Roommates

Yuma was jolted awake by a cacophony of sounds no one should have to process before sunrise—screaming, moaning, and the unmistakable gnashing of teeth.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, dead-eyed, willing the noises to be anything else. A horror movie. A particularly aggressive raccoon in the vents. Anything but what he knew it was.

With a long, theatrical sigh, he swung his legs out of bed and trudged toward his bedroom door. As he opened it, the sounds only intensified, confirming his worst suspicion.

There they were. Niles and Sunny. His roommates. Half-dressed and tangled on the living room couch like a pair of exhibitionist eels, completely unbothered by the fact that they had barely any walls and doors in this apartment.

Yuma didn’t even flinch. His eyes briefly locked with Sunny’s over Niles’s shoulder—an awkward moment of accidental acknowledgment—and then he quietly closed the door.

Back in the safety of his room, he reached for his speaker, turned the volume up to something just below “deafening,” and flopped back onto his bed.

“I need a new roommate,” he muttered, the bass thumping beneath him as if agreeing.

By the next afternoon, the mission had begun.

He started scrolling through roommate matching forums, housing apps, and even mildly sketchy subreddits. A few interviews and even more red flags later, he stumbled upon someone with the username RedRacer95. Their profile picture was a pixelated image of Red Racer from Gekisou Sentai Carranger, and their bio simply read:

“Just trying to keep my engine clean and my vibes cleaner.”

Yuma raised an eyebrow but kept reading. The way they typed—direct, meme-literate, and just self-deprecating enough—made him think this was probably someone in their early twenties with at least a functioning grasp on hygiene and personal space.

The two hit it off quickly, trading messages about toku shows, bad roommates, and the eternal struggle of splitting Wi-Fi bills. Yuma hadn’t even met them in person yet, but for the first time in a long time, he felt cautiously optimistic.

Maybe—maybe—he’d finally found someone who wouldn’t traumatize him on a Tuesday morning before coffee.

Three months later.

The morning was unusually crisp for late summer, and Yuma was standing outside his new apartment complex with a dolly full of boxes, balancing a coffee cup between his teeth and internally repeating his moving mantra: Don’t drop anything, don’t make eye contact with weird neighbors, don’t drop anything.

So far, so good.

He glanced down at his phone again. Red Racer—his future roommate, texting under their real name now—had said they’d be a little late but were bringing snacks and energy drinks. Yuma assumed that meant some guy in joggers and a racing tee who’d pull up in a beat-up hatchback blasting Eurobeat.

So when the black luxury van pulled up and a small cluster of people jumped out—stylists? handlers? security?—he nearly dropped the dolly.

And then she stepped out.

Eunbi Kwon.

Not just a K-pop idol. The K-pop idol. The one with three platinum albums, a sold-out world tour, and a rabid fanbase that once doxxed a radio host for mispronouncing her name. She was casually dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, but her face was unmistakable.

Yuma blinked. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

She spotted him, grinned, and jogged over—totally unbothered by his slack-jawed stare. “Yuma?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He tried not to stare. Failed.

She offered her hand. “Red Racer. But you can call me Eunbi now.”

He didn’t shake her hand. He just looked at it, then at her again, then at the dolly, like this was some kind of elaborate prank and the punchline was in one of his boxes.

“You—you’re Red Racer?” he asked finally, voice cracking like a teenager hitting puberty for the second time.

“Yes I’m RedRacer95, but yeah

I'm also Eunbi Kwon, a K-pop star.” She shrugged. “I told you I loved Carranger. Why? Did you think my username was ironic?”

“I don’t know, everyone’s ironic on the internet,” Yuma blurted. “I thought you were like, a guy. In a hoodie. Eating ramen. Not a—K-pop juggernaut with her own Funko Pop.”

Eunbi laughed, bright and unfiltered. “I mean, I do eat ramen. Usually after midnight. Sometimes shirtless.”

Yuma was absolutely, positively malfunctioning.

She leaned in slightly, amused. “So, we're still roommates? Or do I need to find someone else to split the rent?”

“I—I—yeah, no, yeah, we’re—this is fine. Totally fine. Great.” He pointed at the dolly. “That’s your half of the kitchen.”

“Sweet. I brought kimchi and three slow cookers. Let’s ride.”

As they entered the building together, Yuma couldn’t help but look at her sideways, still trying to reconcile the meme-loving tokusatsu nerd he’d messaged with the woman walking beside him—glamorous, chill, and absolutely real.

