repression. King of bottling it up. Who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated best friend?”
Minho finally looked at him, jaw tight but expression honest. “She’s just… real. She’s not trying to be perfect. She’s loud and messy and says things without thinking. None of it feels fake.”
Hyunjin tilted his head. “You like that she’s a walking disaster?”
Minho hesitated. Then, quietly, “I like that she’s her.”
Hyunjin let out a low whistle. “Oh, this is bad. This is serious.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m telling Yeji.”
Minho stepped forward. “Touch your phone and I’m bench-pressing you into next week.”
Hyunjin laughed, holding up his hands. “Fine, fine. Your secret’s safe with me, I swear.”
Then he smirked. “But for what it’s worth? I’m proud of you, Romeo.”
Minho shook his head, but as he slung his bag over his shoulder, his mind drifted back to Seungmin’s laugh. The way she kept showing up even when he gave her nothing back. The way she looked at him like he wasn’t a title or a role.
Just a person.
That scared him more than any game ever had.
• • •
A week before the Winter Formal, Minho finally asked her.
It wasn’t dramatic. No crowd. No whispered buildup.
Just the two of them by the bleachers after practice, the sky already darkening into that early winter blue. Seungmin sat on the bench swinging her legs, talking about nothing in particular, when Minho suddenly cleared his throat.
“Hey.”
She looked up. “Yeah?”
He didn’t meet her eyes at first. He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit she’d started to recognize—something he did when he was nervous and didn’t want anyone to know.
“Do you want to go to the Winter Formal with me?”
Her brain short-circuited completely.
Seungmin stared at him, lips parting. “Like… like as a date?”
He finally looked at her then. His expression was open. Honest. Almost vulnerable.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not for attention. Not because it’s what people expect. Only for us. You and me.”
Her heart slammed so hard she was sure he could hear it.
“Yes,” she blurted, then laughed breathlessly. “I mean—yes. Of course. I’d love to.”
Something in Minho’s shoulders loosened, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks without realizing it. He nodded once, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good.”
Seungmin grinned, bright and giddy and light in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
For a moment, everything else faded.
The rankings. The whispers. The stupid, reckless bet.
She almost forgot about it.
Almost.
Because from the far end of the field, half-hidden by the shadow of the equipment shed, Chaewon had stopped walking.
She’d seen the way Minho stood—awkward, nervous, nothing like the confident captain everyone knew. She’d seen Seungmin’s face light up, unguarded and real. She’d seen the way Minho smiled after, like something fragile had just been handed to him and he was afraid to drop it.
Chaewon’s fingers curled slowly at her side.
So that was how it ended.
She turned away before either of them noticed her, heels clicking sharply against the concrete as she walked off—jaw tight, expression unreadable.
Chaewon didn’t forget.
And she didn’t lose quietly.
The night before the Winter Formal, Minho was leaving the gym, bag slung over his shoulder, when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Congrats.”
He turned. Chaewon stood near the doors, arms crossed, her expression sharp and unsmiling.
“Congrats on what?” Minho asked, already wary.
She laughed softly. Not kindly. “On winning the new girl.”
His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Chaewon tilted her head. “You really don’t know?”
When he didn’t answer, her smile widened—slow, satisfied, cruel.
“She wasn’t interested in you,” Chaewon said. “She just wanted to beat me after all. We made a bet.”
Minho’s chest tightened.
“A bet?” he repeated.
“First one to get you—Lee Minho—to the Winter Formal,” she continued lightly, like she was discussing the weather, “Wins. Queen status. Spotlight. The whole thing.”
Silence fell heavy between them.
“She played you,” Chaewon finished. “Guess she was really good at fooling you.”
Minho didn’t react.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions.
He just stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw locked, something shuttering behind his eyes.
Then he turned and walked away.
• • •
The night of the Winter Formal, Seungmin arrived glowing.
