🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ LOG 4 — SYSTEM INSTABILITY (chapter 4 of my spiderman!jisung series)
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader, college spider-man au, established relationship
synopsis: the dangers of seoul are no longer limited to crime alone. mutants, robots, and unfamiliar threats are appearing more frequently. it's becoming apparent that spiderman can’t account for every variable on his own.
warnings: ~5k words, semi-graphic injury and blood descriptions, negative thoughts, fluff, angst, implied sex, profanity, mutated entities so milddd body horror
a/n: thank you for waiting!! hope you enjoy this chapter 🤍 also creds to my lovely friend for helping me voice professor han because I am NOT that intellectual
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“fucking hell,”
jisung hissed, the words scraping out of his throat as he stumbled after landing on the rooftop of the university dormitory.
he didn’t stick it. his foot slid on the ledge and for half a second he genuinely thought he was about to become a public stain on the sidewalk below, before instinct kicked in and he caught himself. his vision swam. one of his lenses was smeared with something he really hoped wasn’t blood, and his head felt like it had been rattled around.
he lurched toward the nearest structure and collapsed against it, sliding down until he was sitting, knees bent awkwardly. his hand flew to his side, pressing hard where a mutant he fought earlier had impaled him with a rusted piece of rebar.
lately it seems like he’s had more near-death experiences than ever. somewhere along the way, he’d stopped being the cautious wuss he used to be and started recklessly throwing himself in front of danger without thinking too hard about the aftermath.
hence the rebar.
he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallow, then cracked one open to look down at himself. big mistake.
there was so much blood. so much that it would instantly make you feel sick.
he really should’ve thought this through before throwing himself in this situation, because he currently had zero plan and one very large problem.
and absolutely, under no circumstances, did he want you to see him like this.
still, he knew you were smart and brave enough to take this on. you’d signed up for a clinical skills course at uni because you wanted to try everything, which was admirable and, frankly, very useful, given how often your boyfriend showed up injured. you’ve helped him with many scrapes and cuts. the worst was that one time his head split open. this was worse than that. by a lot.
he squeezed his eyes shut, forehead tipping forward. he could already picture you going pale, and he’d absolutely cry on the spot.
maybe he could sleep it off and pray his spider healing did a miracle. and if he didn’t wake up, which was alarmingly possible, then this would be a really stupid way to go.
he’d always imagined it being way more badass. finally taking out the asshole who’s putting seoul in danger and making it a shithole. he’d be midair with explosions. dying along with the bastard like the heroes in movies.
who knew his death would be this stupid.
“no,” he whispered to himself. “don’t think like that.”
he knew he was being an idiot. he was just dizzy from losing blood and it let his brain go places it shouldn’t. he was still someone’s son. still someone who had a life outside this suit. his parents were down south. his mum would be inconsolable. and he had you.
he couldn’t bear the thought of you finding out he’d died alone on a rooftop, having given up that easily. he loved you too much to leave without saying goodbye. he loved you too much to stop trying.
his eyes burned. he sucked in a shaky breath and pressed his forehead against his knee, forcing himself to stay present.
and that was enough to make him move again.
he planted his hand against the vent and forced himself upright before limping towards the edge of the roof and crouching down. for a second he stayed there, breathing through the dizziness, then turned and swung himself over the ledge, hanging by his hands. he slid down and started climbing on the wall of the building. he avoided the open windows, ducking past lit rooms. he’d done this more times than he could count.
once he reached the window with the pink curtains, he slipped his fingers around the handle and lifted the sash. it was always unlocked.
“jisung!”
your voice came immediately once you heard him, and the curtain shifted as you rolled your chair over. you pulled the curtain aside, and the warm light from your room spilled over him, bright enough that he had to squint.
his eyes landed on you once his vision cleared and he saw you in the university sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants. notes were spread across your desk like you’d been mid-study and dropped everything the second you heard him.
“baby,” he croaked, trying for a grin as he hauled himself inside. his foot caught on the sill and he stumbled, barely catching himself with one hand.
“i heard about what happened on the radio,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over each other as you took another step toward him. “they said you got badly injured—jisung, i was so scared.”
“breathe, y/n. i’m here. see? very alive.” he said quickly, squinting once he had a wave of fainting trying to stay upright.
you made a small sound that was halfway between a gasp and a sob, once you saw the state he was in.
“hey, hey,” he spurted, immediately backtracking. “no, don’t do that. please don’t make that face. i’m okay. i promise.”
“sit down. sit down right now.” you said, panic bleeding through every word as you stood up.
he shuffled obediently onto the chair.
“if this is too much for you,” he said, grunting softly as he lowered himself, taking his mask off, “we can go to the hospital. i can take the suit off. pretend i’m just… peter han who fell and accidentally stabbed himself.”
he paused, considering it.
“…which, to be fair, is very on brand for him.”
“jisung,” you said, “people saw this happen to you. if you walk into a hospital like this, they’ll connect the dots in about five seconds and everyone will know who spiderman is.”
he opened his mouth, then thought better of it and shut it again.
you crouched in front of him, careful not to touch yet, eyes tracking the rebar with growing horror.
“and besides,” you went on, voice wobbling despite your best efforts, “this shouldn’t need surgery. your healing factor can handle the tissue damage and blood loss. i just need to pull the rebar out without making things worse.”
he swallowed hard.
he was less scared of that than he probably should’ve been. what scared him was how shiny your eyes were and how you sniffled quietly while holding yourself together by sheer will.
you exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over your face.
“god, jisung,” you said, voice wobbling despite yourself. “i don’t want to blame you, i really don’t but how could you let it get this bad?” you looked at him again, eyes shining. “i always tell you to be careful. was there any way this could’ve been avoided?”
“i—i wasn’t thinking,” he said quickly, panic bleeding into his voice. “i’m sorry. please don’t cry, if you do, i’m gonna cry and then this is gonna be really unproductive.”
you dropped to your knees in front of him and he watched your hands as you worked.
the kit you pulled out from under the desk was bigger than the one you usually used on him and he noticed that immediately. this one had more compartments and more things inside it than bandages and antiseptic wipes. you took it home after practicals last week at the university hospital.
you spread a sheet over the floor, smoothing it out with your palms before snapping the case open properly. you tugged on a pair of gloves, the snap loud in the room.
“i hate that this keeps happening to you,” you said, voice rough as you laid things out one by one, deliberate and careful. gauze. forceps. “you shouldn’t have to keep paying because some asshole decided the city was expendable.”
his jaw set.
“i know,” he said quietly. “i know.”
you shook your head. “until you find them, it’s never going to stop.”
“i will, baby,” he said. “i’ll find whoever it is, i'm close.”
you searched his face, only finding a reassuring smile that hid how much pain he was in.
“and then?” you asked softly, eyes glassy.
“then you won’t have to wonder if i’ll make it home in one piece. never again.”
a few days later, you’re back in class.
chemistry. you slide into your seat, dropping your bag at your feet, already reaching for your notebook.
jisung healed.
after you’d taken the rebar out and stopped the bleeding, his spider powers had done their thing pretty much overnight. by next morning, the wound had closed like it had never happened. apparently, immunity to tetanus was just another perk of his healing factor.
you didn’t have chemistry with jisung, so you weren’t exactly sure where he was right now. still, you caught snippets of conversation from the row behind you—something about a robbery in gangnam, not linked to any of the usual enemies.
which probably meant that’s where jisung was.
you sighed, dropping your forehead briefly against your notebook. the city felt tenser by the day, people acting out in ways that only made everything worse. and jisung already had more than enough on his plate. the thought of him having to fix a mess made by your own civilians made you frustrated for him.
your usual chem professor, dr. park, still hadn’t shown. thank the lord. you’d never liked that woman.
people started checking the time, whispering about class being cancelled now that she was ten minutes late. half the room was halfway out of their seats when the door opened.
the chatter died instantly.
a man stepped in with a confident posture. you recognized him instantly.
this was the man jisung always raved about. professor han.
“my apologies for the delay,” he said smoothly, setting his bag down. “your professor had some matters she needed to attend to, so i was asked to cover today.”
professor han was older than you’d expected, middle-aged, tall.
“i teach another section of this course,” he continued, glancing around with a small, reassuring smile. “so you’re in good hands.”
a few people visibly relaxed.
he turned toward the board, uncapping a marker. “you were scheduled to start discussing reaction kinetics today,” he said, writing as he spoke. “equilibrium, predictability.”
the marker paused.
“but lately i find that this particular topic doesn’t quite align with what we’re seeing outside this classroom.”
your pen hovered over the page.
“seoul has changed,” he went on calmly. “crimes that escalate faster than expected. mutated entities that outpace the known species on earth. technology that shouldn’t be as advanced—or as resilient—as it is.”
a few students shifted in their seats.
“you’ve spent almost an entire term studying systems that assume stability,” he said, turning back to face you all. “controlled environments. reactions that behave the same way every time.”
his gaze swept the room slowly.
“and yet,” he added, “much of what’s happening right now defies the science we talk about in this room.”
the lecture hall was completely silent now. no phones out. no whispering. even the people who usually looked half-asleep were watching him.
you found yourself leaning forward without realizing it.
professor han let the quiet sit for a moment before continuing.
“take the phenomenon people have been calling spider-man,” he said casually. “by all observable metrics, he shouldn’t exist.”
a few students exchanged glances. someone let out a quiet laugh, unsure if he was joking.
he wasn’t.
“we’re seeing resilience far beyond expected biological limits,” han continued. “recovery times that defy known healing processes. reflexes that operate faster than conscious thought. strength output that doesn’t match muscle mass.”
his eyes flicked over the room again.
