Part three: A Tale of Unsaid Love
Vernon and Y/N’s lifelong friendship blossoms into something more through quiet moments and a transformative night in the park.
Pairing: Vernon x reader
Genre: Fluff, slow-burn tension
The room was dark when Vernon stirred, the only light a faint glow sneaking through the curtains from a streetlamp outside. His body ached from the tour, the couch too small for his lanky frame, but he didn’t care. Not when Y/N was still curled up beside him, her head tucked against his chest, one arm slung across him like she’d claimed him in her sleep. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust, and looked down at her—really looked.
Her face was soft, relaxed in a way it never was when she was awake and fussing at him. Her breaths were quiet, syncing with his own, and her fingers twitched slightly, clutching his hoodie. His chest tightened, a familiar ache he’d carried for longer than he’d ever admit out loud. It was the same feeling he’d had years ago, back in high school, when he’d watched her rant about their history teacher dropping a surprise essay on a Friday. “It should be illegal,” she’d huffed, pacing the classroom while he just sat there, grinning like an idiot, thinking she was the most alive thing he’d ever seen.
He’d liked her then—everything about her. The way she’d scrunch her nose at cafeteria food and declare it “a crime against humanity.” How she’d shiver five minutes into every winter hangout and steal his jacket without asking. Her endless yapping, her loud laughs, the way she’d drag him into her chaos and make it feel like home. He’d liked her for so long it wasn’t even a question anymore—it was just part of him, like breathing.
And then there was that night. Months ago, mid-tour, when he’d been so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open on a facetime call. He’d let them drift shut, pretending to sleep while she rambled—until her voice had gone soft, barely a whisper, and she’d said it. “I love you.” He’d frozen, heart slamming against his ribs, but he’d kept still, too scared to move, too desperate to hear more. “You don’t even know, do you? How much I’ve loved you this whole time.” She’d kept going, spilling her heart to a “sleeping” him, and he’d lain there, wide awake, every word carving itself into him.
He’d wanted to open his eyes, to sit up and tell her right then—I know. I love you too. I’ve loved you forever. But he didn’t. He’d stayed quiet, letting her think he hadn’t heard, because he wasn’t sure what came next. What if saying it out loud changed everything? What if he messed it up? So he’d waited, and ever since, he’d leaned in harder—calling her nonstop, texting her every dumb thought, clinging to her like she might slip away if he didn’t.
The boys had noticed, of course. Seungkwan had caught him grinning at his phone one too many times and started the teasing train. “Oh, Vernon’s in love, look at him blushing!” DK would chime in, serenading him with fake ballads about “Vernon and Y/N, sittin’ in a tree.” Mingyu once snatched his phone mid-text and read it aloud—“‘Hey, thought of you when I saw this dog, it had your grumpy face.’ Dude, you’re whipped.” He’d just shrugged, used to it by now, but one night, after a few drinks, he’d spilled it to them—his family, the only ones he trusted with it.
“I think I’m in love with her,” he’d said, staring at the ceiling of their dorm. “Like… for real.”
Joshua had nodded, all sage-like. “Yeah, we know. You’re not subtle.”
“Bro, just tell her,” Mingyu had urged, tossing a pillow at him. “She’s not gonna figure it out from your cryptic gift-giving.”
“What if she doesn’t feel the same?” he’d shot back, even though he knew she did. He’d heard her say it. But doubt was a stubborn thing.
Seungkwan had snorted. “If she doesn’t, I’ll eat my hat. But also, grow a pair and say it. You’re killing us with this slow-motion romance.”
“Half serious, half joke,” Wonwoo had added, smirking. “But for real—don’t wait too long.”
Vernon hadn’t decided then, and he still hadn’t now. But lying here, with her asleep in his arms, he felt it stronger than ever. He couldn’t imagine a life without her—without her voice in his ear, her mess in his space, her everything tangled up in his. He shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she stirred, mumbling something incoherent before snuggling closer. His heart did a dumb little flip, and he smiled despite himself.
It was past 10 p.m. now, the clock on the wall ticking quietly. He should’ve been dead tired—jet lag, tour fatigue, the whole mess—but he wasn’t. Not with her here. He’d heard her confess again today, whispering it while he’d pretended to sleep on the couch, and it’d taken everything in him not to react. “You’re so stupid… making me love you, and it sucks.” She’d said it like a curse, and he’d wanted to laugh, to pull her close and tell her he was just as cursed. But he’d stayed still, letting her think he was out, because he needed time—time to figure out how to say it back without screwing it all up.