Her silver dress reflected the lights as she moved, elegant without trying too hard, skimming her frame in a way that felt deliberate. Her hair was curled just enough to look effortless. Her makeup was subtle, careful.
For once, she wasn’t trying to be loud.
She was trying to belong.
Seungmin scanned the gym the moment she walked in. Music thumped. Laughter echoed. Couples spun across the floor.
But Minho wasn’t there.
She told herself he was late. That baseball practice had run long. That he was changing, parking, getting stopped by friends.
She waited by the entrance.
Five minutes.
Ten.
She checked her phone. No message.
Her heart started to beat wrong.
She moved through the crowd, pretending she wasn’t searching, pretending she wasn’t unraveling. She checked near the refreshment table. The back hallway. Even the bathroom mirrors reflected only her own growing panic.
Then she stepped outside.
The cold hit her first.
Minho was sitting on the school steps, still in his suit. Tie loosened. Jacket discarded beside him. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Minho?”
He didn’t look up.
The word fell between them like broken glass.
“It was a game?”
Her stomach dropped so hard she thought she might be sick.
“You heard,” she whispered.
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
She rushed toward him, heels clicking against concrete. “Minho, please—listen. It started as a game. Yes. I wanted to win. I wanted to beat Chaewon.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted the spotlight. I always do.”
He finally lifted his head.
The hurt in his eyes stole the air from her lungs.
“But it stopped being that,” she continued desperately. “I swear it did. Somewhere between the lockers, the rides home, Dori, and the stupid thermos—I stopped thinking about the bet at all. I started thinking about you.”
Silence.
“I was going to tell you,” she said, tears blurring her vision. “I just… I was scared. I didn’t want to lose what we had before it even really started.”
Minho stood.
The movement was sudden, sharp. He towered over her, not angry—worse. Disappointed.
“I liked you,” he said quietly. “I trusted you.”
Her chest tightened. Tears spilled over. “Minho, please—”
“I don’t let people in,” he continued. “I don’t bring them to my mom. I don’t let them sit with me after practice. I don’t—” His voice faltered, just barely. “I don’t do that.”
She reached for him. He stepped back.
“I thought you were different,” he said. “I thought you were real.”
“I am,” she sobbed. “I am real. I know I messed up, but I care about you. I really do.”
He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to make himself believe something else.
“I can’t tell what was real anymore.”
That broke her.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered.
“But you did it anyway,” he said.
The words hurt more than shouting ever could.
He picked up his jacket.
“You should go back inside,” he added, not unkindly. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”
Seungmin stood there in the cold, glittering and shaking, as he walked past her—back straight, expression closed, leaving behind everything she hadn’t meant to destroy.
The music thumped on inside.
The spotlight she’d chased her whole life burned too bright to look at.
And for the first time, she wished she’d never tried to win at all.
• • •
The weeks after passed like a muted film reel.
Not silent—never silent—but dulled. Like someone had turned the saturation down on Seungmin’s life and left everything else intact just to mock her.
At school, people whispered.
Some whispers were sharp. Some were curious. Some were cruel. Most were wrong.
“She played him.”
“Guess even the baseball captain fell for it.”
“New girl thought she could win everything.”
Seungmin didn’t correct them.
She didn’t have the energy to explain that winning had never felt this much like losing.
Minho stopped looking her way.
Not dramatically. Not with anger flashing in his eyes or pointed avoidance. He simply… erased her. Walked past her locker like it didn’t exist. Sat with Hyunjin and the team at lunch without ever glancing toward the cheer table.
When they crossed paths in the hallway, his eyes slid right over her like she was a stranger.
Which hurt worse than if he’d glared.
Because it meant she had mattered enough to be cut out entirely.
Yeji noticed the first week.
“You’ve barely said anything in three days,” she said, sitting beside Seungmin on the bleachers after cheer practice. “And that’s coming from someone who used to narrate her own breakdowns in third person.”