“if something defies our models,” he said, “the answer isn’t to dismiss it.”
a hand went up a few rows ahead of you.
professor han turned. “yes?”
the guy hesitated, clearly aware of the attention, then went for it anyway. “uh so, like is spider-man actually a real person? or is he, i don’t know, some kind of engineered thing by the government? or an alien or—”
a collective groan rippled through the lecture hall.
you closed your eyes at the idiot in front of you. oh my god. what else would he be? he waves at kids. he’s funny. use your brain.
professor han didn’t look annoyed. if anything, he looked amused.
“a fair question,” he said mildly, and the groaning died down. “spiderman demonstrates conscious decision-making, moral reasoning, and restraint. so yes, spider-man is human and a good one at that.”
“individuals with that kind of power would seek recognition and control,” han went on. “spider-man does none of that. that alone tells us a great deal about his character..”
you felt something warm bloom in your chest. you understood why jisung liked him and you were already excited to tell him about this later.
professor han clearly spoke with a kind of respect for jisung that made your shoulders relax without you realizing they’d been tense.
your boyfriend had great judgment.
later that afternoon, you found yourself standing outside professor han’s office. you knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
“come in,” a voice called.
you stepped inside. his office was neat but lived-in—books stacked in uneven piles, papers clipped and re-clipped, a half-empty mug on the corner of his desk. he looked up and smiled.
“yes?”
“hi,” you said quickly. “i’m y/n. i was in the chemistry class you covered this morning.”
“ah,” he said, brightening. “please, come in.” he gestured to the chair across from him. “how did you find the lecture? i hope i didn’t derail things too much.”
you shook your head, sitting. “no, not at all. it was incredibly enriching. you see, that class usually feels… very contained. with everything going on in the city, it actually put my mind at ease a little. the chaos feels less—random, i suppose.”
“i’m glad,” he said warmly. “understanding better tends to do that.”
there was a small pause.
you cleared your throat. “actually, that’s kind of why i wanted to talk to you.”
he leaned forward slightly. “go on.”
“i’ve always been really interested in what’s been happening lately,” you said carefully. “i’m curious about whether there’s anything linking the incidents together. the mutants, advanced robots. i know a lot of it sounds speculative, but i thought—given your background—you might have some insight.”
you forced a small smile.
“purely academic curiosity, of course.”
“that’s a very intelligent line of questioning,” he said at last. “and not nearly as speculative as you might think.”
your pulse quickened.
“i can’t give you definitive answers,” he continued, “but i do believe there are connections. and i’d be happy to discuss what we know so far.”
he folded his hands on the desk. you nodded, already mentally cataloguing everything he might say. jisung needed answers. and for the first time, it felt like you might be closer to finding them.
you hesitated, then reached into your bag.
“well… there’s something i’ve been working on,” you said, a little sheepish. “it’s probably overkill, but i figured if i was going to worry about this stuff, i might as well organize it.”
professor han’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “by all means.”
you opened the same exact google doc that jisung still didn’t know existed. now it included a lab report that you’ve been secretly working on. the cursor blinked in the new section as you turned your laptop towards him.
does the presence of spider-man influence the frequency and severity of citywide incidents?
the recent rise in high-risk incidents within the city appears correlated with spider-man’s activity, suggesting the possible presence of an external targeting force. current data implies that an unidentified agent—or agents—may be actively seeking him, thereby influencing both the frequency and severity of these events.
observations:
incident frequency: events have increased by an estimated 20 percent over the last month, particularly within central districts.
severity index: average threat levels show a consistent upward deviation from previous baselines.
escalation rate: hostile activity initiates more quickly upon spider-man’s arrival, indicating direct provocation (?)
you paused, cheeks warm. “the numbers aren’t perfect,” you added. “i’m pulling from public reports, police scanners, news footage.”
notes:
current data suggests possible feedback-loop dynamics: an incident arises, spider-man intervenes, and subsequent incidents intensify.
spider-man may be being pursued or influenced by an external factor. motive unknown.
professor han sat back slowly, eyes still on the screen.
“this is very well organized,” he said at last.
your head snapped up. “thank you.”
he nodded. “you’re asking the right questions. you’re careful with your language. you acknowledge uncertainty instead of forcing conclusions.” he glanced at you.
relief washed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.
“if spider-man were simply causing chaos, we’d see random distribution. instead, we’re seeing pattern clustering.” he continued calmly.
your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the laptop.
“so… you think he’s being targeted,” you said.
“i think,” the man replied, “that someone out there is very interested in how he responds under pressure.”
your brows knit together before you could stop yourself.
“but… i thought,” you said slowly, choosing your words with care, “i always assumed he was being targeted because someone wanted to eliminate him. like they were trying to kill him.” you shivered internally at the thought.
professor han watched you closely, like he’d expected it.
“that would be the simplest explanation,” he said. “and sometimes the simplest explanation is correct.”
he paused, folding his hands together again.
“but killing him outright doesn’t seem to be the goal,” professor han continued. “if it were, the escalation would look different. more direct and aggressive. less… experimental than it seems right now.”
experimental. huh.
“the incidents increase in complexity,” he went on. “the threats adapt and learn. each encounter pushes him harder than the last, but always leaves room for survival.”
your fingers tightened on the laptop.
“so whoever’s behind this,” you murmured, “they don’t want him dead.”
“not yet,” professor han replied. “and possibly not at all.”
he met your gaze steadily.
“they want to see what he’s capable of.”
professor han leaned back slightly, thoughtful rather than ominous.
“in your research,” he said, tapping the edge of your laptop lightly, “you actually touch on both possibilities.”
you looked up at him.
“you frame him as either responding to a city that’s becoming increasingly dangerous on its own,” he continued, “or as someone being pursued.”
you nodded once, slow.
“the first possibility shouldn’t be dismissed,” han said. “it’s entirely plausible that someone is destabilizing the city for its own sake. in that scenario, spider-man is simply doing what he always does, trying to save people.”
you swallowed.
“it’s possible both are true,” professor han said calmly. “someone may be endangering the city because spider-man exists within it.”
you let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“so… if that’s true,” you said carefully, “then he’s probably not going to—” you stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “they’re not trying to kill him. at least not right now.”
professor han nodded once. “correct.”
that was meant to be reassuring.
it helped. a little.
you frowned, fingers worrying the edge of your laptop. “but why?” you asked. “why would anyone want to see how he reacts? why push him like this and endanger people?”
professor han tilted his head slightly.
“y/n, is it?”
you nodded.
“have you ever thought,” he continued, voice gentle and almost curious, “about how he came to be? who created him?”
your mind jumped instantly to the spider. the bite that changed everything. the thing jisung still talked about like it was a fluke, like it hadn’t rewritten his entire life.
you hesitated, then lied, “i’ve wondered about it before. i just… never came to any real conclusions.”
professor han’s lips curved, just barely. “i believe it’s reasonable to think the creator and the observer might be the same.”
you swallowed.
“which might explain,” you murmured, “why they wanna go after him”
professor han met your gaze, calm and steady.
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“this was really insightful,” you said, earnest now. “thank you, professor han. it actually helped a lot.”
he waved a hand dismissively, the corner of his mouth lifting. “no trouble at all. curiosity like yours is always welcome.”
you smiled, feeling lighter than you had walking in. “actually, um, my boyfriend’s in your section,” you added, unable to stop yourself. “he’s always talked about how much he enjoys your lectures. he thinks you’re incredible.”
professor han brow lifted with interest. “is that so? who might that be?” he asked.
“han jisung.”
instant recognition flickered across his face
“ah,” he said. “yes. smart kid, that one.”
your smile widened. “really?”
he nodded. “i’ll be transparent, i don’t always remember names. but he’s memorable. very engaged.”
you beamed. “he’d be really happy to hear that.” you stood, gathering your things. “thank you again. seriously.”
as you turned toward the door, his voice stopped you.
“y/n.”
you paused, heart skipping, and looked back.
“if you get the chance, please remind mr. han,” the professor said calmly, “to start watching his attendance. we haven’t seen him much lately.”
your stomach dipped.
“yeah,” you said quickly. “i’m always on him about that. but he’s been juggling a lot these days. family stuff.”
professor han studied you for a moment.
“i’m sure he is,” he said at last. “he has a tendency to take on more than he should.”
your chest tightened at how close that felt to the truth.
“i’ll let him know,” you added quickly.
then he smiled. “thank you for stopping by, y/n.”
you returned the smile, gathered your things, and slipped out into the hall. you exhaled slowly.
you were closer to the truth than you’d ever been.
“holy shit,” jisung groaned as he came down his high, his head tipped back into your pillow.
you lifted your head, wiped your lips with your finger. you licked it clean, before tugging his sweatpants back up over his hips and climbing up beside him. he barely waited a beat before pulling you in and pressing a kiss to your forehead, fingers already slipping under your shirt with full intention to return the favour.
“it’s fine,” you shook your head, voice now a little scratchy.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, lips jutting out in a small pout. “baby, no—”
you laughed, cutting him off as you nudged his shoulder. “it’s okay. we need to get to studying.”
before he could argue again, you swung your legs over the side of the bed. he watched you for a moment, then sighed, flopping back against the pillow. it was probably for the best. he’d missed too many days of class and had a lot to catch up on. he’d come over for you to help him with that, after all.
he just hadn’t been able to turn down your offer to help him relieve some stress first.
you sat down at his desk, already flipping your notebook open. a second later, he dragged himself up and joined you, chair scraping softly as he dropped into it. he blinked, still a little dazed from you sucking the soul out of him.
