Archive of Our Own

Tanvi bounced lightly on her feet as she made her way up the narrow side road toward the dorm, her canvas tote bags laden with groceries swinging rhythmically at her sides. The early morning air was crisp, the kind that whispered of lazy weekends and slow starts. The sun was just beginning to stretch its golden fingers across the quiet streets of Seoul, casting long, sleepy shadows between buildings. Her heart thudded with quiet excitement.

Cheol had texted her last night with what felt like divine news: he and the boys had a rare, sacred day off—no rehearsals, no meetings, no emergency schedules. And for once, by some cosmic alignment, Tanvi didn’t have an exam looming over her head or a clinical shift waiting to consume her sanity. A full day off for both of them? That had to be fate. Or at least the universe finally giving her a break.

She reached the familiar dorm building, jogging up the stairs two at a time despite the weight of her bags. At the top, she pulled out the tiny key Cheol had slipped into her hand weeks ago with a wink and a whispered, “Only for emergencies—or if you’re bringing food.”

Tanvi smirked, muttering to herself as she slid it into the lock. “This counts as both.”

The door clicked open with a soft creak, and she carefully stepped inside, quickly disarming the small alarm system Cheol insisted was “standard idol protocol.” One of the floorboards betrayed her presence with a loud groan, and she winced, pausing to listen. Silence. Good. They were still asleep—dead to the world like a pile of overworked puppies.

She slipped off her sneakers and into a pair of bunny slippers by the shoe rack—too small, definitely not hers, but adorable nonetheless. Then, toes muffled in pink fluff, she tiptoed into the kitchen.

The grocery bags landed on the counter with a soft thud. Tanvi rolled her neck, cracked her knuckles, and surveyed the battlefield before her.

Okay, you’ve got this. You don’t totally know what half of them like yet, but… Woozi likes sweet things, right? Jeonghan drinks that weird ginseng tea, so maybe he’ll tolerate honey toast? Oh god—was Seungkwan allergic to nuts? No, wait, that was Vernon. Or… Joshua? Shit.

She rubbed her face with both hands and let out a tiny, panicked groan before shaking it off.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be heartfelt. You’re just making breakfast. For your boyfriend. And his twelve very intimidating, beautiful, high-performance, K-pop-machine bandmates. Who may or may not still believe you’re a spy sent to sabotage their haircare.

No pressure.

“First things first—chai,” she whispered to herself like a sacred invocation.

She reached into one of the bags and pulled out her battered little tin of chai masala—the one she always tucked behind the sugar in her dorm back home. Within minutes, the warm scent of cardamom, ginger, and cloves began filling the kitchen, wrapping around her like a hug from home.

She closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath. Okay. You’re here. You’re fine. This is fine.

Mug in hand, she leaned her hip against the counter, sipping slowly as the heat from the chai spread through her chest and fingertips. Her eyes drifted back to the groceries laid out before her, and she began mentally mapping out her plan like a general preparing for battle.

A Korean-American mashup breakfast. Manageable. Probably. Hopefully. Kimchi fried rice, pancakes, eggs—simple enough. Toast. Maybe hash browns if she didn’t set the smoke alarm off again. She wasn’t a chef, but she had instincts. And a fire extinguisher. Probably.

The dorm remained swathed in stillness, broken only by the low hum of the fridge and the occasional floorboard creak from upstairs—probably Jun turning in his sleep.

She tiptoed over to the speaker tucked beside the microwave and connected her phone, queuing up her “Quiet Kitchen Chaos” playlist. Soft indie ballads and sleepy lofi beats floated through the air like whispers, just loud enough to chase away the silence but gentle enough not to disturb the twelve half-comatose idols still snoring upstairs.

By the time the last sip of chai was gone, Tanvi set her mug in the sink with a quiet clink and rolled up her sleeves. She grabbed a rogue pen she found wedged behind the toaster, used it to twist her hair into a messy bun, and took a deep breath.

“Alright,” she murmured, grinning to herself as she cracked the first egg. “Time to win their hearts. Or at least... not set the fire alarm off again.”

Step one: don’t poison anyone. Step two: make these guys like me. Step three: convince Seungkwan that I am, in fact, not a spy planted by a rival company to sabotage his skincare routine.

The eggs hissed and popped in the pan as Tanvi darted between the stove and the cutting board, spatula in one hand and a bowl of batter in the other. Her tongue poked out in concentration, eyes flicking from the kimchi rice to the sizzling pancakes and back to the eggs again.