“Vernon?” Her voice broke through his thoughts, sleepy and soft. She’d woken up, blinking up at him, still half-draped across his chest.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, like he might spook her if he spoke too loud. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Late,” he said, brushing his thumb absently against her arm. “Past ten.”
She hummed, shifting to sit up, but he tightened his hold just enough to keep her there. “Stay,” he said again, softer this time, fully awake now. “Sleep more if you want. We’ll talk later.”
Her eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe, or that same panic he’d seen before. “Talk about what?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He shrugged, playing it off, though his pulse quickened. “Stuff. Later, though. Not now.”
“Why not now?” she pressed, and he could hear it—the edge of nerves she was trying to hide.
“‘Cause I’m tired,” he lied, flashing a small grin. “And you’re comfy. Let me have this for a bit.”
She huffed, a half-laugh, but didn’t push. Instead, she settled back against him, her head resting on his chest again, and he felt her relax, even if her breathing wasn’t quite steady. His own heart was a mess—racing, tripping over itself—but he didn’t care. She was here, and he’d heard her, and maybe “later” didn’t have to be far off. Maybe it was time to stop pretending he didn’t know.
For now, though, he just held her tighter, letting the quiet stretch, and thought about how every little thing she did had built this—his life, his heart, his home. And he wasn’t letting it go.
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The silence was suffocating. Y/N sat up first, the blanket pooling around her waist as Vernon followed, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was stalling. The room felt too small, too still, with only the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen breaking the quiet. She stared at him, waiting—hoping—for him to say something, anything, about this “talk” he’d dangled over her like a storm cloud. But he just looked back, his face unreadable, lips pressed into a line.
He stood abruptly, muttering something she couldn’t catch, and disappeared into his room. She frowned, pulling her knees to her chest, her mind racing. What’s wrong with him? He’d been clingy all day—texts, calls, hugs, gifts—and now he was a wall. Was he mad? Tired? Did she do something? Every bad possibility clawed at her—maybe he’d heard her confess, maybe he was pulling away, maybe this was the end of them. Her stomach twisted, and she hugged herself tighter, trying to keep the panic at bay.
Vernon came back a minute later, an extra hoodie dangling from his hand. It was one of his—gray, worn-in, the kind he lived in when he wasn’t on stage. He tossed it at her without a word, and she caught it, frowning deeper.
“What’s this for?” she asked, holding it up. “And when are we gonna talk, Vernon? You keep saying ‘later,’ but—”
He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, and before she could finish, he grabbed the hoodie from her hands and pulled it over her head in one swift move. She yelped, arms flailing as he tugged it down, the fabric swallowing her frame. It smelled like him—faint laundry soap and that warm, Vernon-ness she couldn’t name—and her heart did that stupid flip again despite her frustration.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “You’re always cold. Now you won’t complain.”
She glared at him, yanking the hood off her face. “That’s not an answer. What’s going on? Why are you being so…” She gestured vaguely at him. “Quiet?”
He didn’t respond, just looked at her with that steady, unreadable gaze that made her want to shake him. Then, without warning, he grabbed her hands—both of them, his fingers warm and firm around hers—and pulled her up from the couch. She stumbled, caught off guard, but he didn’t let go, tugging her toward the door.
“Vernon, what—” she started, but he was already slipping on his shoes, still silent, still holding her like she might bolt if he didn’t. He opened the door, and suddenly they were outside, the cool night air hitting her face as he led her down the street.
They ended up at a park a few blocks from his place, the kind that was empty this late—past 11 p.m., the swings still, the benches shadowed under dim streetlights. He kept her hand in his, walking slowly, the crunch of gravel under their feet the only sound between them. She glanced at him—his profile sharp against the faint glow, his jaw set—and felt the tension coil tighter in her chest. His silence was killing her. Hours of this—hours of waiting, wondering, overthinking—and he still wouldn’t talk.
She couldn’t take it anymore. With a sharp tug, she pulled her hand free and stopped dead in her tracks, planting herself in front of him. “Vernon,” she said, voice shaking with everything she’d bottled up. “When are you going to talk? What’s this about? You’ve been dragging me around all night, saying ‘later,’ and I’m—” She exhaled hard, hands balling into fists. “I’m freaking out here. If you’re not gonna say anything, I’m just gonna go home.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there looking at her. His eyes were soft but intense, locked on hers, and it made her want to scream. She waited—one beat, two—and when nothing came, she shook her head, turning on her heel. “Fine. I’m leaving.”
She took one step, then two, her chest tight with frustration and something close to hurt. But before she could get far, his voice cut through the quiet, low and steady, stopping her cold.
She froze, her back to him, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she turned, eyes wide. “What?”