“okay,” you said, scanning the page. “where were we?”
he leaned over your shoulder. “uh, i think we were gonna go backwards,” he said slowly. “the stuff that’s fresher for you. you had chem yesterday, right?”
you paused.
your eyes drifted to the margin where the topic should’ve been, and it hit you a second later why there was nothing there.
“…actually,” you said, tapping the page, “we didn’t really cover any material.”
he pulled back slightly. “how come?”
you hesitated, then glanced down again like the notebook might answer for you. “we had a substitute.”
“mm,” he hummed.
“it was professor han.”
his head snapped up so fast his chair creaked.
“well, how was it?” he asked immediately, already leaning closer, eyes bright in a way that made your chest warm. you knew how much he liked him.
“he was great,” you said. “just like you always said.”
a proud smile tugged at his mouth.
you watched it fade almost as quickly as it appeared when you added, “he talked about you.”
“me?”
“well, spider-man.”
“oh,” he said quickly, then frowned. “wait, please don’t tell me he’s one of those grown-ass men who hates me.”
you snorted. “he actually… seems to like spider-man.”
“me,” he corrected, gaze brightening. “he seems to like me.”
“yes, you,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “and i thought—well, i thought he might actually be able to help us figure some things out. so i went to his office after class.”
the brightness drained from his face, his shoulders stiffening just a notch.
“you… went to his office?”
“yeah,” you said quickly, words tumbling out now that you’d started. “we talked for a while, and there’s so much we went over. maybe we’re closer to understanding what’s going on—”
“hold on,” he cut in, sharper than before. “you told him i was spiderman?”
“what? no, obviously not,” you said immediately. “i didn’t tell him. i just asked about the city. about what might be happening, and how spiderman—how you might be connected to it.”
his jaw tightened.
“and he said,” you continued, excitement creeping back in despite yourself, “there’s a chance whoever’s behind all this isn’t trying to kill you. and it might have something to do with the spider…”
you stopped mid-sentence.
because jisung wasn’t looking at you anymore. his expression had gone dark as he furrowed his eyebrows, struggling to hear you out.
“y/n,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice coming from somewhere closer to fear than anger, “you can’t bring other people into this. not even professor han. if someone really is watching me, then anyone who starts asking the questions becomes a target. and i can live with that risk for myself, but i can’t live with it for you.”
he ran a hand through his hair, breathing out hard.
“whatever that spider did to me, whatever this is, it’s mine to figure out. it’s reckless to loop other people into this.”
you bit your lip, the excitement draining out of you all at once.
“well,” you muttered, looking down at the notebook instead of at him, “sue me for wanting to help.”
jisung’s expression faltered almost immediately.
“look, baby,” he said quietly.
you glanced up.
“i just—every time you get closer to this stuff, i panic.” he went on, rubbing a hand over his face. “i don’t want you anywhere near the fallout if something goes wrong.”
you swallowed.
“i just need you to stay out of it,” he said gently. “for me. okay?”
“okay,” you said quietly.
he searched your face for a second, then nodded, relief flickering through his features.
“okay,” he said. “good.” he tried to lighten his tone, forcing a small smile. “i love professor han, but we really need to be careful here. and he can’t know we know each other, or he’s gonna start growing quite suspicious of the student who barely shows up to his lectures anymore,” jisung continued, trying to keep his tone light.
your heart dropped.
“—especially if that student’s girlfriend is asking a lot of questions about spider-man.”
your throat tightened.
you forced yourself to nod, keeping your face carefully blank. “yeah,” you said, a little too quickly. “of course.”
he relaxed, missing the way your shoulders had gone stiff.
and you sat there, heart pounding.
you hated lying to jisung.
anomalies - hjs
you hadn’t renamed the document in a long time.
at first, it had been a place to dump all the weird little things about your boyfriend before you found out he was spiderman. his sudden disappearances, the bruises.
now the document had turned into something else entirely.
the cursor blinked at the bottom of the page, waiting. you felt no motivation or urgency to type. you could still hear jisung’s voice in your head saying “stay out of it”.
it was almost three in the morning.
your gaze drifted from the laptop to the bed behind you.
jisung was dead asleep on your bed behind you, sprawled on his stomach with one arm tucked under the pillow, hair a mess from hours of studying that had finally knocked him out.
you frowned.
how could he possibly handle this on his own?
suddenly, a shadow passed over the wall.
you stiffened as you looked around until your eyes landed on the window.
the shadow moved behind the pink curtains covering your window, slow enough that your brain had time to register it before it disappeared completely.
your chair creaked softly as you stood, heart beating fast.
the shadow came back and it was more defined this time. it looked almost human-like.
you swallowed and took a careful step toward the window.
it vanished again.
you flinched. you realized that you were less afraid than you should’ve been. maybe because jisung was right there with you.
hesitantly, you reached for the curtain and tugged it aside.
nothing.
just the usual view. rows of lit windows across other dorms, lit roads, other buildings in the way. you stepped closer until your face was near the glass. you noticed a damp patch of fog, right at eye level. as if something warm had been breathing there moments ago.
that was when it dropped into view from above.
you sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back half a step.
it was a mutant. just like you’ve seen on the news.
it was pressed against the outside of the window. it almost looked human if you didn’t stare too long. exposed flesh and bones. long limbs and sharp teeth. cloudy eyes staring right at you. its mouth was hanging open with its head tilted.
you were in such shock you couldn’t scream. your breath came heavy and shallow as you froze, heart slamming against your ribs. from this angle, your bed wasn’t visible so neither was jisung. it must’ve thought you were alone.
the mutant lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass, staring straight into your eyes.
for one horrifying second, you thought it might attack you right there and then. but suddenly, it slipped out of view as quickly as it had appeared, retreating upward, leaving nothing behind but your reflection in the window and a faint handprint on the glass.
you stood there for a beat longer than necessary, then yanked the curtain closed with shaking hands.
you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.
from everything you’d ever tracked—everything you’d read, logged, and overthought to death—mutants never lurked in the middle of the night.
so either you’d imagined it, or sleep deprivation was finally making you hallucinate..
you dragged a hand through your hair, exhaling shakily, then turned away from the window and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
you quickly slipped into bed behind jisung, careful not to jostle him, curling into his back. your arm slid around his waist, your hand sneaking under his shirt until you felt his abdomen.
you pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades, squeezing your eyes shut. it felt like being a little girl again, hiding under blankets from monsters that weren’t real. except this time, they were very real.
when jisung stirred awake, you realized you must’ve held onto him tighter than you intended to.
“mmm,” he murmured, shifting, then rolling onto his side until he was facing you, half asleep. his eyes cracked open just enough to find your face. “you okay?”
you nodded even though your heart was still racing. he leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against your lips.
“i love you,” he mumbled, already drifting again.
“i love you too,” you whispered back, holding him closer as his arm wrapped around you instinctively.
objectively speaking, being held by the amazing spider-man was probably the safest place to be in seoul right now.
『 ↳✧･ﾟ CW: Friends to lovers???, idol!Chan. Overworked reader, breakdown, confessions, etc. Chan referred to as Chris.
『 ↳✧･ﾟ A/N: Very, very self indulgent. Wondering what else to do to stay even more busy and outrun my own feelings. Lowkey shoutout to my favorite little Korean spot in my city.
(pictures are not mine. Credits to their respective owners!)
Chris had always been kind and gentle. It was his essence to be a true gentleman.
It was very heartwarming, at first. Then, it was platonic, like an older brother sort of thing, once you grew close. But with time, feelings dug deep. Wove themselves into the roots of the friendship you had for years.
Maybe that’s why none of you said anything. Just let it be what it had to be.
Lingering around each other, fleeting glances, a touch on the shoulder here, a giddy smile there. Just small things that meant everything or nothing. No explanation needed.
Today, on your day off, you grabbed an early dinner after volunteering.
Chris was already there, sitting at the wooden table tucked away in the corner. The spot you'd shown him years ago. The one you'd both kept coming back to.
He wore a simple black hoodie and basketball shorts. No Stray Kids logo. No stage persona. Just Chris.
You smiled when you saw him. "Hey, sorry. Things ran long at the center."
Chris stood immediately, pulling you into a hug. "You're good. I'm glad we could meet."
"Yeah." You stepped back. "I'll eat with you, but I want to head home after. I'm beat."
His expression softened. "Okay." He didn't ask questions.
After dinner, he offered to drive you home. For once, you handed over the keys without arguing. The ride was quiet. Music played softly through the speakers while city lights drifted past the windows. Every so often, he glanced your way. You looked tired. Not the kind that a nap would fix. Tired from weeks, maybe months. Like you were emotionally drained.
You let him inside your apartment.
It was small but comfortable. Photos of friends, a few struggling houseplants, mismatched cushions on the couch. There were no pictures of him anywhere amongst the ones of your friends.
Maybe because neither of you knew where this stood.
You filled a glass with water for him. You tried to, but the glass slipped from your hand and hit the tile with a sharp crack. The glass shattered and water spread across the floor.
You froze, then immediately bent down. "I got it." Your voice came out tighter than you intended.
Chris crouched beside you. "Y/N."
"I said I got it." Your hands were shaking like you were trying to hold your own pieces together.
Before you could grab another piece, he gently took it from your fingers and set it aside.
"Hey. C'mere." His hand cradled the back of your head. A hug that tried holding all of it: grief, fatigue, loneliness.
That was all it took.
A small, choked sob escaped you first. Then another. And then the dam cracked.