She whispered under her breath like she was hosting a high-stakes cooking show that no one had asked for but everyone was somehow watching.

“Okay, multitask queen. Flip here, stir there. Don’t burn anything. Don’t set off the fire alarm. Don’t explode the rice cooker. Don’t—”

A soft rustling noise behind her made her freeze mid-spatula, breath caught in her throat.

She turned slowly, fully expecting a ghost.

Instead, Jun stood in the doorway like a sleep-deprived anime character—blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape, oversized pajama pants barely clinging to his frame, and hair in total mutiny. He blinked slowly at her, dark eyes glassy with sleep, mouth opening—then closing—then opening again as if buffering.

Tanvi’s brain short-circuited.

Oh no. He wasn’t supposed to be up yet. Abort. Retreat. Hide behind the rice cooker. I DON’T KNOW CHINESE.I don’t even know Korean well enough to bridge the gap.

“Uh… morning?” she squeaked out, lifting the spatula like it might serve as both greeting and shield. Her voice cracked halfway through the word.

Jun just blinked again.

Then his eyes dropped to the stove, where eggs sizzled and rice bubbled, then slowly lifted back up to her. He tilted his head like a curious puppy and pointed one long finger toward the pan.

“You… make?”

His Korean was slow and careful, the accent still thick around the edges, but it was enough to make her shoulders drop a little.

She nodded rapidly, tripping over her words. “Yes! I—I mean, yeah! I cooked. Cooking. For everyone. Breakfast surprise?”

Jun squinted at her like she’d just told him she was giving away free money, then slowly—very slowly—a soft smile tugged at his lips. Barely there. Sleepy. Real.

“Smells… nice,” he murmured, voice scratchy but sincere.

Tanvi let out a full-body exhale. “Oh, thank God.”

Wrapped like a burrito in his blanket, Jun shuffled into the kitchen, slow and silent, eyes still locked on the food like he wasn’t entirely sure it was real. He pointed to the rice cooker next, then to himself.

“I… help?”

Tanvi blinked. Oh no no no no you’re too cute stop it—

“No! No—it’s okay, really. I got it,” she said, nearly tripping over her feet as she shoved a warm plate into his hands to keep him from doing anything . “Here! Sit! Food! Yours!”

Jun’s eyes widened slightly at the plate—neatly plated kimchi fried rice, soft scrambled eggs, and two golden pancakes stacked with a pat of butter melting on top.

He bowed his head slightly in thanks, murmuring, “감사합니다,” and took the plate with gentle hands.

Tanvi watched as he padded over to the table and settled into a chair, the blanket still wrapped around him like armor. He picked up the spoon, posture perfect, and began to eat in small, polite bites.

For a solid minute, the only sounds in the dorm were the clink of spoon against ceramic… and Tanvi’s heartbeat slowly returning to a human rhythm.

She turned back to the stove, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and whispered, “Okay… one down. Twelve to go.”

And then—

CREEEEAAAK.

A door creaked upstairs.

Tanvi froze again.

Eyes wide.

Spatula trembling.

Oh no. The others are waking up.

–Seungkwan POV–

Seungkwan’s eyes flew open.

A soft, unfamiliar indie beat drifted up from the floor below—gentle guitar strums and lofi drum loops threading through the silence like it belonged in a trendy café, not a dorm full of sleep-deprived trainees.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

What the... no one in this dorm even listens to that kind of music.

He stayed frozen for a second, half convinced it was a dream. But then— clang.

His eyes shot to the top bunk above him, squinting suspiciously.

Cooking?

Heart racing, Seungkwan slid out from under his blanket and crept toward the door like a spy on a black-ops mission. The doorknob turned with a traitorous squeak, and the floorboard beneath his foot creaked like it, too, had chosen violence.

He winced.

Great. Alert the enemy why don’t you?

He peered over the banister, gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And there she was.

Tanvi.

In the kitchen.

In their kitchen.

At 7 a.m.

Wearing an apron.

Oh hell no.

He gasped. Audibly.

Then spun on his heel like he’d just seen a ghost, tripped over his own foot, and stepped directly on the loudest floorboard known to mankind. Cursing under his breath, he dove headfirst onto Vernon’s bunk like a soldier dodging sniper fire.

“ Pssst. PSSST. VERNON. VERNON, WAKE UP, ” he whisper-yelled, aggressively patting the human burrito that was his bandmate.

