Keonho is the kind of boyfriend every girl dreams of—the kind who makes love feel easy. He carries your bag before you even ask, waits for you outside your classroom every day, and somehow always finds a reason to visit your section just to catch a glimpse of you. He studies with you during long afternoons, cheering you on between yawns and cups of iced coffee. He shows up to every competition you join, camera in hand, always the loudest voice in the crowd.

He gives up time with his friends just to spend lunch with you, listens to your rants, and makes you laugh when you’re about to cry. He never misses a “text me when you get home,” sends random “are you eating?” messages, and fills your notebook with doodles of his initials beside yours. Every monthsary comes with a handwritten letter—his words clumsy but sincere—tucked beside a small “just because” gift. He says it’s nothing, but you know he spent hours thinking about it. And when he takes your pictures, he always says the same thing:

“You look best when you don’t even try.” It’s a love that’s soft, young, and real—high school love at its purest form.

Today, your campus is alive with noise and color, laughter spilling from every corner. It’s the event before your performance, and you and Keonho decided to roam around before the competition starts. Booths line the quadrangle, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and the sound of upbeat music.

“Hey, that ring toss booth looks fun,” he says, eyes glinting as he points. “You only think it’s fun ‘cause you know you’ll win,” you tease, folding your arms. He smirks. “You say that now, but just wait. I’m getting you that plushie.”

And of course, he does. With every toss, he’s confident—focused in that playful way that makes your heart skip. When he finally lands the last ring and wins, he turns to you, triumphant. “For you,” he says, handing over the plushie with a grin. You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Show-off.” “Maybe,” he shrugs, “but you’re smiling, so I win twice.”

The two of you wander further until a booth wrapped in fairy lights catches his eye. “Let’s take pictures,” he says, already pulling you toward it. You groan, laughing. “Keonho, we literally have hundreds of photos already.” He gives your hand a gentle tug. “Then one more won’t hurt. Besides, my lockscreen’s due for an update.”

Inside, you take a few shots—one serious, one silly, and then one where he suddenly leans in and kisses your cheek just as the camera clicks. You gasp, laughing, as he chuckles like he just did the funniest thing in the world.

When the photos print, he studies them like they’re something rare and precious. You peek over his shoulder, watching the corners of his lips curve into a smile. “These turned out perfect,” he murmurs. “Because of me, obviously,” you tease. He looks up, meeting your eyes with that familiar warmth. “No,” he says softly. “Because it’s us.