You buried your face into his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie like an anchor as weeks—months—of running finally caught up to you. No dramatic sobbing or screaming. Just tears that shook your whole body and came from somewhere deep and raw where all the pain had been stuffed down for too long.
Chris didn’t flinch, didn't pull back. He just held on tighter.
[...]
The apartment was quiet now. Just the soft sound of glass being swept into a dustpan. Chris moved carefully, not wanting to make noise and disturb you.
You had ended up on your sofa, curled under a blanket while he cleaned up in silence. Swept the glass fragments and made sure there were none left. Because he knew you liked walking around barefoot.
“Please be careful with the glass,” you finally spoke.
He looked up at the sound of your voice. It was hoarse from crying. He gave a small nod, his expression gentle.
"I'm being careful," he spoke back—not too loud because he knew your head probably hurt from crying so much.
He came back to you when he was done; kneeled like it was nothing, and petted your head with so much love. Like you were precious and fragile, like this wouldn't blur the lines even more.
"I think we should talk about it." He whispered.
You looked away. "Nothing to talk about."
His hand paused. "Y/N."
"I'm fine."
He gave you a look that made it obvious he didn't believe you. "You cried over a broken glass."
"I got overwhelmed."
He exhaled quietly. "You're working two jobs. You're volunteering on your only day off. You're exhausted all the time." He sighed. "I hate seeing you do this to yourself."
"So what?" You laughed bitterly. "Should I just sit around feeling sorry for myself because I'm alone?"
"No." His answer came immediately. "You just shouldn't have to carry everything by yourself." You swallowed hard. Chris held your gaze. "You deserve someone who checks if you've eaten. Someone who worries when you're tired. Someone who cares." His voice softened. "I'm here, Y/N."
You shuddered, looking anywhere but at him. "I-I don't think you know what you're saying."
"I do." He said with a certainty that made your heart stutter. "I want to be the person you call when things get hard. Don't act like you don't know how I feel."
Of course you knew. That was the problem.
"Y/N?"
You closed your eyes. "I don't think I can love anyone right now."
Something flickered across his expression. But he didn't look away. Instead, he reached for your hand and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "I don't need you to. I just want to be here while you heal."
Tears burned behind your eyes again.
"That's not fair."
"Why?"
"Because I can't love you back." The words came out broken. "I can't think about anything except being tired."
For a moment, he looked hurt. Then he pulled you closer. Until your forehead rested against his chest. "That's okay."
You shook your head. "No, it isn't."
"It is." His arms tightened around you. "You don't have to be ready. I haven't asked for your love." His hand moved gently through your hair. "I've only asked you to let me stay."
The apartment fell quiet. Just Chris cradling you in his arms.
"And if all you can do right now is let me sit beside you," he murmured, "then that's enough."
Despite how often Y/N pushed him away, Chris never held it against her. Even if it hurt him more than he wanted to admit sometimes, he knew the only way to get her to trust him completely after years of being mistreated by other people was to gently coax her out of her shell and know when to let her come to him, or when it was his place to go to her. He loved her too much to rush the fragile process; he would gladly wait for as long as it took if it meant she'd be fully his when it came to emotions, the way he was already full hers.
After a week of one word answers and closed up expressions, Y/N now stood in the doorway of his bedroom. Jeongin must have let her in. Pushing down the headphones from his head upon seeing the sliver of golden light from the hallway spill into his dark room, Chris turned in his chair and took in the sight of her. Her eyes were wild and full of unconcealed emotion, her fingers curled into trembling fists by her thighs, and her cheeks were blotchy as if she had been crying and her tears had dried unevenly on her skin. Her lips formed a subtle pout as if she was trying not to cry again, her chin dimpled.
She looked wretched, to say the least. But the way she was looking at him in the shadows of his room was nothing short of vulnerable and completely open, and Chris's heart split clean down the middle at her appearance.
Wordlessly, Chris held his arms out to her from across the room. She stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, bar the erratic rise and fall of her chest, the sound of her quiet breaths the only sound in the room. The yearning reflected in the depths of her gaze robbed Chris of his breath. She looked as though she wanted nothing more than to surrender and fall into his arms, yet something inside of her kept pulling her back, like a leash, keeping her from moving.
Chris waited, his arms outstretched. His triceps began to burn from keeping them there, but he didn't dare to drop them. He had a feeling she might close off again if he gave up on his offer to hold her.
Sure enough, like a cautious cat, Y/N unfroze. She stumbled across the room towards him, and with a sniffle she let Chris pull her into his arms so she was straddling his lap. One of his arms locked around her waist before she could change her mind and move away again, and his other hand gently cradled the back of her head as he led it to the safe junction beneath his chin, tucking her carefully into the relaxed curve of his body.
Her entire body shook in his embrace, her breaths broken to Chris's ears. She clutched feebly at the warm material of his t-shirt that fell over his sides, and he pulled her even closer, squeezing her as tight as he could without hurting her. His hands moved constantly over her body in tender strokes; one hand rubbing slowly circles over her back, the one card through her hair and kissing her scalp. His chin rested on top of her head, his eyes falling shut with emotion as he felt her slowly melt in his arms.
With his heartbeat gentle beneath her cheek, Y/N's breathing began to even out. Her shaking subsided and the tiny broken whimpers that kept slipping out of her halted too. Chris's warmth flooded in through her oversized top and seeped into her chilled skin, heating her internal system and soothing her fractured state. His scent was deep and sweet and so familiar that for a moment, wrapped up in his arms, her mind grew quiet. She didn't have the energy to push him away or to rebuild the strong walls of independence and pride around her again. His hold on her was far too comforting, far too right in that moment for her to revert back into the isolated state she usually clung so desperately to.
When her arms stopped feeling like jelly, Y/N lifted them slowly and looped them around Chris's neck. She buried her face into his shoulder and inhaled more of his scent as his own grip tightened around her waist and tugged her closer on his thighs until she was pressed flush against his front. His fingertips were delicate as they continued to caress her scalp, and his plush lips found their way to her temple, pressing slow, lingering kisses across the area. Each one left a tingly, heated sensation behind, and Y/N exhaled slowly with each one.
Her eyes prickled at how gentle he was being with her. She knew she wasn't very good at letting herself be taken care of, even though it was all she had ever craved. Her own personal issues were rooted far too deep inside of her, and she struggled to trust anyone who came into her life. Her unwillingness to open up often pushed away anyone who tried to befriend her after a few weeks; people didn’t care enough to try and peep back the layers wrapped around her. Yet here was Chris, treating her like she actually mattered. He had immediately stopped working to give her his full attention and care. He didn't care about her insecurities, or the way she tried to pull away from him as hard as she could. If anything, it just made him love her more, and made him want to show her what proper care felt like.
It was a foreign feeling. It made her sniffle again into the crook of his neck, and he instinctively squeezed her into him, his hand starting to pat her head.
Neither of them spoke. But a thousand silent words floated around them both, conveying each one of their complicated feelings to the other.
Chris kept kissing the top of her head, delivering soft butterfly pecks that filled Y/N's body with a growing calm, and a warmth that she could feel all the way down to her toes. The rigid set to her body had melted completely now, and she was like a pliable putty moulded into his body, half laying on top of him in his big revolving chair. His hand travelled from her back down to her waist, and then to her thigh, his palm sweeping up and down in soothing strokes.
When she finally looked up after what felt like hours, Chris was already looking down at her. His eyes were tender, sparkling under the pointed glow of his laptop and decorative lights on the wall. The delicate skin at the very corners of his eyes crinkled with a loving smile, and Y/N's face broke into a watery smile of her own. Lips parting as Chris chuckled quietly at her expression, he cupped the back of her head and brought her close so he could kiss her forehead.
His fingers brushed the hair away from her face, each touch dripping with a reverence that made her heart flutter. Y/N kept looking up at him, her face flushing with shyness, and Chris grinned at her, his touch lingering on the back of her neck as his thumb caressed the skin there. Unable to take the intensity of his gaze, Y/N dropped her face back into his chest, huddling close to him, and she scrunched her eyes shut in soft joy as he hugged her back, enveloping her in arms that she knew wouldn't let go.
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: all the above (f,s,a)
cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy
soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify
* ✩˚word count: ~7k ˚✩ *
The café Chan mentioned turned out to be small and warm, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat near the edge of downtown.
The kind of place with different kinds of seating, many hanging plants, and soft music low enough that conversations blended together quietly beneath it.
You spotted them near the window almost immediately.
Jia sat on her knees in a booth beside Chan, coloring while he scrolled through his phone with his coffee untouched beside him.
He looked up the second you walked in, and there it was again. That subtle shift in his face every time he saw you lately.
“Hey,” he said as you approached.
“Hi.”
Jia looked up next, immediately brightening. “You came.”
“I did.”
“Daddy thought you were gonna cancel.”
Chan blinked once. “Okay.”
You laughed softly as you slid into the booth across from them. “Did he now?”
“Jia,” he sighed out, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. She looked completely unbothered by his tone and went back to coloring.
Your eyes drifted toward him again. “You thought I was gonna cancel?”
Chan looked faintly embarrassed, “I don’t know,” he admitted with a small shrug. “You said yes pretty fast.”
The words slipped out naturally. “That’s because I wanted to come.”
The barista called your pickup order a second later, breaking whatever had started settling between you.
“I’ll grab it,” Chan said automatically, already standing.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” The quiet answer lingered strangely in your chest while you watched him walk toward the counter.
Across from you, Jia looked up from her coloring book. “Daddy smiled in the car today.”