A groggy noise rose from the tangle of blankets.

Seungkwan huffed, shoved both hands under the covers, and started blindly slapping around until he found Vernon’s face. “ WAKE. UPPPPPPP. This is not a drill. ”

From the next bunk, there was a faint shhfff of movement.

Seungkwan froze.

His blood ran cold.

Shit. Jihoon-hyung is awake. Abort mission. ABORT.

Without hesitation, he dove under Vernon’s blanket fortress like a panicked groundhog.

“ Can’t wake Jihoon-hyung, ” he hissed, eyes wide in the darkness. “ Can’t die like this. ”

“…Seungkwan?” came Vernon’s muffled voice. “What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

“ Vernon-ah, ” he whispered, the urgency in his voice more dramatic than a soap opera finale, “ She. Is. Here. ”

There was a long pause. Then a grunt.

“…Who?”

“ The spy, ” Seungkwan said, eyes wild. “ Tanvi noona. She’s in the kitchen. Again.”

Vernon slowly peeled an eye open, his hair looking like it had defied both gravity and common sense. “…What spy?”

Seungkwan grabbed Vernon’s cheeks with both hands. “ NOONA IS BACK AND SHE’S COOKING AGAIN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?! She could be poisoning us.”

Vernon stared at him. Blinked. “…She’s making breakfast?”

“ Yes. I saw eggs. And pancakes. And rice. Both kinds. American and Korean. ”

He sat up slightly, arms flailing like a man unhinged. “But THAT’S NOT THE POINT. Where did the jam come from, Vernon? The jam?!”

Vernon blinked again. “...You mean the imported strawberry one?”

Seungkwan pointed a trembling finger at him. “ Exactly. Imported. Fancy. Smells like deception and social manipulation.”

“I’m not saying she’s a spy,” he continued solemnly, placing a hand over his chest, “but if she were? This is exactly how she’d do it. One perfectly crisped hash brown at a time.”

Vernon sighed and collapsed back onto the pillow. “Kwannie… she’s literally Cheol-hyung’s girlfriend.”

“ Exactly! ” Seungkwan whisper-shrieked. “ And love makes people blind. He’s compromised. What if this is a long con and Cheol-hyung is being emotionally held hostage by breakfast foods and jasmine-

scented manipulation?!"

From above them, Jihoon’s groggy but lethal voice cut through the air like a blade: “ Seungkwan, if you don’t go downstairs or shut up in the next ten seconds, I will personally launch you off the balcony. ”

Seungkwan flinched and hissed back, “ I KNOW WHAT I SAW. ”

Another loud clatter echoed from the kitchen—probably a pan smacking the stovetop with a little too much force.

He jolted upright like he’d heard cannon fire.
“That’s it. I’m going in. If I don’t make it back…”

He placed a hand solemnly on Vernon’s chest.
“ Avenge me. ”

“Just bring me a pancake,” Vernon mumbled from beneath the covers.

Seungkwan narrowed his eyes as he slid out of the bed like a stealth operative. “ You’re already compromised. ”

Seungkwan crept down the stairs like a raccoon on a stealth mission.

Every step was deliberate. Every creak beneath his foot felt like a betrayal. He flattened himself against the wall, breath held, peeking just far enough around the corner to see into the kitchen.

And there she was.

Tanvi.

Messy bun pinned up like she’d wrestled with her hair and lost. Sleeves rolled past her elbows. Apron slightly crooked and dusted with flour. She was dancing in place—dancing—as she stirred a pan with one hand and flipped a pancake with the other. To top it all off, she was humming. Cheerfully.

Humming.

Bold, Seungkwan thought grimly. She hums while she infiltrates.

He slinked down to the third step from the bottom and perched like a hawk surveying enemy territory. His eyes narrowed as she reached into one of the grocery bags and pulled out a glass jar. He squinted.

Is that… strawberry jam?

Not just any jam. Not store-brand. Imported.

She plated a stack of pancakes, carefully arranged sliced fruit along the edge like she was plating for a five-star brunch café, and then—oh no—she added tiny butter hearts .

Seungkwan blinked.

She came prepared. She came to conquer.

He was so deep in his spy-thriller monologue that he almost didn’t hear the quiet footsteps behind him. Someone padded past—silent, smooth, indifferent.

Minghao.