Seungmin huffed weakly, hugging her knees. “I don’t feel like talking.”
Yeji followed her gaze without comment.
Minho was on the field, throwing drills with the team, keeping busy on purpose. His movements were sharp. Controlled. Like he was pouring everything he refused to feel into muscle, repetition—anything that didn’t require him to look back.
“He still looks pissed,” Yeji said carefully.
Seungmin swallowed. “He should be.”
Yeji turned to her. “You’re not going to keep punishing yourself forever, right?”
“I don’t know how to stop,” Seungmin whispered.
The rest of the day blurred around her. Practice ended. Homework piled up untouched. Messages went unanswered.
That night, she cried into Yeji’s shoulder until her chest hurt.
Not because she’d lost the bet.
Because she missed him.
She missed the quiet rides in the rain. The way he waited for her seatbelt before driving. The way he listened—really listened—even when she rambled. The way he looked at her like she was something solid, something worth holding onto.
“I think I fell for him,” Seungmin said hoarsely, voice muffled against Yeji’s hoodie.
Yeji didn’t tease her. Didn’t say I told you so.
She just wrapped her arms tighter around her.
“Yeah,” Yeji said softly. “I know.”
Seungmin had always loved noise. Attention. Big moments. Being seen.
Then Minho taught her that quiet didn’t mean empty.
He taught her that sitting side by side without speaking could feel full. That consistency mattered more than spectacle. That showing up—again and again—was its own kind of devotion.
And she needed that.
She needed him.
But Minho no longer believed her.
He responded the only way he knew how—by going quiet.
He didn’t talk about Seungmin. Not to Hyunjin. Not to his teammates. Not even to his mom.
She noticed anyway.
He visited the hospital every other day now instead of every day. Stayed shorter. Sat quieter.
One afternoon, his mom set her book down slowly and studied him over the rim of her glasses.
Minho hadn’t realized she’d been watching him. He’d been staring at the TV without actually seeing it, elbow propped on the armrest, jaw tight like he was holding something in place.
“You’re sulking,” she said.
“I’m tired,” Minho replied, too quickly.
She hummed, unconvinced, then folded the corner of her page with careful precision. “Is this about Seungmin?”
Minho stiffened. The air seemed to shift around him. He didn’t answer at first—just stared at the wall like it might give him a way out.
Then he looked at her. “You still like her.”
“I adore her,” his mom said easily. “She’s an angel.”
He let out a short, humorless scoff. “She lied.”
“She made a mistake,” his mom corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”
Minho’s jaw flexed. He looked away, fingers curling against his knee. “Mom, you didn’t know the real her.”
“I see the real her,” she said, calm and certain. “I saw how she held my hand. How she listened when I talked, even when it wasn’t important. How she laughed like it mattered—like the moment itself was worth something.”
She paused, letting the words settle.
“People don’t fake that kind of warmth for long, Minho.” She added softly.
He didn’t respond right away. His gaze dropped.
“Her intentions were wrong,” Minho said, quieter now.
“Yes,” his mom agreed. “But her heart isn’t.”
Silence stretched between them.
Minho stared at the floor, at a crack in the tile he’d never noticed before. Something pressed uncomfortably behind his ribs—heavy and sharp and familiar.
He didn’t argue again.
Because the worst part was—somewhere deep down, he knew she was right.
And that truth lodged itself somewhere painful.
• • •
Slowly, Seungmin changed.
There was no announcement. No dramatic shift that demanded to be noticed. People didn’t whisper about it in hallways or point it out during cheer practice.
She just… went quiet.
She stopped trying to be everywhere at once and dressed for comfort instead of reaction.
The constant chase for attention—faded into something softer.
After class, Seungmin volunteered at the library, shelving books and stamping returns. Work that didn’t earn applause, but felt steady in her hands. Lunch became smaller, calmer. Sometimes she ate alone, sometimes with Yeji. She didn’t try to be loud anymore; she just listened.