Somewhere deep in his soul, he heard the faint cry of thousands of stans screaming in jealousy. And then the quiet, creeping realization:

He was going to die trying to pretend this was normal.

But the longer they lived together, the harder it became to keep up the charade—mostly because Eunbi Kwon, global icon, was startlingly, disarmingly normal. Clingy, sure. Occasionally dramatic. But normal in the kind of way that made you forget who she was until you saw her face on a billboard and remembered that you’d seen her eat string cheese in a Snorlax onesie the night before.

When she wasn’t booked, filmed, photographed, or swept away to rehearse choreography at ungodly hours, she was home—barefoot, barefaced, and curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. She and Yuma—Yumaton, as she stubbornly insisted on calling him in full like some sort of Digimon evolution—would marathon Digimon Tamers, Carranger, or whatever off-meta mecha series they were hyperfixated on. They argued over opening themes, ranked transformation sequences, and once spent an entire night trying to figure out if Agumon could beat a Gundam in a fight.

It was chaotic. And easy. And kind of perfect.

As days blurred into weeks and weeks into months, something subtle shifted. They didn’t just share space—they began to share pieces of themselves.

Eunbi, once cryptic and media-trained to within an inch of her life, cracked open. She’d pad into the kitchen in the middle of the night with bed hair and eyes still heavy from sleep, mumbling about dreams or the pressure to keep smiling during interviews. Yuma didn’t press. He just listened. Let her talk. Made her tea.

And somewhere in that soft, unspoken space, they became friends. Real ones.

Yuma started keeping her favorite ramyeon and honey butter chips stocked in the fridge without her asking. He even learned how to cook the particular kind of bland comfort porridge she liked when she was sick or emotionally fried.

He also dusted off her little Christmas tree once a week—the tiny plastic thing she had proudly placed in the middle of their dining table the day she moved in. It was glittery, crooked, and decorated with mismatched charms and fandom pins. It stayed up year-round. At first, Yuma had thought it was a joke. But Eunbi treated it with sincere reverence, occasionally rearranging its tiny ornaments like it was a sacred altar.

In return, she tried not to blast Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” every time she came home, though sometimes the temptation got the better of her. On those days, Yuma would just sigh and let her dance through the apartment in oversized socks like it was December 24th.

They fell into that rhythm without noticing—inside jokes, shared playlists, quiet understanding. It wasn’t glamorous, or dramatic, or anything out of a tabloid. It was better.

It was theirs.

And in the quiet corners of those days, Yuma started to realize: maybe this wasn’t so hard to pretend was normal after all.

Maybe, it was.

The elevator dinged on the 9th floor with the usual sluggish groan, and Yuma stepped out, shoulders hunched under the weight of another long shift. His bag felt heavier than it should have, his earbuds were dead, and the sunset had already dipped below the buildings, leaving the hallway cast in that sterile blue-gray of early evening.

He just wanted to get inside, kick off his shoes, and maybe sink into the couch like a corpse.

He unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open, already toeing off his sneakers—only to be hit with the comforting hum of the living room TV and the familiar jingle of anime dialogue in the background.

He blinked.

Eunbi was sprawled on the couch in an oversized hoodie, legs curled under her, a half-empty can of Sprite balanced precariously on the armrest. On screen, Oresukiplayed, its chaotic romantic hijinks washing through the room like low-level emotional static.

She looked up the moment he walked in.

Her face lit up.

“Yumaton!!” she squealed, practically throwing the can onto the coffee table as she jumped up.

Before he could even respond, she bounded across the room in socked feet and launched herself into him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso.

Yuma staggered slightly, caught off guard, but instinctively steadied her. “Whoa—careful, you’re going to break something. Possibly me.”

“I missed you so much,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “It’s been forever.”

“It’s been eight hours,” Yuma deadpanned, though he didn’t move to let her go.

“Eight agonizing hours,” she corrected dramatically, squeezing tighter. “And I finished the first arc of Oresuki alone. I suffered. In solitude.”

He chuckled, low and tired. “Truly, the greatest tragedy of our time.”

Eunbi pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes soft, her expression suddenly quieter, more honest.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Something in the way she said it landed differently. Not casual. Not performative. Just… full of something warm and unguarded. Like she meant it—not just because he paid rent or brought her favorite snacks or killed spiders in the bathroom. But because he was the one who walked through that door. Because she missed him.