Your heart betrayed you instantly. “Oh?”
Jia nodded very seriously. “Usually traffic makes him grumpy.”
“Yeah?”
Jia nodded very seriously, leaning closer across the table like this was important information.
Your smile softened before you could stop it. “Maybe he was excited for cake pops.”
Jia considered that for a second, then shook her head. “No. He smiled before I asked for pops.”
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to look over at Chan while he stood at the counter waiting for the order. “That sounds like a good morning, then.”
Jia nodded once, satisfied with that answer, before returning her attention to the coloring page in front of her.
By the time Chan came back, you were still pretending your chest hadn’t done something incredibly inconvenient. He slid your coffee toward you first, then set Jia’s cake pop carefully beside her crayons.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“Of course.”
The morning crowd moved quietly around you after that, but somehow the little booth by the window still felt oddly separate from the rest of the café. Like the three of you had slipped into your own corner of it.
Jia carefully peeled pieces off her cake pop while you and Chan drifted into easier conversation across the table.
Work.
The neighborhood block party.
The fact that Jia apparently believed every stuffed animal in existence had emotional needs.
“She cried because I washed Leebit once,” Chan admitted, sounding deeply tired about it.
Your eyebrows lifted immediately. “You washed her best friend?” you asked in mock horror.
“She smelled like applesauce.”
“That’s not the point.”
Jia gasped softly beside you like she couldn’t believe either of you would reopen such a traumatic event, and you both ended the conversation with a chuckle.
She then took another thoughtful bite of her cake pop before looking back up at you. “Where’s your husband?”
You nearly choked.
Across from you, Chan went completely still. “Jia!” he said immediately, sounding genuinely horrified this time.
“What?” she asked softly, blinking between both of you. “Nana said grown-ups usually have one.”
You felt your whole body heat up.
Chan dragged a hand over his face. “Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “We are not interrogating people this morning.”
Jia frowned slightly. “I was just asking.”
“I know, bug.”
His voice softened automatically at the end despite the obvious embarrassment threatening to kill him where he sat.
Your eyes dropped briefly toward your coffee cup while you tried to regain control of your nervous system.
The question shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but somehow it settled directly into every quiet part of your life you usually avoided thinking about too long.
Chan looked over at you carefully then. “You absolutely do not have to answer that,” he said gently.
The sincerity in his voice made something ache unexpectedly in your chest.
You let out a small laugh, mostly to buy yourself a second to think. “No husband,” you admitted softly.
Jia tilted her head immediately. “Why?”
“Jia.”
“What?!” she whisper-shouted back.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Chan looked moments away from dissolving into the floor.
“I think,” you said carefully, glancing down into your coffee for a second, “it just never really happened for me.”
Jia considered this very seriously while taking another bite of her cake pop. “It’s okay,” she said seriously. “Daddy was married to my mommy. But not anymore.”
Silence settled over the table instantly.
Chan closed his eyes briefly. “Bug,” he muttered softly.
“What?” she asked, confused again. “I’m helping.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in her voice, because she thought she was making you feel better.
Chan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before glancing toward you apologetically. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” you said quietly.
His gaze lifted toward yours again after that. Searching in that way he always did when something mattered more than he knew how to say out loud.
“Still,” he murmured.
Before either of you could figure out where the conversation was heading next, Jia held her cake pop toward you suddenly.
“You can have some.”
The offer was immediate. Serious enough to make your chest ache all over again.
Chan huffed a soft laugh beside her, shaking his head slightly. “That’s how she fixes everything,” he admitted quietly.
Your eyes stayed on Jia for another second before you finally smiled. “That’s a pretty good system,” you murmured softly.
Jia nodded like she already knew that.
Chan watched the two of you quietly from across the table, fingers resting loosely around his coffee cup now gone cold.
Something in his expression had changed again. Softer than before. More careful, somehow.
Like he was realizing this wasn’t just Jia getting attached anymore.
Outside the café windows, people drifted past beneath the late morning sunlight while the quiet buzz of conversation carried around you.
But sitting here with them somehow felt strangely separate from the rest of the world.
Jia yawned suddenly beside Chan, tiny shoulders lifting dramatically with it.
He glanced down immediately. “You getting tired already?”
“No.” The answer came too fast to be believable.
Chan smiled faintly into his coffee. “Mm.”
Jia ignored him completely before looking back at you instead. “Daddy has to work later.”
Your eyes lifted toward Chan automatically “Today?”
He nodded once. “Friend of mine needed help at the garage.”
“Uncle Hyunjin,” Jia added around another bite of cake pop.
“Mhm,” Chan hummed. “Uncle Hyunjin.”
“He lets me sit on the toolbox.”
“Which is very unsafe,” Chan muttered.
“But fun.”
A laugh slipped out of you softly. “So that’s who keeps stealing you on weekends.”
Chan leaned back slightly in the booth. “Pretty much.”
“If you want,” you added carefully, “Jia and I can hang out later?”
Chan looked faintly surprised by the offer. “You don’t have plans?”
“Not really.”
Jia gasped softly beside him. “We can color.”
“That sounds less like a suggestion, and more so a demand." You laughed out.
“She does that,” Chan murmured into his coffee.
Jia ignored him completely. “And maybe cartoons.”
“Wow,” you nodded seriously. “Big plans ahead.”
A quiet laugh escaped Chan before he could stop it. “If you’re sure,” he said.
Your eyes flicked toward him again. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
Something in his expression softened briefly at that before Jia shoved the remaining piece of cake pop dramatically into her mouth.
“So, I’m coming over?”
You looked over at Jia, who already seemed entirely certain of the answer. “I think that’s what we agreed on, yeah.”
“Okay.” She nodded once. “Can Leebit come too?”
“I don’t think she’d forgive me if I said no.”
Jia smiled brightly at that before returning to the last few crumbs of her cake pop.
Across the table, Chan shook his head softly. “We really walked into this one.”
“Into what?”
“Now she’s going to expect you every time I have to work last minute.”
Something about his words lingered strangely in your chest, and before you could figure out why and respond, Jia held up frosting-covered fingers toward Chan.
“Sticky.”
Chan sighed quietly and reached for napkins immediately.
You smiled into your coffee as he cleaned frosting from her hands with the tired patience of someone who’d clearly done this a thousand times before.
And somewhere between the coffee going cold in your cup and Jia humming softly beside him, the morning slipped into something comfortable and easy.
The kind of easy that felt a little dangerous if you thought about it too long.
𝜗𝜚
“Daddy said I can only have one juice box.”
You looked up from the living room floor where you’d been helping Jia get crayons from the zipper pocket of her backpack.
“Sounds like we better listen to daddy.”
Jia sighed dramatically. “He says too much sugar makes me crazy.”
“I think he might be onto something there.”
“I’m already crazy.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled across your apartment while cartoons played quietly in the background, the volume low enough to blend into the rest of the room.
Across the coffee table, Jia carefully lined up 7 other stuffed animals beside Leebit.
Meanwhile, Chan had been gone for less than an hour, and somehow, his absence was already noticeable. Which felt ridiculous. You barely knew him.
“Can you braid hair?” Jia asked suddenly.
Your eyes dropped toward the doll currently being shoved into your lap. “I-I do. How many braids does your baby want?”
Jia looked down at the doll seriously. “Three.”
“Three?”
She nodded once. “So she can be fancy.” Jia scooted closer beside you on the rug while cartoons played quietly in the background.
You carefully separated the doll’s tangled hair between your fingers while Jia watched with complete concentration.
“Daddy can’t braid,” she informed you.
“No?”
“He tries.” Jia paused thoughtfully. “Then he gets frustrated and says bad words.”
A laugh escaped you softly “Poor daddy.”
Jia nodded sympathetically before handing you another tiny hair tie from the floor.
Outside, the afternoon had started slipping slowly toward evening, sunlight stretching gold across the living room walls.
And somewhere across town, Chan was probably elbow-deep in an engine while you sat cross-legged on your floor learning how his daughter liked her dolls’ hair styled.
𝜗𝜚
Once 8:30 rolled around. Jia was already fed and tucked in your bed fast asleep by the time Chan was knocking at your door.
The second you opened it, he looked exhausted. Grease still smudged faintly along one forearm. Dark curls a mess from repeatedly running his hands through them. “I’m so sorry.”
Your eyebrows lifted immediately. “For what?”
“For being late.”
He glanced past you automatically, already searching for signs of Jia. “Hyunjin and I lost track of time.”
“Chan.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“She’s fine.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders immediately. Not all of it. Just enough for you to notice how much of it he’d been carrying.
“She ate dinner, we watched cartoons, and she passed out about twenty minutes ago.”
Chan blinked. “Already?”
“Completely knocked out.”
A tired breath escaped him “Thank God.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Honest enough to make something in your chest ache.
“Long day?”
Chan let out a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The porch light cast a warm glow across the front steps while crickets hummed somewhere deeper in the neighborhood.
“Come in,” you offered softly. “She’s sleeping in my bed.”
He froze for half a second. Not because of the invitation. Because of the image it created. “Okay,” he said quietly.
You stepped aside to let him in. The house was dim now, lit mostly by a lamp in the living room and the light over the stove.
He shut the door gently, instinctively quieter now that he knew Jia was asleep. “She wasn’t any trouble, was she?”
Your eyes immediately narrowed. “Chan.”
“I’m just asking.”
“She spent half the afternoon making me braid hair.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Sounds exhausting.”
“I barely survived.”
A tired laugh escaped him. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he looked like he was finally starting to relax. The silence that followed settled comfortably between you.