Vernon stepped closer, hands shoved in his pockets, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That night. On the call. When you thought I was asleep.” He paused, letting the words hang there, heavy and deliberate. “You said you love me.”
Her stomach dropped, the world tilting under her feet. She opened her mouth to deny it, to laugh it off, but nothing came out. He’d heard her. All this time—every clingy call, every text, every hug—he’d known. Heat flooded her face, panic clawing at her, but he kept talking, his voice softer now.
“I didn’t say anything then ‘cause I didn’t know how,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck again, that nervous tic she knew so well. “But I’ve been thinking about it ever since. About you. About… us.”
She stared at him, heart pounding so loud she could barely hear him over it. “Us?” she echoed, barely a whisper.
He nodded, taking another step until he was close enough that she could see the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his breath hitched slightly. “Yeah. Us. I don’t know how to say it right, but… I don’t want a life without you in it. Not as just my best friend. More than that.”
Her mind blanked, every bad scenario she’d imagined dissolving into nothing. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, just stood there as he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“So,” he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “can we talk about that?”
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Y/N stared at Vernon, her heart a wild drumbeat in her chest, his words echoing in her head—“I don’t want a life without you in it. Not as just my best friend. More than that.” She felt dizzy, like the ground had shifted beneath her, but his eyes were steady, warm, holding her there. Slowly, she nodded, a small, shaky movement, and his face lit up with a smile—soft, boyish, the kind that had always undone her.
He reached for her hand again, his fingers lacing through hers like it was the most natural thing, and tugged her gently forward. “Come on,” he said, voice low and a little nervous. “Let’s walk. And… talk.”
They started down the path again, the park quiet around them, the air cool against her flushed cheeks. For a moment, neither of them spoke, just let the sound of their footsteps fill the space. Then Vernon squeezed her hand, glancing at her sideways. “So… you love me, huh?”
She groaned, ducking her head, but he laughed—light and teasing—and bumped her shoulder with his. “Don’t hide. I heard it. Twice, actually. You’re not slick.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, shoving him lightly, but her lips twitched upward. “You’re the worst. Pretending to sleep like that? That’s evil.”
“I wasn’t pretending at first!” he protested, grinning. “I was half-dead from the tour, but then you started talking, and I couldn’t just… not listen. You caught me off guard, Y/N. Spilling your heart like that? I was dying trying to keep my eyes closed.”
She stopped walking, turning to face him fully, her free hand fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie she was still wearing. “Why didn’t you say anything then? I thought… I thought you didn’t hear. Or didn’t care.”
His smile softened, and he stepped closer, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I cared. I cared so much I didn’t know what to do with it. I’ve liked you forever, Y/N—since, like, high school, when you’d yell at Mr. Kim for friday homework like it was a personal attack. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you without messing us up.”
Her breath hitched, and she looked up at him, his face illuminated faintly by the streetlamp. “You… you liked me back then?”
“Yeah,” he said, simple and sure. “And every day since. The way you complain about everything but still make it funny. How you steal my jackets ‘cause you’re always cold. How you’re always there, even when I’m halfway across the world. I didn’t realize how deep it was ‘til I heard you say it, though. That you love me. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.”
She swallowed hard, her chest tight with something sweet and overwhelming. “Vernon…”
“Wait, I’m not done,” he said, his grin turning shy. “I love you, Y/N. Like… love love you. Not just best friend love. The kind where I want you around all the time, where I see something dumb in a store and think, ‘She’d hate this, I gotta get it.’ The kind where I’d rather be here, with you, than anywhere else.”
Her eyes stung, and she blinked fast, trying to keep it together. “You’re so cheesy,” she managed, voice wobbly. “I love you too, you idiot. I’ve been trying not to for years, and you just… you keep making it impossible.”
He laughed, bright and happy, and pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on her head. “Good. I’m not stopping now that I know.”
She buried her face in his chest, his hoodie soft against her cheek, and let herself feel it—really feel it—for the first time. The relief, the joy, the way his arms fit around her like they were made to. They stayed like that, swaying slightly, until she pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were on hers, warm and a little teary, and she couldn’t help it—she leaned up, and he met her halfway, their foreheads touching.
“I love you,” she whispered, testing the words aloud, and they felt right—scary, but right.
“I love you too,” he whispered back, his breath brushing her lips, and then he grinned. “We’re so sappy right now.”
She laughed, loud and free, and punched his arm lightly. “You’re the worst! Dragging me out to a park at night like this is some melodrama? We could’ve just talked on your couch, you know.”