Yuma’s heart stuttered, the fatigue from the day sinking a little more gently now.

“I’m glad I’m home too,” he murmured.

She smiled, radiant and crooked, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on. I saved the best episode. We’re watching it together, or I riot.”

He let her drag him down into the cushions, the hoodie she wore soft against his side, the can of Sprite fizzing gently in the background.

Outside, the city buzzed on without them.

Inside, it was warm. Familiar. Home.

It started as a distraction.

Yuma had been sitting at his desk, supposed to be working on a client’s branding mockup, but instead he found himself idly scrolling through his browser tabs. His fingers moved on autopilot. One moment, he was flipping through color palettes. Next, he was on a ticketing site.

LE SSERAFIM – Seoul Encore Show.

He hesitated. His cursor hovered over the event banner.

It wasn’t like he’d never listened to their music before—Eunbi played their songs around the apartment all the time, usually while dancing in pajama shorts and an old Twice hoodie. Sometimes she’d drag him into spontaneous choreography practice, laughing as he flailed helplessly through half-remembered moves. He’d grumble about it, but the truth was, he always looked forward to those moments.

Still, he couldn’t explain why he clicked on the ticket page.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was muscle memory. But within seconds, he was scanning seat maps and availability.

Without thinking, he selected two tickets.

Good seats. Not nosebleeds, not VIP. Just… good.

One for him. One for her.

His thumb paused over the checkout button.

That’s when it hit him.

Wait—why am I buying two?

He stared at the screen.

It wasn’t just the act itself. It was the reflex. He hadn’t even questioned it. As soon as the idea had entered his head, he’d assumed Eunbi would be coming with him. That they’d go together. That she’d throw on a bucket hat and mask, hum along during the ballads, maybe grip his hand when the crowd roared too loud.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh.

It felt like someone had pulled a curtain back in his mind, revealing a room he’d been living in without realizing.

The late-night conversations. The way he automatically checked the fridge for her favorite snacks. How he’d started noticing when her laugh was genuine and when it was one of the fake ones she used on camera. The comfort of her head resting on his shoulder during movie marathons. The ache in his chest the one time she was gone for a whole week and didn’t text back until the fourth day.

He hadn’t just grown used to her presence.

He needed it.

I like her.

It was quiet. Simple. Obvious in hindsight.

And terrifying.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the two digital tickets still waiting to be confirmed. His heart thudded—not fast, but deep, like the beginning of a song that was just starting to build.

Was this stupid? Maybe. She was Eunbi Kwon—bright, untouchable, beloved by millions.

But when she was home, curled up on their couch in mismatched socks and humming along to anime openings with Sprite in her hand—she felt like his.

He clicked confirm.

The tickets slid into his inbox with a soft ding.

Yuma closed his laptop slowly, like the sound might echo through the apartment and give him away. But everything remained still. The quiet hum of life beyond his door. The knowledge that in a few minutes, she’d probably emerge from her room asking if he wanted to finish Oresuki.

And he would say yes.

Because he always said yes to her.

And maybe… maybe soon, he’d find the courage to say more.

Meanwhile, Eunbi was going through her own little realization of her own.

The studio was hot, loud, and soaked with the faint scent of body spray, floor polish, and sweat.

Eunbi had been at it for hours—breaking down steps, adjusting her angles, and counting beats under her breath while the track played on repeat. Her new comeback was intense. Faster choreography. Tighter transitions. More emphasis on power and sharpness. She loved it—but it was the kind of love that came with bruises and exhaustion.

She missed her couch. She missed Digimon. She missed—

WHACK.

Her foot slipped just slightly during a spin, and her balance shifted the wrong way. She caught herself quickly, but not before knocking her elbow into a speaker stand.

“Ah, crap—” she muttered, clutching her arm and trying to shake it off.

Then, deadpan, in perfect English:

“Well, that sucks. I’mma go jump off the roof.”

The music cut out instantly.

All eyes turned to her.

A beat of stunned silence passed. One of her backup dancers—Jiwoo—lowered her water bottle mid-sip, eyebrows raised.

Eunbi blinked, then waved it off casually. “Oh, that’s just my roommate. Yuma. That’s his signature saying. He says it like five times a week.”

Everyone relaxed, half-laughing, half-staring. Jiwoo narrowed her eyes with a smirk.

“Wait… Is this the same guy who takes care of your little Christmas tree shrine and keeps your Sprite stocked like it’s medicine?”