His gaze drifted toward the hallway towards your bedroom, where Jia was currently asleep beneath your blankets.
Safe, warm, and completely unaware her father had spent the last thirty minutes worrying about getting back to her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You opened your mouth immediately. “Chan.”
“No.” The interruption was firm and gentle, causing your heart to flutter.
His eyes found yours again. “I know you don’t think it’s a big deal. But it is.”
The house suddenly felt very warm, because he wasn’t talking about dinner. Or cartoons. Or braiding hair.
He was talking about trust.
About coming back after a long day and knowing Jia had been happy; knowing she had been taken care of.
His gaze dropped briefly before he added, softer this time, “She had a good day then,” he then pauses, “she really likes you.”
The words settled somewhere deeper than they probably should have. You glanced toward the hallway before looking back at him.
“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Me?”
Suddenly, you became very aware of how that sounded.
“Did you have a good day?” you clarified, a little too quickly.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I think I did.”
Something about the answer felt like it meant more than the words themselves. The silence that followed stretched comfortably between you. He leaned against the couch, his gaze drifting to the dark outline of your front yard in the window.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, then he asked, “What’s with the garden?”
You blinked. “The garden?”
He nodded. “Every time I see you outside, you’re messing with something out there.”
Warmth settled in your chest unexpectedly. Not because of the question. Because he’d noticed.
“I’ve always kinda liked doing it.”
Chan hummed softly. “That’s not really an answer.”
You laughed. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“There isn’t more to it?” His curious gaze lingered on you. “People don’t spend hours in the heat pulling weeds because they kinda like something.”
Your smile faltered slightly. “You judging my hobbies?”
“I’m saying there’s probably a story there.”
“I…” You looked down briefly. “I think I just find it healing.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“You put something in the ground, nurture it, and eventually it becomes something beautiful.” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “There’s something comforting about that.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then he muttered out a quiet, “Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly toward his hands, “I never thought about it that way before.”
You tilted your head slightly. “The gardening?”
Chan nodded. “The waiting.”
The answer surprised you. “Waiting?”
A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You put time into something. Take care of it every day. Hope you’re doing it right.”
His eyes drifted toward your bedroom for the briefest second before returning to your curious stare. “And then one day you look up and realize it’s become something completely different from what it was when you started.”
Your chest tightened. Suddenly this conversation wasn’t about tomatoes or flowers anymore.
Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Maybe that’s why I like watching you out there.”
Your heart stumbled. “In my garden?”
“Yeah.”
His smile softened. “Reminds me that some things take time and patience.”
And somehow that felt like the most personal thing he’d told you all night. Your eyes stayed on him for a moment longer than they probably should have. He didn’t look away. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence.
Then he glanced toward the hallway again. “She’s really asleep?”
A smile pulled at your mouth. “I could take Leebit and she wouldn’t even know.”
His laugh came easier this time. “Good.”
The word lingered. Not because of Jia. Because for the first time all evening, he looked like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Like he had finally found a place to sit down, and stay for a minute.
Your heart gave an uncomfortable little squeeze as you watched him relax.
“What?” Chan asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ve been staring at me for a minute now.”
Something uncomfortable and fluttery settled in your chest. “That’s not true.”
“It’s a little true.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“That’s your defense?”
“It’s all I’ve got.” You laughed out.
Somewhere along the way, the two of you migrated from the front door to the couch. The conversation stopped needing a direction. One story became another.
Chan told you about his first car.
You told him about the pepper plant you accidentally killed three summers in a row.
You learned he hated mushrooms.
He learned you couldn’t keep a houseplant alive unless it lived outside.
Then neither of you noticed how the hours slipped by quietly.
Outside, the neighborhood settled into sleep.
Inside, Chan’s laughter had become easier. Less guarded and more frequent.
Every now and then you’d catch yourself staring at him. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and his dimple deepened. you could’ve melted on the spot every time he smiled wide. The way he looked at you as he listened. Like every story mattered. Like what say you mattered.
You glance up.“Wait.”
He followed your gaze. “What?”
You stared at the clock on the wall. “Is that right?”
His eyes widened. “No way.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“How?” He questioned.
“I genuinely have no idea.”
Then he eventually glanced toward the hallway, reality returning all at once. “I should probably get her home.”
The words landed quietly as you nodded. “Probably.”
Neither of you seemed willing to be the first one to leave, and as he ducked his head trying to unsuccessfully hide a smile, he mumbles. “We’re really bad at ending these conversations.”
A laugh escaped you. “Are we?”
“I think so,” he paused, It’s a good thing.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately. It sounded less like an observation, and more like he planned on having more conversations like this. Then he reluctantly pushed himself up from the couch, like he wasn’t entirely convinced leaving was the right choice either.
You led him down the hallway, and by the time you reached your bedroom door, he had already slowed.
Once you opened the door, Jia was asleep exactly where you’d left her. One arm wrapped around Leebit, half the blanket kicked off. Completely sprawled across the middle of your bed.
Chan stared for a second. Something in his expression shifted. Not the way it usually did though.
You stayed beside him quietly. Neither of you wanting to disturb her. Finally, he exhaled softly through his nose.
“She really made herself at home.”
“A little.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sorry about that.”
“You apologize too much.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
He froze, then he turned his head toward you. The hallway light caught in his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your voice came out softer than intended.
“You don’t have to say sorry every time someone does something nice for you.” Suddenly you became very aware of how close he was standing.
And for once, he didn’t immediately have a response, he just looked at you, like he was trying to decide what to do with this new feeling.
His gaze dropped briefly, towards your mouth, then right back up. A tiny movement of course, something that was easy to miss.
But for you, impossible to ignore.
Your breath caught and so did his.
And suddenly the space in between you felt very little, very quiet.
Very very concerning.
Then from the bed, “Daddy?”
Both of you jumped, and he immediately looked away. The spell breaking all at once. “I’m here, bug,” he answered softly as he walked further into your room.
Jia made a sleepy sound from beneath the blankets. “Okay.”
Then, “Leebit too?”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Chan pressed a hand over his eyes briefly “Yeah.”
Jia settled immediately. “Okay.” Within seconds, her breathing evened out again. Like she’d only woken up long enough to do a quick room check.
The room fell quiet once more, but not the same kind of quiet. The moment from before had slipped away, leaving something else behind.
He looked down at his daughter for a second before carefully pulling the blanket higher over her shoulder.
And when he turned back toward you, something in his expression had changed. Like he was suddenly very aware of how close you’d been standing too. Neither of you said anything. There wasn’t really anything to say. Not without making things better or worse.
Chan cleared his throat first. “I should get her home.” The words sounded slightly rough around the edges.
You nodded. “I agree.”
Neither of you sounded particularly enthusiastic about it, he smiled faintly after you spoke. Then leaned closer towards your bed to carefully to gather Jia from the bed. This definitely seemed more intimate having him in your room now.
She stirred the moment he lifted her. Small hands immediately finding the front of his shirt. Head tucking beneath his chin. Still mostly asleep.
The way she fit in his arms made your chest ache.
Chan adjusted her weight effortlessly. One arm beneath her legs. The other supporting her back. “Thank you,” he said quietly. This time, there wasn’t an apology attached to it. Just gratitude.
Your smile softened. “You’re welcome.”
For a second, neither of you looked away. Then Jia let out a sleepy sigh and buried her face deeper into his shoulder.
The spell broke again.
He adjusted her again against his chest before glancing toward the doorway. “I should let you get some sleep.”
You laughed softly. “Says the man who got here three hours ago.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Fair.”
He lingered for another second anyway. Eventually, he shook his head softly. “Goodnight.” The word felt strangely intimate. Like it belonged to something much more familiar than this.
Your chest tightened. “Goodnight, Chan.”
His eyes held yours for a moment, then he smiled before turning toward the front door.
You waited until the door closed behind him.
Waited until you saw the porch light next door flicker on through the window. Only then did you let yourself exhale.
Because somewhere between coffee, cartoons, talking about your hobbies, and three accidental hours on your couch…something had changed, and neither of you had missed it.
As you crawled into bed, your phone lit up.
Channie: She woke up long enough to ask if Leebit made it home safely.
You stared at the message, then laughed out loud.
You: And? Did she?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Channie: She’s safe. Mildly traumatized from being dropped in the street, but safe.
Another laugh escaped you.
You: Thank God.
Channie: Jia also wanted me to tell you goodnight.
Your smile softened immediately.
You: Tell her I said goodnight too.
The reply came a minute later.
Channie: Will do.
Three dots appeared again.
Disappeared.
Then returned.
Channie: Thanks again. For today.
You stared at the message longer than necessary. Somehow it felt different from the thank you he’d given you at the door, like it wasn’t just about babysitting anymore.
You: Anytime.
The message sent.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then vanished.
Nothing else came.
Yet somehow, as you set your phone on the nightstand and turned off the lamp, you found yourself smiling into the darkness.
Sleep definitely didn’t find you for a while.
𝜗𝜚
Three days later, you were halfway through watering your garden when a shadow fell across the flower bed.
“Question.”
You looked up immediately to see Chan standing on the other side of your fence.
Hair damp.
Black tank stained with what looked like chalk.
Still looking unfairly hot right where he was standing.
“I should have an answer.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Jia wants to know if tomatoes are fruits or vegetables. She says fruits.”
You blinked. “That’s the question?”
“I’ve been informed it’s important.”
“And you couldn’t Google it?”
“I did.”
“And you still came here?” You laughed.
He leaned his forearms against the fence. Looking entirely too comfortable. “She said you’d know more.”