She still went to baseball games.
But without signs. Without glitter. Without performance.
She sat high on the bleachers, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, legs tucked close, watching the field with quiet focus. She didn’t wave when Minho ran drills. Didn’t call out his name. Didn’t try to catch his eye at all.
Minho noticed.
He hated that he did.
He hated how easily he could tell the difference—how she wasn’t scanning the stands anymore, how she clapped for good plays without needing to be loud about it. Hated that every time he glanced up between innings and saw her sitting there, small against the cold metal, something in his chest tightened.
A month passed like that.
No messages. No confrontations.
Just space.
Until the afternoon everything cracked.
Seungmin was cutting across campus toward the art building, earbuds in, hoodie pulled tight against the cold, when someone stepped directly into her path.
She barely had time to register it before a shadow fell over her.
“Hey, glitter girl.”
Her music cut off as she yanked one earbud free.
She froze.
Three guys stood too close—close enough that she could smell cheap cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to their jackets. Older. Louder. The kind of presence that made space feel smaller.
“I know you,” one of them said, eyes dragging over her face. He smiled like he already knew the ending. “You’re the one who messed with the baseball captain.”
Her pulse spiked.
She stepped back, but her heel caught on uneven pavement. “Leave me alone.”
“Relax,” another said, sliding sideways to block her path. “We’re not mad. Just curious.” His gaze dipped. Lingered. “Wanted to see if you’re really that pretty to be heartless.”
Her stomach dropped hard enough to make her dizzy.
“Move,” she said, trying to steady her voice.
The third one laughed softly. “Feisty.”
A hand reached out and brushed her sleeve.
“Hey—”
“Get your hands off her.”
The voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Sharp. Controlled. Furious.
Minho.
He was already there, stepping between them without hesitation, his body instinctively shielding hers. His shoulders were squared, stance wide—grounded in the way only athletes who lived on their feet ever were. He was still in his practice jacket, hair damp, jaw set like stone.
“You heard me,” he said, eyes dark. “Back. Off.”
“Chill, man,” one of them muttered, hands raised. “We’re just talking.”
“You don’t talk by cornering someone,” Minho snapped. His voice never rose—but it didn’t need to. “Walk away.”
For a second, no one moved.
Then something in his expression that made them shift.
One by one, they backed away. Muttered under their breath. Disappeared down the path.
Minho didn’t turn around until they were gone.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Seungmin nodded, breath uneven, hands trembling now that the danger had passed. “I—I think so.”
He waited. Let her steady herself.
Silence stretched between them—heavy, but careful.
Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Minho exhaled slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. “We need to talk.”
They ended up on the bleachers again.
Same place as before.
Different weight between them.
“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, fingers twisting together in her lap. “I won’t justify or explain it away. I hurt you. I broke your trust.”
Minho stared out at the empty field, chalk lines faint against the grass.
“I didn’t mean to fall for you,” she continued. “But I did. Somewhere between the small moments—you taught me how to be… normal. How to be real.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t need the spotlight anymore,” she said softly. “I just… I need you.”
Minho didn’t answer right away.
He was holding something fragile inside his chest. The hurt was still there—sharp and familiar, a dull ache that never quite faded. He hadn’t forgotten the whispers. The humiliation. The way it felt to realize he’d been made a story instead of a person.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he turned to her.
Really looked.
Not the girl everyone talked about. Not the one wrapped in rumors and glitter and mistakes. Just Seungmin—sitting small beside him, shoulders tense, eyes shining with something raw and unguarded.
“I still hurt,” he said honestly. “Some days it feels like it’s sitting right here.” He pressed a hand lightly to his chest. “Like I can’t breathe around it.”
Seungmin swallowed. “I know—”
She hadn’t finished, but Minho shook his head, cutting her off gently.
“That doesn’t disappear just because you say sorry,” he continued, voice low but steady. “I don’t trust easily. And you broke that.”