Eunbi grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Jiwoo let out a soft laugh, shook her head, and walked away, muttering something about “must be nice.”

Eunbi turned back toward the mirror, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but her reflection looked a little… off. Not wrong, just softer.

She replayed the moment in her head. How natural it felt to invoke Yuma like he was part of her day-to-day language. Like a second heartbeat. The way her body had instinctively leaned toward the idea of him—his sarcastic commentary, his sleepy-eyed smiles, the dumb jokes he’d mutter under his breath just to make her laugh.

Without warning, a small ache bloomed behind her ribs.

Not painful. Just… present.

I miss him.

Not home, not my bed. Him.

His voice in the morning. His hoodie she always stole. The way he looked at her sometimes, like she wasn’t an idol at all—just a girl who loved tokusatsu and put too much sugar in her tea.

She shook herself out of it, snapped her fingers, and called for the music to start again. She had a show to perfect. A comeback to own.

But as the beat dropped and her body moved through the steps like muscle memory, she couldn’t help the way her mind drifted—

—to the weight of Yuma’s arm slung lazily over her shoulder as they fought for the last chip.

—to his voice humming some dumb Digimon song from the kitchen.

—to the unshakable thought:

I wanna go home.

I wanna go home to him.

Eunbi had just fifteen minutes between rehearsals. Her makeup artist was touching up another dancer, and her choreographer was resetting the sound system. So she did what any exhausted idol would do in the lull—curled up in the corner of the practice room, hoodie pulled over her head like a tent, and let the hum of the studio fade into the background.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But exhaustion crept in like warm fog, and before she knew it, her mind was drifting.

⸻

They were back in the apartment, lights dimmed, the TV flickering with nostalgic warmth. The Digimon Adventure tri. The movie was playing, the voices of old characters filling the room like a lullaby of childhood.

Yuma was sitting beside her, in that hoodie she always stole—except now it was off, tossed somewhere, and he was in a fitted black tee that made her mouth go dry in that not-so-innocent kind of way.

She was curled against him, blanket pulled over both their laps, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she asked lazily, “which Digimon makes you think of me?”

Yuma glanced down at her with a smirk, his eyes soft but mischievous. “Mastemon.”

She blinked. “Mastemon? Really?”

He nodded, voice low and teasing. “Sweet, compassionate, noble… but also? Built like a war goddess. A literal body for sin.”

Eunbi’s face burned. In the dream, she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Yuma!” she gasped, swatting his chest halfheartedly.

He just grinned. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to fire back with some quip—but nothing came out. Because deep down, she liked hearing it. Liked the way his voice wrapped around her name, the quiet heat in his eyes when he looked at her like she was both sacred and dangerous.

And then, as if possessed by some other version of herself—bolder, braver—she leaned in.

“Well then,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, lips just a breath away from his, “let’s sin together.”

Yuma didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He tilted his head just slightly, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he closed the gap—

⸻

And then she jolted awake.

The fluorescent lights above her buzzed softly. Her hoodie was bunched beneath her cheek, her phone had slipped to the floor, and her heart was racing.

She blinked rapidly, disoriented, her pulse pounding in her ears.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream.

But her body was still warm from it. Her lips tingled. Her chest felt like it was holding something back—something real.

Oh no.

She sat up slowly, brushing a hand through her hair as the lingering sensation of Yuma’s voice echoed in her memory.

Sweet, compassionate, noble… body for sin.

She covered her face with both hands, groaning. “I’m in so much trouble.”

This wasn’t just a crush. Wasn’t just comfort. She had feelings—messy, spiraling, very real feelings.

For her roommate.

Her best friend.

The boy who refilled her Sprite and rolled his eyes when she blasted Christmas music in April. The one who bought her a Digimon plush last month without saying anything, just because he thought it looked like her.

Eunbi sighed, pulling her knees to her chest.

She didn’t just miss Yuma. She wanted him—in the movie night, hoodie-sharing, falling-asleep-on-the-couch, heart-racing kind of way.

And now she knew.

No more pretending.

No more brushing it off.

She was in deep.

By the time they both were done with their work weeks, they had dragged themselves back to their apartment.

Friday Night

The door creaked open at nearly the exact same time.

“Ugh,” Yuma groaned as he trudged in, bag sliding off his shoulder as it had personally offended him.

Eunbi followed seconds later, baseball cap pulled low over her face and sunglasses still on despite it being well past sunset. “I swear, if one more person asks me to ‘just show a little more shoulder’ in rehearsal—”

“—I’ll start flipping tables,” Yuma finished for her with a tired smirk.