You stared at him for a second smiling. “Tomatoes are fruits.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Cucumbers too.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Seeds.”
“That’s a ridiculous system.”
A laugh escaped you. “Take it up with science.”
He looked as if he was considering this. “I’m not arguing with science.”
“Coward.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Let Jia know she’s right.” You pointed at him immediately.
“I can’t phrase it like that.”
“Why not?”
“She’ll never let me live it down.”
“Good.”
For a moment neither of you looked away. The late afternoon sun warmed the air between you while a breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
“Another question?” He asked, this time softer.
“Hmm?” You look back down watering the seedlings.
“Or well,” he pauses looking slightly flustered which gained your full attention again. “M-my mom is taking Jia for the weekend,” he starts while rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Oh!” You smile. Really?”
Chan nodded. “Saturday.”
“Twenty-nine right?”
He nodded.
You immediately winced. “Wow.”
“Wow?”
“That’s serious.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes, though a smirk started to appear.
You went back to watering the seedlings, but only for a second before looking up again. “Sooo you came over to tell me that?”
He immediately looked flustered again, “No.”
“Okaaay.”
“I mean, yes, but not just that.”
His gaze stayed on yours a second longer than necessary, like he was still deciding whether to actually say it out loud or swallow it back down and pretend this moment never tried to happen, but then he exhaled, “I was wondering,” he said, slower now, more careful, “if you’d want to come with me to a jazz festival this weekend.”
That landed differently and your heart was definitely fluttering.
Not just a casual night out. A whole event. A crowd. Music bleeding through open air. Something alive and loud and full of people he didn’t quite seem built for, and yet, he was inviting you into it.
You blinked. “A festival?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Downtown. It’s…a few days. Different sets, food trucks, all that.”
A pause flickered between you.
“It’s just music,” he added on, then immediately softened it. “I just thought you might like it. And I was given more than one ticket and I—” He stopped himself, rubbed the back of his neck like he could physically erase the awkwardness. “I’d like you there.”
There it was. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just honest enough to sit in the air between you and raise the temperature even more.
You didn’t answer right away, and you could see him start to brace for impact. That subtle tightening in his shoulders. The way people did when they were preparing to recover from a “no.”
So you didn’t make him wait too long. “I like jazz,” you said.
His eyes flickered a glimmer of hope. “Yeah?”
“And I like food trucks,” you added.
That earned a quiet breath of relief from him, almost a laugh that didn’t fully form.
“Okay,” you said finally.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“I’ll go.”
The word hit him like it needed a second to fully translate in his brain. “You will?”
You nodded. “Festival. Jazz. Food I probably don’t need to spend money on but will anyway.”
He looked away briefly, like he was still processing the fact that you’d said yes. Then he spoke quieter, almost in disbelief, “Cool. Friday?”
“Friday works.”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said. This time, it didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like something he needed to do.
And when you nodded, he gave a small exhale, like he’d just stepped off a ledge and discovered the ground was still there.
Chan lingered for another second, the smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Dad!” Jia’s voice carried across the driveway.
He laughed. “Duty calls.”
𝜗𝜚
Friday was four days away, which shouldn’t have mattered.
Yet somehow, Chan became painfully aware of it every time he looked at a calendar.
Every time someone mentioned the weekend.
Every time his phone lit up.
It was ridiculous. He was turning twenty nine . Not sixteen.
And yet, by Tuesday, Hyunjin had accused him of smiling at an alternator. In which Chan denied smiling at it.
Hyunjin had to remind him that he's a terrible liar.
By Wednesday, Jia wanted to know why he kept checking his phone.
“I’m not checking my phone.”
“You just checked it.”
“That’s different. It lit up and I looked at it”
“How?”
Chan had no answer for that.
Thursday evening found Chan standing in his kitchen watching water on the stove as he was trying to decide whether he hated the blue button-down or merely disliked it. His grey v-neck was always an option, he thought to himself.
Then his phone rang.
Mom. The sight of her contact poster stirred suspicion in his gut.
“Hello?”
“Did you ask her?”
Chan closed his eyes. “There wasn’t even a hello.”
“I know who I raised.”
A sigh escaped him. “Hi, Mom.”
“Did you ask her?”
“You called specifically for this?”
“I bought those tickets specifically for this.”
Chan stared at the ceiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Did she say yes?”
The fact that she asked so quickly told him everything. His mother already knew the answer. She was simply enjoying herself.
As she waited for a response, a smile threatened to spread across his face despite his best efforts.
“Oh my God.”
“Mom.”
“She said yes?”
Chan rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe.”
A gasp echoed through the phone. “Jack!” she yelled.
“Jessica!” Chan called into the phone.
A muffled voice responded somewhere in the background before he heard his mother clearly again.
“I told your father she said yes.”
“I have to go…..Jia needs me.”
“Aht aht! No you don’t.”
“Actually, I do.”
“Tell my grandbaby I said hello.” She laughed out. “Your neighbor too.”
summary: he’s new to the neighborhood, moving into the house directly across from yours in the quiet little cul-de-sac. you don’t know much about him. only that he works on cars in his garage, mows his lawn shirtless like he’s trying to ruin your life, and always looks a little too tired. it’s not until a little girl appears in his driveway one afternoon that you realize the handsome mechanic across the street comes with a tiny family attached.
pairing: girldad!bangchan x reader
genre: all the above (f,s,a)
cw/tags: eventual smut, slow burn, grief/loss, fear of abandonment, insecurity, self-worth issues, overworking, exhaustion & burnout, praise, emotional intimacy
soundtrack: apple music - lithen when you're in love / spotify
* ✩˚ word count: 12.1K ˚✩ *
Sundays were your favorite.
Everyone else hated them because it meant the weekend was over, but every other Sunday meant catching your new neighbor in his garage with the door rolled open, grease staining his hands while he worked on whatever car currently had its guts spread across the driveway.
Was this borderline stalking? Probably
But he’d never introduced himself, and neither had you, and it had somehow been almost a month since he moved into the small corner house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Everyone in the cul-de-sac knows each other.
Except him.
He was still an enigma.
Instead of peeking through the blinds like a stalker, you convinced yourself that opening every blind in the house was a perfectly normal alternative.
And there he was, standing in the middle of his driveway with a phone pressed to his ear instead of working on the unfamiliar car sitting with its hood popped open.
He looked worn out actually. Still attractive, unfortunately. But exhausted.
The brutal summer heat probably wasn’t helping either, and before you could stop yourself, one singular thought drifted into your mind:
Is he staying hydrated?
Which immediately sparked an entire chain of questions that could only be answered if you actually spoke to him for once.
So now you were standing in your kitchen cutting apples and making lavender lemonade.
Generic? Maybe.
But it felt like a decent way to introduce yourself without sounding insane.
You definitely weren’t going to tell him you made it specifically for him, though.
You didn’t care much about presentation either.
The apple slices got tossed into a sandwich bag, and you poured two glasses of lemonade. Less in yours to make it look like you’d already been drinking it, and more in the one meant for him.
The outfit, though, took a little more thought.
It was way too hot outside for sweatpants, and if you were finally going to talk to him, the last thing you wanted was to sweat through your clothes.
So, summer shorts and a cute tank it was.
Nothing wrong with showing a little skin when your neighbor spent half his life shirtless in the driveway anyway.
𝜗𝜚
As you headed for the door, you peeked out the window one last time to assess his current predicament.
The phone was gone now, and half his body was buried beneath the hood of the car as he worked, completely unaware that you were seconds away from walking across the street with a quick pick-me-up and several weeks’ worth of curiosity.
The closer you got, the more clearly you could hear the soft spill of saxophones and low bass drifting from the garage speakers.
And unfortunately for your sanity, he looked just as good from the back as he did from the front.
“Jazz fan?” you asked softly, careful not to startle him beneath the hood of the car.
The reaction was immediate.
He jerked hard enough to smack his head against the underside of the hood with a loud clank.
“Shit,” he hissed, stumbling back a step while rubbing the spot with grease-stained fingers.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no,” he laughed breathlessly, still wincing. “That’s my fault. I think I lost the ability to hear anything besides this engine like twenty minutes ago.”
Up close, he looked even more exhausted.
Faint shadows sat beneath his eyes, damp curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. There was grease smeared along his forearm, another streak near his jaw, and somehow the whole thing only made him more attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d crossed the street carrying homemade lemonade just because he looked tired.
His gaze finally dropped to the midday snack in your hands. “…Is that for me?” he asked carefully, like he genuinely wasn’t sure.
“Uh,” you started, suddenly very aware of how suspicious this probably looked.
“I was already making some for myself,” you lied smoothly. “And you looked like you were one second from passing out, so…”
His gaze flicked between you, the lemonade, and the apples in the sandwich bag. “Right,” he said slowly, like he absolutely did not believe you.
Which was fair. Nobody casually made lavender lemonade in this economy.
Still, he took the glass from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for half a second.
“Well,” he said, softer this time, “thanks. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome,” you replied, trying very hard to act normal despite the fact that your entire nervous system had just short-circuited over brief hand contact.
He took a long sip almost immediately, and the faint tension in his shoulders eased a little.
“Okay,” he admitted after a second, glancing down at the cup, “this is actually really good.”
“Thank you,” you said, maybe a little too fast. The corner of his mouth twitched before the soft sound of saxophone filled the brief silence between you again.
You nodded toward the speaker tucked near the back of the garage.
“So you are a jazz fan.”
Chan glanced over his shoulder at the music before looking back at you. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone trying to figure out if you’re secretly eighty years old.”