She nodded, tears pooling, not looking away. Not running.
“But,” he said, the word soft but deliberate, “even with all of that… I still think about you. I still notice when you’re not trying to be loud anymore. I still look for you without meaning to.” His lips pressed into a thin line, as if admitting it cost him something. “And no matter how much I tell myself I shouldn’t—”
He met her eyes.
“I still like you. Even after everything you did.” His voice wavered just a fraction. “I fell for you too.”
Seungmin froze.
Her breath caught in her throat like the air had suddenly thinned. She hadn’t expected it—not after the distance, the silence. Not after all the ways she thought she’d already lost him.
The words hung between them, heavy and impossible, and for a moment all she could do was stare at him, eyes wide, heart pounding.
“I… you mean—” she whispered, voice breaking.
“Yes,” Minho said quietly.
A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—careful, restrained, like he was offering something fragile instead of rushing toward it. “I’m still scared,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to walk away.”
The silence that followed wasn’t painful.
It was fragile.
Like something new had just been set between them, and neither of them dared move too quickly around it.
Minho’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He blinked, almost startled by the sound, then frowned slightly as he reached for it.
A message from his mom.
When are you bringing Seungmin again? I miss her.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“My mom never stopped liking you,” he said, shaking his head as he locked the screen. “She asks about you every time I visit.”
Seungmin’s eyes widened, then filled.
“She… does?” Her voice cracked. “After everything?”
Minho nodded. “She says people aren’t defined by how they start. They’re defined by what they choose after.”
Seungmin pressed her lips together, nodding hard as tears slipped free.
“Then I’ll choose you,” she said softly. “Every day.”
• • •
A week later, Minho brought her back to the hospital.
The elevator ride was quiet, but not strained. Seungmin clutched the strap of her bag like it might float away, nerves buzzing under her skin. Minho stood close enough that their shoulders brushed when the elevator jolted to a stop.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” he said quietly. “She’s been waiting for you, you know.”
Seungmin huffed, nerves fluttering. “That somehow makes it worse.”
He glanced at her—a flicker of a smile before the doors opened.
His mom’s room looked the same. Soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds. The faint smell of tea lingered, and a small vase of flowers sat by the window.
The moment she saw Seungmin, her face lit up.
“Took you long enough,” she teased. “I was starting to think I’d have to kidnap you myself.”
Minho sighed. “Mom.”
She waved him off and patted the edge of the bed. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me see you.”
Seungmin stepped closer, laughing softly under her breath, and leaned in for a careful hug. Mrs. Lee’s arms were gentle but sure, like she’d been waiting.
“You look thinner,” she said, frowning slightly. “Are you eating properly?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Seungmin answered instinctively. “Mostly.”
Minho snorted. “That’s a lie.”
“Minho!”
His mom laughed, then looked between them—really looked.
“So,” she said lightly, “are you two still pretending nothing’s happening, or have you figured it out yet?”
Seungmin froze.
Minho groaned. “Mom.”
She smiled, unapologetic. “What? I have eyes. And a heart monitor. Plenty of time to observe.”
Seungmin cleared her throat. “We’re… trying. Slowly.”
“Good,” his mom said immediately. “Slow is honest.”
She reached for Seungmin’s hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You made a mistake. That doesn’t make you a bad person. What matters is that you came back.”
Seungmin’s eyes stung. “I didn’t want to do that again.”
Mrs. Lee squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Minho stood quietly beside them, watching, something soft and careful settling in his chest.
She smiled, satisfied, then shooed them gently. “Go sit. You’re hovering like you’re guarding treasure.”
Minho rolled his eyes but moved anyway, sitting beside Seungmin. Their knees brushed. Neither pulled away.
Minho reached for her hand. This time, he didn’t let go.
Because in that quiet moment, with hands held and hearts a little lighter, they were choosing each other after all.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.