She snorted, kicking her shoes off and dumping her gym bag. “God, you get me.”

They barely even said hi. No hug. No big reunion. They just drifted into each other’s space like two puzzle pieces slotting into place after a long day apart.

The front door clicked open just as Eunbi was toeing off her shoes. She turned her head at the same time Yuma did, both of them standing there—slumped, drained, and looking like they’d barely survived the week.

“…you look like roadkill,” she muttered, voice hoarse with fatigue.

Yuma dropped his keys in the dish by the door and gave a low, gravelly laugh. “Takes one to know one, babe.”

She smiled—tired, but real—and without thinking, held out her arms.

He stepped into the hug without hesitation, resting his forehead on her shoulder for a long beat. No tension. No awkwardness. Just quiet, bone-deep comfort.

Eunbi flopped onto the couch with a long sigh. Yuma dropped beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder. She patted his thigh. He rubbed her back.

And then, without thinking—

“Wanna help me make fried rice, babe?”

“Yeah, sure, love,” Yuma murmured, yawning as he stood.

Neither of them blinked at the pet names.

⸻

Saturday Morning

They shuffled around the kitchen in oversized hoodies and mismatched socks. Yuma was stirring eggs. Eunbi was chopping green onions, still humming a Le Sserafim B-side under her breath.

“Careful with your fingers, baby,” Yuma said without looking.

“You’re the one who almost dropped the pan yesterday, sweetie.”

He snorted. “Touché.”

They brushed past each other, instinctively pressing soft kisses to each other’s cheeks in the narrow kitchen space like it was nothing. Like they’d been doing it for years. Like it was normal.

Eunbi didn’t even realize she’d stolen his hoodie until he tugged at the sleeve and said, “Hey, is that mine?”

She pulled it tighter and grinned. “It’s ours now.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

Eunbi was pouring pancake batter into a hot pan while Yuma hunted for the maple syrup with one eye still closed. She was wearing his gray sweats. He was wearing her headband to keep his bangs out of his eyes.

“Don’t burn it again, babe,” he said without looking.

“I swear to God if you jinx me—” she muttered.

They brushed past each other. He kissed her cheek instinctively. She grabbed his waist as she reached for a mug behind him. Neither acknowledged it, because it was so normal now.

Yuma watched her grab the last Sprite from the fridge and grinned.

“You owe me one.”

“I owe you like, twelve,” she said with a smirk, cracking an egg with one hand like a pro. “Keep tally.”

Sunday Afternoon

They were in a blanket pile on the couch watching some off-meta fantasy anime with terrible animation and amazing music. Their phones buzzed occasionally, but neither looked at them. Eunbi’s head rested on Yuma’s thigh, and he absentmindedly played with the drawstring on her hoodie.

Yuma reached for the envelope on the coffee table.

“Oh,” he said, almost like it wasn’t a big deal, “got us something.”

Eunbi sat up slowly as he handed her the tickets.

Two glossy passes to Le Sserafim’s Seoul concert. Front section.

Her brows lifted. “Wait. You got these?”

“Yeah,” Yuma said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I saw the ad and I know Sakura and Chaewon are like your little sisters. So, just something fun, and I saw their dates. I guess I just… I dunno. Reflexively bought two. Thought it’d be cool to go with you.”

Eunbi blinked, holding the tickets like they were delicate. “You thought of me?”

“Of course, I thought of you,” he said simply. “You’re my favorite concert buddy.”

There was something in his voice—light, casual—but underneath it… something else.

She was quiet for a second, then smiled a little. “You know we’ve been acting like an old married couple lately, right?”

Yuma tilted his head. “Have we?”

Eunbi gave him a look. “You call me babe. I kiss your cheek when I’m cooking. We share hoodies and playlists and I literally can’t drink Sprite now without thinking of you.”

Yuma laughed under his breath. “Well. When you put it like that…”

“Yuma.”

His gaze softened, and he leaned in, elbows resting on his knees.

“I didn’t mean to fall into this,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t fight it either. You… make it easy.”

Eunbi’s throat went tight. Her fingers curled around the tickets. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You too.”

They sat there, quiet and close, the room glowing gold from the late afternoon sun.

Outside, the city kept moving.

But in their little apartment, time held still—for just a second longer—as two best friends quietly realized they weren’t just best friends anymore.