“Hey, it’s romantic!” he defended, clutching his arm dramatically. “Parks are classic. Moonlight, quiet, just us—it’s perfect.”
“It’s cold,” she shot back, but she was grinning, her heart so full it hurt. “And you’re a dork.”
“Your dork,” he said, winking, and she groaned, shoving him again.
“Stop, I’m gonna barf,” she teased, but then she went quiet, her smile fading as reality crept in. She stepped back, hugging herself despite his hoodie, and looked down at the gravel. “Vernon… what about everything else?”
He tilted his head, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“You’re… you,” she said, gesturing vaguely at him. “An artist. A star. You’ve got fans, a company, a career you’ve worked so hard for. What happens when they find out? I don’t—” She bit her lip, her voice dropping. “I don’t want to mess that up for you. I’ve seen how much you’ve given to get here. What if this… what if us screws it all up?”
He watched her, letting her ramble, her words tumbling out faster now. “What if the fans hate me? What if your company says no? What if there’s some stupid scandal and you get dragged for it? I can’t—I won’t—be the reason you lose everything. I’d hate myself for it, Vernon, I—”
“Hey, hey, slow down,” he cut in, stepping closer and grabbing her hands again. She stopped, breath ragged, and he tugged her gently until she looked up at him. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling, I’m being realistic,” she argued, but her voice wobbled. “This stuff matters. You matter.”
“You matter more,” he said simply, and before she could protest, he pulled her closer, his hands sliding up to cup her face. Then his lips were on hers—soft, warm, a little hesitant at first, but firm enough to shut her up. She gasped against him, her hands clutching his hoodie, and he deepened the kiss just enough to make her melt, her fears dissolving into the sweetness of it.
He pulled back after a moment, resting his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. “You done freaking out now?” he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“Vernon,” she whined, but she was smiling despite herself, her cheeks flushed. “You can’t just kiss me to stop me from talking.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he said, grinning, and pecked her lips again, quick and playful. “Look, I get it. You’re worried. But I’m not. I’ve thought about this—about you—for a long time. The fans? The company? I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting some ‘what if’ take you away from me now that I’ve got you.”
“But—” she started, and he kissed her again, softer this time, lingering just long enough to make her heart flutter.
“No buts,” he said, pulling back to look at her, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “I love you, and that’s bigger than any of that crap. If the fans don’t like it, they’ll get over it. If the company’s mad, I’ll deal with them. I’m not hiding you, Y/N. You’re not some secret I’m ashamed of—you’re my girl.”
Her eyes widened, and she felt that sting again, tears threatening. “Your girl?”
“Yeah,” he said, shy now, his ears turning pink. “If you want to be. I mean… I hope you do.”
She laughed, a little watery, and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. “You’re so stupid,” she mumbled. “Of course I do.”
“Good,” he said, hugging her back, his chin resting on her head. “’Cause I’m not letting you go. Ever. You’re stuck with me now—cheesy park walks and all.”
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve—his sleeve—and grinned. “You’re the worst. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” he said, beaming, and tugged her hand again. “Come on, let’s keep walking. I’m not done being sappy yet.”
She groaned dramatically but followed, their hands swinging between them, the night air cool but her heart warm. “If you propose under a tree or something, I’m running.”
“Noted,” he laughed, squeezing her hand. “I’ll save that for next week.”
“Kidding!” he said, but his grin said otherwise, and she couldn’t help but laugh too, the sound mingling with his as they walked deeper into the park, together at last.
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Months had passed since that night in the park, and if Y/N thought Vernon was clingy before, she hadn’t seen anything yet. He’d practically moved into her apartment—not officially, but his stuff was everywhere. His hoodies hung in her closet, outnumbering her own. A spare pair of his sneakers sat by her door, scuffed from tour but still claimed as “the comfiest ones.” His favorite mug—a chipped, ugly thing with a cartoon octopus on it—lived permanently on her kitchen counter, and his toothbrush had taken up residence in her bathroom like it owned the place. She’d come home from work to find him sprawled on her couch, legs dangling over the armrest, grinning at her like he’d been waiting all day just to say, “Hey, you’re back.”
“Vernon,” she’d said one evening, hands on her hips as she surveyed the chaos of his stuff, “do you even live at your own place anymore?”
He’d looked up from his spot on the floor—sorting through a pile of vinyls he’d dragged over from his collection—and grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Yeah, but yours is better. It’s got you.”
She’d rolled her eyes, but her heart had done that fluttery thing it always did when he got sappy. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, plopping down beside him.
“And you love me,” he’d shot back, leaning over to kiss her cheek, quick and soft, before handing her a record. “Pick one. I’m DJ-ing tonight.”