Hoodie half-zipped, sleeves too long, hair tied back in a low bun, the boy looked like he’d just wandered in from a dream. He yawned softly, sniffed the air, and stepped around Seungkwan without even acknowledging him, floating down the rest of the stairs like Seungkwan was part of the furniture.

Seungkwan stared at him, utterly scandalized.

Minghao approached the kitchen table where Jun was already sitting with his food. Tanvi glanced up mid-pancake flip and offered a hesitant but kind, “Good morning, Minghao.”

Her Korean was clear but gentle, as if trying not to overwhelm him.

Minghao, blinking slowly, nodded once. “Good morning,” he replied in stiff but passable Korean, voice thick with sleep.

Tanvi’s expression softened even further. She handed him a plate filled with pancakes, eggs, kimchi rice, and a neatly poured cup of tea.

“I hope you enjoy,” she said softly, smiling with a mix of hope and caution.

Minghao accepted it with another small nod and quietly took his seat next to Jun, not a single question asked. No suspicion. No hesitation. Just calm, sleepy trust.

Seungkwan gaped.

No loyalty. None.

He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t ask where the food came from. Didn’t interrogate the suspicious imported jam.

Is no one trained for espionage anymore?

A few seconds later, soft thuds echoed from upstairs—another set of footsteps. Seungkwan didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Hoshi.

The older boy padded into view, still rubbing his eyes, his tiger slippers flopping against the wood floors with every step. His hair stuck up in three directions and his shirt was on backwards.

He paused mid-step as he caught sight of Seungkwan, still crouched dramatically on the stairs, eyes wide, fists clenched like he was watching a hostage negotiation.

“Are you… broken?” Hoshi asked, blinking slowly.

“She’s still here,” Seungkwan said, his voice low and heavy with doom, never once tearing his eyes from the kitchen.

Hoshi tilted his head. “Okay… do you want, like… help? Or a therapist?”

Seungkwan’s jaw clenched. “She made heart-shaped butter.”

Hoshi blinked. Then, without missing a beat, he continued his descent. “Dude,” he called over his shoulder, “if someone made me heart-shaped butter, I’d marry them on the spot.”

And with that, he disappeared into the kitchen.

Seungkwan’s jaw dropped. “ HYUNG?! ”

But no one looked back.

He watched, in stunned silence, as Tanvi greeted Hoshi with a cheerful, “Good morning!” and handed him a steaming bowl of rice like she owned the place. Like this was all completely normal.

And worst of all?

Hoshi smiled.

Smiled.

Seungkwan slumped against the railing, betrayed on all fronts. They were falling. One by one. Like dominoes.

The spy is winning, he thought bitterly. And I’m the only one who sees it.

The stairs creaked again behind him.

Seungkwan didn’t even bother looking up this time. He just knew.

Another one has fallen.

And sure enough, it was Dino —bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side, wrapped in a cartoon-print blanket like a half-evolved Pokémon. He trudged down the stairs with all the grace of a sleepwalking zombie.

“I smelled eggs,” he mumbled, stepping directly over Seungkwan’s crouched form like he was a laundry basket.

Seungkwan’s hand shot out like a trap. He grabbed Dino’s ankle, eyes wild. “ Don’t fall for it! ”

Dino blinked down at him. “...Bacon,” he said solemnly, like it explained everything.

And just like that, he tugged his leg free and shuffled away without a second thought.

Seungkwan deflated. Slumping further down the stairs, he stared blankly at the floor.

They were falling. One by one.

The trap was working.

Soon, she’d win them all over—with jam, jazz music, and whatever unholy black magic she put in her hash browns.

From the kitchen, a bright laugh floated through the air—Tanvi giggling at something Hoshi said. Minghao’s soft, dry voice responded in accented Korean, followed by the clinking of spoons and the

scrape of chairs.

The dorm was waking up.

And Seungkwan?

He remained on the stairs.

Watching. Waiting. Vigilant.

…Hungry.

His stomach growled—loudly. Betrayingly.

He glared down at it like it had turned state’s witness.

“ Traitor. ”

Just as he was sulking like the last remaining skeptic in a zombie movie, he suddenly felt two strong arms hook under his armpits.

“Wha— HEY! ” he screeched, flailing like a startled cat as he was hoisted clean off the step like a sack of rice He twisted midair, his limbs windmilling—and found himself face-to-face with Seokmin , grinning like this was completely normal behavior.

“Time for breakfast, Kwannie,” Seokmin said cheerfully, still in his striped pajamas and fuzzy socks, carrying Seungkwan like a misbehaving toddler on their way to time-out.