The Night Before the Concert at a

cozy izakaya tucked in a quiet Seoul alley—paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, the scent of grilled meat and sake in the air. While Eunbi and Yuma were on a double date with Niles and Sunny avoiding their feelings.

Yuma was sipping a plum soda, hunched slightly over the low table, while Niles theatrically argued with the server about whether or not “extra garlic” meant “a stupid amount of garlic.”

Sunny, cheeks already flushed from one shot of soju, leaned closer to Eunbi, whispering loud enough for the whole table to hear,

“You know what’s wild?”

Eunbi blinked, chopsticks hovering over a sizzling plate of pork belly. “What?”

“You and Yuma are a better couple than me and Niles,” Sunny declared, grinning like a drunk prophet. “And Niles and I are literally married.”

Eunbi coughed—choked, really. Her hand flew to her chest.

Yuma’s head jerked up. “Wait—what?”

Niles groaned into his beer. “It was a Vegas thing. We don’t talk about it.”

Sunny waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not the point. The point is that you two—” she gestured between Eunbi and Yuma with her chopsticks, “—are grossly domestic. Like, I half-expected you to bicker about who left the towel on the bathroom floor and then kiss on the mouth.”

“Sunny—” Eunbi hissed, cheeks glowing scarlet.

Yuma laughed nervously. “It’s not like that…”

“Oh, babe,” Sunny said sweetly, “you call her ‘baby’ in three different tones depending on whether she’s tired, mad, or wearing your hoodie.”

The table went dead silent.

Even the sizzling grill felt like it stopped mid-pop.

Eunbi stood up abruptly. “Excuse me. Bathroom.”

Yuma shot up right after her. “Same. Too much soda.”

Sunny lifted her shot glass to Niles with a smug little smirk. “And that’s how you break a years-long stalemate, honey.”

Inside the quiet dimly lit Bathroom Hallway away from the laughter and clatter of the izakaya.

Eunbi was leaning against the wall, arms folded tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a line.

Yuma approached carefully, standing just close enough to share the space, but not close enough to assume anything.

“She was joking,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Eunbi replied. “That’s what scares me.”

Yuma blinked. “Scares you?”

Eunbi exhaled slowly. “Because it wasn’t wrong. Not really. We’ve been doing this dance for months. Cooking together. Sleeping in each other’s hoodies. Saying goodnight like it means something.”

“It does mean something,” he said, without hesitation.

She turned her head, eyes searching his face.

“It does?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yuma nodded, throat tight. “I didn’t buy those tickets just because I like concerts. I bought them because I wanted to go with you. Because you’re the person I want beside me—whether it’s screaming in a stadium or watching Digimon reruns in our pajamas.”

Her breath caught.

“And if you’re scared,” he added, “then I’m right there with you. But I’d rather be scared with you than keep pretending we’re just roommates who accidentally became each other’s favorite person.”

Silence.

Then: a soft, shaky laugh from Eunbi.

She looked at him, eyes misty, lips curling into a smile. “God, I was really about to kiss you in a bathroom hallway, huh?”

Yuma’s voice dropped. “What if I want you to?”

Eunbi took a step closer. “Then don’t stop me.”

And just like that, the dam broke—not with fireworks, but with a shared breath, a soft laugh, and the taste of plum soda and longing on a kiss that had been waiting months to happen.

When Eunbi broke the kiss she stared into Yuma’s eyes overwhelmed,

“I need more!” she said before lowering herself down to Yuma’s crotch. She lifted her shirt so her breast could be free.

“Pull your dick out,” she commanded.

Yuma short-circuits and Eunbi rolls her eyes, “You're so hopeless, she teased as she undid his belt and pants. Yuma’s semi-erect phallus hits the air. Eunbi doesn't hesitate as she wraps her tits around it.

Yuma loses it as Eunbi fucks him with her tits. “Holy Fuck noona,” he says

Eunbi smiled as she kept going, “That's the first time you've called me noona,” she teased as continues dragging her chest on his dick.

Eunbi moans as her tits twist and wrap around his cock. She also fondled her nipples causing her immense pleasure.

She began to feel Yuma throbbing and smirked, “That was fast,” she said as Yuma groaned and exploded all over her face tits, and chest.

Eunbi smiled and said, “I guess that was a pretty good appetizer. Now let's enjoy the concert,”

Yuma nods in a daze as he helps Eunbi clean herself off before rejoining their friends.