She did love it—every messy, clingy bit of it. He’d weave himself into her days so seamlessly she couldn’t imagine them apart. When he wasn’t on tour, he’d cook with her (badly, but enthusiastically), sprawl across her lap during movie nights, or just sit there, humming some melody while she worked, his presence warm and constant. And when he was on tour, he’d turn it up a notch, like he was making up for the distance in sheer persistence.
“Come with me,” he’d whined one morning, half-asleep as he watched her pack his suitcase for a week-long trip abroad. He’d grabbed her wrist, tugging her onto the bed where he was still tangled in her sheets. “C’mon, quit your job. Be my travel buddy. I’ll pay you in cuddles.”
She’d laughed, swatting his hand away. “I can’t, you dork. Some of us have real jobs.”
“Rude,” he’d grumbled, sitting up to wrap his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “My job’s real. And it’d be realer with you there.”
“Nice try,” she’d said, kissing the top of his head. “You’ll survive.”
He didn’t, though—not without her voice, at least. The second he landed, her phone buzzed. No texting for Vernon—not anymore. He’d send a quick “Miss you already” or “Plane food sucks, wish you’d cooked instead,” but the moment her “seen” receipt popped up, it was over. Her screen would light up with his name, and there he’d be, grinning at her through FaceTime like he hadn’t just talked to her an hour ago.
“Hi,” he’d say, every time, like it was a surprise she’d answered.
“Hi,” she’d reply, propping her phone on her desk at work or against a pillow at home. “You good?”
“Better now,” he’d say, cheesy but so earnest it made her smile every time. “What’re you doing? Tell me everything.”
And she would—every boring detail of her day, from the coffee she spilled on her shirt to the cat she saw on her walk home—because he’d listen like it was the best story he’d ever heard, chiming in with “No way” or “That’s my girl” until she was laughing too hard to keep going.
“I’m clingy, huh?” he’d asked once, late at night, his voice crackly through the phone as he lay in some hotel bed halfway across the world.
“Super clingy,” she’d teased, curled up under her blanket—wearing his hoodie, of course. “But I like it.”
“Good,” he’d said, sleepy and smug. “’Cause I’m not stopping.”
True to his word, he didn’t hide her—not really. He didn’t plaster her face all over his socials; he wasn’t that reckless. But he’d slip her into his posts like little love notes only she’d fully understand. A photo of his coffee table with her favorite hair tie in the corner. A shot of his hotel room where her scarf peeked out of his suitcase. A blurry snap of their hands intertwined, her chipped nail polish catching the light. “Details,” he’d caption them, vague enough to keep the fans guessing but obvious to her.
They’d started to suspect, of course. Comments piled up—“Who’s that?” “Vernon’s got a gf???” “Is that the same hair tie from last month?”—and the theories ran wild. But he didn’t care, and neither did she, not really. They stayed the same—him calling her at all hours, her pretending to be annoyed but loving every second.
One night, he was back at her place after a short trip, sprawled across her couch with his head in her lap again, her fingers running absently through his hair. He’d been home a week, and her apartment was more his than ever—his guitar propped in the corner, his socks scattered on the floor, a half-eaten bag of that sour candy he’d bought her months ago still on the counter.
“Missed this,” he mumbled, eyes half-closed as he nuzzled into her thigh. “Missed you.”
“You were gone, like, three days,” she said, laughing softly, but she leaned down to kiss his forehead anyway. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Three days is forever,” he whined, cracking one eye open to look at her. “You didn’t miss me?”
“Of course I did,” she said, poking his cheek. “Who else is gonna clog my sink with their dumb hair?”
He grinned, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “You love my dumb hair.”
“I love you,” she said, and it slipped out so easily now, no hesitation, no hiding. His grin widened, and he sat up, pulling her into his arms so fast she yelped.
“Say it again,” he demanded, resting his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her lips.
“I love you,” she repeated, giggling as he peppered her face with kisses—cheeks, nose, chin, everywhere—until she was squirming and laughing too hard to breathe.
“I love you too,” he said between kisses, finally landing one on her lips, slow and sweet. “So much.”
She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, and they stayed like that, tangled up on her couch, the TV flickering some random show neither of them cared about. “You’re stuck with me, you know,” he murmured after a while, his voice soft against her hair. “All day, all night. No take-backs.”
“Good,” she whispered back, snuggling closer. “I wouldn’t want any.”
And as he hummed happily, his arms tightening around her, she thought maybe this—his clinginess, his chaos, his love—was the sweetest thing she’d ever known. Her apartment was his, her days were his, and her heart? Well, that’d been his for