“ I’M ON A MISSION— ”

“Sure you are,” Seokmin replied with the calm patience of someone used to daily nonsense. Without breaking stride, he descended the final steps, navigated the hall, and plopped Seungkwan

unceremoniously into a chair at the kitchen table before the younger boy could escape.

“Eat.”

“I’M BEING SILENCED,” Seungkwan declared, arms flailing for emphasis. But then—

The smell hit him.

Freshly scrambled eggs. Crisped hash browns. Sweet pancake syrup. Kimchi fried rice.

His words died mid-drama as his brain short-circuited.

Tanvi appeared beside him a second later, setting a plate gently in front of him like she was disarming a bomb. Her expression was cautious but kind, her voice quiet. “I… wasn’t sure what you liked, so I tried to include a bit of everything?”

Seungkwan glanced down.

Perfectly cooked eggs. Golden hash browns. A scoop of spicy kimchi fried rice. And on top of the pancake? A tiny heart-shaped butter pat , just starting to melt.

He squinted up at her. “This smells… suspiciously delicious.”

Tanvi blinked. “I’ll… take that as a compliment?”

He tried to resist. Really, he did.

But it was warm. And crispy. And golden. And he hadn’t eaten since last night’s sad excuse for dinner.

The hash browns crunched just right when he took the first bite.

He inhaled half the plate in record time.

Seokmin smirked and ruffled his hair. “I rest my case.”

Seungkwan made a muffled grumble through a mouthful of pancake but didn’t argue.

Within minutes, the kitchen buzzed with sleepy movement and soft laughter.

Members trickled down one by one, drawn in like moths to a cozy, breakfast-shaped flame. The air filled with soft conversation, clinking spoons, and the gentle background hum of Tanvi’s lofi playlist.

Vernon was next, shuffling in with the posture of someone whose soul hadn’t quite caught up to his body. His hair defied gravity, and his eyes weren’t fully open. He didn’t even aim for a chair—just sat

cross-legged on the floor beside the fridge, cradling a pancake in both hands like it was a sacred object.

His cheeks puffed out like a hibernating raccoon as he ate in absolute silence, eyes half-lidded, completely content.

Tanvi couldn’t stop smiling.

They were eating. Laughing. Comfortable. No one had burst into flames. No one had accused her of being a spy in the last five minutes. Seungkwan had literally just licked syrup off his fingers and didn’t look like he wanted to fight anymore.

Okay, she thought, heart lightening. Maybe this was going okay after all.

Then—

She heard it.

Movement on the stairs.

Tanvi’s breath hitched in her throat.

Her hands stilled over the skillet, heart suddenly thudding louder than the music playing in the background.

The last three.

She hadn’t seen them yet, but she knew. There was a shift in the air, a ripple of energy, a slow inhale before the final drop.

Jeonghan appeared first, drifting down the stairs like he’d been here before in a dream. His expression betrayed nothing—no surprise, no confusion—just a raised brow and a subtle smirk like he’d expected this all along. Without saying a word, he weaved through the room with practiced ease, snagged a piece of toast straight from the tray, and dropped lazily to the ground beside Vernon.

He took one bite, nodded approvingly to himself, and leaned back against the cabinets, ankles crossed. Cool. Effortless. Untouchable.

Joshua came next.

He wasn’t nearly as composed.

He stopped in the doorway, blinking like he wasn’t sure he was awake. His wide eyes swept across the room—Tanvi by the stove, a dozen plates spread out, the scent of spice and butter thick in the air, heart-shaped butter melting on golden pancakes.

He blinked again.

Then gave a tiny nod, walked over to the counter like a man in a daze, and quietly poured himself a cup of coffee.

“…Thank you for the breakfast,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper, the words almost swallowed by steam.

And then, without another word, he slipped out to the balcony, coffee cupped between his hands like a fragile secret.

Tanvi blinked after him, a little worried. “Did I… do something wrong?”

From the floor, Jeonghan snorted. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, tearing another bite from his toast. “He’s not used to girls being here. None of us are, really. And Shua… well, he’s got this whole gentleman complex. He probably doesn’t want to cry in front of you about how good the food is.”

Tanvi glanced at the balcony door, brows furrowed, then back at Jeonghan, who just shrugged like boys are weird and dramatic was a universal truth. She let out a breath, half-laughing, and returned to the stove.

Then—

Movement on the stairs.

Tanvi didn’t need to look up.

She didn’t need to see him.

She could feel him.

The shift in the air. The distinct hum of presence. The gravity that always seemed to shift subtly when he entered a room.

Sure enough, a moment later, Seungcheol stumbled into view—still tangled somewhere between sleep and chaos, trailing the remnants of whatever gremlin dreams he’d been having.

His hair was a tousled mess, flopping over one eye. His oversized hoodie hung off one bare shoulder, socks wildly mismatched—one gray, one with tiny cartoon strawberries that had clearly lost the will to stay up. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, eyes squinting against the kitchen lights as he shuffled into the chaos with all the dignity of a man who thought he was so cool but looked exactly like a bear that had just woken from hibernation.

“ Why does it smell so good in here? ” he mumbled to no one in particular, voice rough and gravelly with sleep.

Tanvi froze mid-step.

She shouldn't have been nervous. They were dating. They’d seen each other in every messy, beautiful, and vulnerable way. Late-night calls. Stress breakdowns. Stolen kisses. Tear-streaked hugs. She

knew the deepest parts of him.

But this—

This felt different.

This was her in his space.

This was him stepping into her gesture.

There was something sacred about it. Intimate. Quiet. Like she had crossed into a new chapter, not just as his girlfriend, but as someone who belonged here. The food she had made felt stitched into the

walls now—into the laughter, the warmth, the half-asleep voices floating through the dorm.

And still… he hadn’t seen her.

So in that soft pause before he did, Tanvi allowed herself a single, giddy moment to just watch him.

Her sleepy boyfriend.

Wandering into a kitchen full of warmth and chaos, surrounded by his people, lulled by food made with love.

Her food.

Her cheeks flushed.

God, she thought, I really, really love this boy.

And then—

The switch flipped.

Because suddenly, Seungcheol squared his shoulders like a switch had turned on, and his voice—once lazy—exploded to full volume as if the gremlin in him had finally booted up.

“ WHOEVER IS COOKING—I LOVE YOU! ” he bellowed, arms raised like he was accepting an award. “If this is Jihoon microwaving spam again, I will THROW myself out the window!”

He let out an exaggerated groan, stretched his arms above his head, and declared to the room like a dramatic prince, “I swear, if there are real pancakes and not just that protein powder trash again, I’ll

marry whoever made them.”

Jeonghan, from his seat on the floor, muttered without looking up, “You need therapy.”

“ No, ” Seungcheol shot back with flair, “I need carbs and affection—AND I CAN SMELL BOTH.”

He sauntered to the counter like he was auditioning for a drama role no one offered him, grinning and half-yawning, hoodie slipping even lower.

And then—he saw her.

Tanvi.

Standing by the stove. Apron a little crooked. Cheeks pink. Spatula in one hand, mouth slightly open, watching him.

His brain crashed .

Like actual reboot.

Blue screen. No input. Restarting system.

The swagger bled out of his shoulders. His arms dropped mid-gesture. The “marry me, pancake goddess” speech? Gone. The loud bravado? Dead on arrival.

“…Tanvi,” he mumbled, now sounding like someone who’d just remembered they had an audience during karaoke.

Tanvi raised an eyebrow, trying to hold in her smile. “Hi, pabo.”

He just stood there, frozen in the middle of his own kitchen like someone had unplugged him.

Tanvi leaned slightly on the counter, playful now. “You seemed… hungry.”

He blinked. “I—yeah. I mean. I didn’t know it was you. Not that it matters. I mean—it would’ve mattered! But like—”

“Cheol,” she said gently, her smile blooming now, “did you just propose to a pancake?”

From the floor, Jeonghan added helpfully, “Loudly. It was weird.”

Tanvi snorted, and that was it—Seungcheol groaned and buried his face in both hands like maybe if he couldn't see her, she couldn't see him.

She walked toward him slowly and reached up to pull the hoodie back over his bare shoulder, smoothing the fabric with a gentle pat.

“I accept your proposal,” she teased, “but you’ll have to fight the pancakes for my hand.”

Seungcheol peeked through his fingers, utterly defeated. “I hate everyone.”

“Mmhm,” she said, tugging him by the front of his hoodie toward the table. “Come eat, Romeo.”

And as he stumbled into the seat, red-faced and mumbling, surrounded by friends, hash browns, and her soft laughter, Seungcheol knew one thing for sure:

He could propose to a thousand pancakes, but none of them would ever compare to her.