That finally earned you a real laugh. Warm, low, slightly tired around the edges. “Jazz is timeless,” he defended.
“That’s not helping your case, actually.”
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. You bring me lemonade and immediately start attacking me.”
“Keeps you humble, I think.”
“I don’t think I was arrogant to begin with.”
“You mow your lawn shirtless,”
It went completely silent.
Fuck. I said way too much.
Chan stared at you for two full seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched
“In my defense,” he said carefully, “it was ninety degrees.”
Chan took another sip of lemonade, “So you like watching your neighbors do lawn work?”
All of a sudden you were burning up. “I was curious that morning.”
“Mm.” Chan glanced down at the lemonade. “Curious enough to start bringing me refreshments.”
“I’m being neighborly,” you defended immediately.
Chan hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And the apples?”
“Also already cut.”
“Right.”
“You’re being really judgmental for someone accepting free lemonade.”
That earned another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, like he was finally relaxing into the conversation instead of standing awkwardly inside it.
“Well, since we’ve both noticed each other and somehow still never spoken…” you said, “I think that makes us equally guilty.”
Chan’s smile widened behind the rim of his cup.
“Equally guilty, huh?”
“Painfully guilty.”
“Good to know I’m not the only terrible neighbor here.”
“You’re still worse,” you said. “You moved in and didn’t introduce yourself.”
“You watched me mow my lawn shirtless and didn’t introduce yourself either.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it immediately.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” you said, even though it absolutely was not.
Chan looked far too entertained by your suffering.
“So,” he said, leaning back against the car, “how long was I under neighborhood surveillance before you finally decided to talk to me?”
“Surveillance is a strong word.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”His laugh came easier now, lighter than before.
“For the record,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the garage, “you’re kind of hard to ignore.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That so?”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “That sounded less embarrassing in my head.”
“Good to know my hard work is appreciated.”
“Your hard work?” you repeated incredulously.
“Maintaining a lawn is serious business.”
“You’re standing here covered in engine grease trying to flirt about landscaping.”
He blinked at you. "I'm not flirting.” The denial came way too fast to sound convincing.
You stared him for a second. "Sure."
His mouth twitched again before he looked away, suddenly seeming very interested in the rag beside him. "Okay, maybe a little."
The admission sounded accidental. Honest in a way that made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Like realizing he’d been charming without fully meaning to be.
He wiped his hand against the rag before finally holding it out toward you. “I should probably introduce myself properly before my neighbors start opening investigation files on me,” he said. “Chan.”
You told him your name, trying not to focus on how warm his hand felt when your fingers slipped into his.
“Nice to officially meet you,” he said, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles before letting go.
The gesture was brief enough that you could’ve imagined it. Unfortunately, your brain decided to replay it anyway.
“So,” you said, clearing your throat slightly, “what exactly are you working on?”
Chan glanced back toward the car like he’d almost forgotten it existed. “Customer’s car,” he explained. “Or… technically my friend’s customer. I’m helping him out.”
“Meaning you’re fixing someone else’s problem on your day off?”
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds terrible.”
He laughed softly. “You get used to it.”
You watched him take another sip of lemonade before his shoulders relaxed again, just slightly.
“Long day?” you asked before thinking too hard about it.
Something flickered across his face then. Quick enough that you almost missed it.
“Long month,” he admitted instead.
The answer settled between you more honestly than expected.
And for the first time since moving in, the mysterious neighbor across the street stopped feeling mysterious at all.
Just human.
Right on cue, his phone started ringing again.
And just like that, the same expression from earlier returned. The softness in his face tightened almost instantly, exhaustion settling back over his features like something heavy and familiar.
Chan glanced at the screen and exhaled quietly through his nose. “Sorry,” he murmured, already reaching for it.
“No, you’re okay,” you replied quickly.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he answered the call with a tired, “Hey, Mom.”
Mom?
Your curiosity immediately sharpened, but you stepped back anyway, lifting a hand in a small goodbye to give him some privacy.
Chan glanced up from the call almost immediately.
“Wait,” he said quickly, covering the phone against his chest for half a second.
The suddenness of it made you pause.
“Thanks for the lemonade,” he added, softer this time. “And for finally introducing yourself.”
Something warm fluttered annoyingly in your chest. “Try not to die of heatstroke,” you replied.
A tired smile pulled at his mouth. “No promises.”
As you walked back across the street, you heard him sigh quietly into the phone behind you
“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Just bring her back. It’s fine. Thanks.”
Her?
Your steps slowed for only half a second before you forced yourself to keep walking.
It wasn’t your business.
Probably.
𝜗𝜚
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly after that.
You watered your plants. Folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for two days. Pretended very hard not to glance out the window every ten minutes.
Around an hour later, movement across the street finally caught your attention again.
A familiar older woman pulled into Chan’s driveway in a silver SUV. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.
A little girl climbed out of the backseat holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear, her tiny sneakers lighting up against the pavement with every step she took.
And suddenly, everything clicked into place.
Chan appeared from the garage almost immediately after hearing the car door shut.
The exhaustion you’d seen earlier softened the second the little girl spotted him.
“Daddy!”
She launched herself across the driveway at full speed, stuffed rabbit bouncing wildly behind her.
Chan barely had time to crouch before she collided into him, and just like that, the intimidatingly attractive mechanic across the street completely melted.
“Hey, bug,” he laughed softly, catching her against his chest with practiced ease. “Miss me already?”
The little girl nodded dramatically against his shoulder.
From your window, you watched him press a kiss to the side of her head before standing again, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The older woman said something to him then, too far away for you to hear clearly.
You watched see him sigh in response.
She reached up to squeeze his shoulder before heading back toward her car.
Mom.
Well that explained the grocery bags.
The little girl kept talking animatedly while he listened, nodding along despite the lingering exhaustion still written all over him.
And against your better judgment, something in your chest tightened at the sight.
You really tried not to stare after that.
Tried being the important word.
Because the next thing you knew, Chan was balancing the little girl on his hip while attempting to close the garage with the other hand, and she was very seriously holding his lemonade for him like it was an important assignment.
Your lemonade.
Which somehow made the entire thing feel weirdly intimate. The little girl took a curious sip from the straw before immediately making a face.
Chan laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired, polite kind he’d given you earlier, but something fuller. Easier.
The sound carried faintly across the street even through your closed window. Then, like she could feel herself being observed, the little girl suddenly looked up.
Directly toward your house.
Your body reacted before your brain did, ducking beneath the window.
“What am I doing?” you whispered to yourself from the floor.
Slowly, cautiously, you lifted yourself just high enough to peek over the windowsill again.
He was already looking directly at your house. Specifically, at the exact window you’d just disappeared from.
Mortification hit instantly.
The little girl was still perched on his hip, tiny hands wrapped around the lemonade cup while she whispered something into his ear.
Chan started to smirk.
Oh god.
She definitely noticed you spying.
Before you could disappear for a second time, the little girl suddenly lifted her arm and waved enthusiastically through the window.
Bright, excited and completely unashamed.
Chan glanced down at her, then back toward your house, and to your complete horror, he smiled too. Soft and sleepy around the edges.
Well there went your ability to act normal around this family.
𝜗𝜚
Things only got worse the following evening. Or better. Maybe.
Unfortunately, the distinction was becoming harder to make.
You were dragging grocery bags out of your trunk when you heard tiny sneakers slapping against pavement.
“Hi!”
You looked up just in time to see the little girl from yesterday standing at the edge of your driveway.
Up close, she looked even smaller. Big dark eyes, messy curls, and the same stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm like it legally belonged to her.
Chan trailed a few steps behind her carrying two takeout bags and looking deeply apologetic already. “I’m so sorry,” he called out immediately. “She saw you and escaped.”
“I did not escape,” the little girl argued.
“You absolutely escaped.”
She ignored him completely and looked back at you instead. “Daddy said you made magic lemonade.”
You blinked once. Then slowly turned toward Chan. “Magic lemonade?”
Chan looked mildly horrified. “That’s not what I said.”
“You said it had flowers in it.”
“…That is unfortunately true.”
The little girl stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically like she was sharing a very serious secret. “Daddy talked about your lemonade all night.”
Chan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and genuine embarrassment. “Okay,” he muttered, staring at the sky for patience. “I think that’s enough sharing for today.”
“I like your flowers too,” she added helpfully.
“Okay, seriously, whose side are you on?” Chan asked.
She gasped softly. “Yours.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You finally laughed, unable to help it anymore, and something in Chan’s expression softened immediately at the sound.
The little girl beamed proudly at the fact that she’d apparently succeeded in making everyone equally uncomfortable.
“I’m Jia,” she announced suddenly.
“Jia,” Chan repeated with the deep weariness of a man who knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “What do we say when introducing ourselves to strangers?”
She thought about it very seriously. “…My dad is twenty-eight?”
Chan closed his eyes. “That is not remotely what I meant.”
“You asked me to be polite,” Jia defended immediately.
“I did,” Chan agreed. “I just didn’t think you’d start listing my personal information like a tiny government employee.”
Jia looked completely unbothered by this comparison. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to laugh yourself into cardiac arrest in your own driveway.
“Twenty-eight, huh?” you repeated lightly before you could stop yourself.
Chan pointed at you instantly. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m just processing the information I was given.”
“Against my will.”
Jia tugged on his sleeve. “Can we have nuggets now?” The dramatic betrayal faded from his face immediately.
“Yeah, bug,” he sighed softly. “We can have nuggets now.”And there it was again. That softness. The one that seemed to appear every time he looked at her.
You’d kill for him to look at you like that.
Which felt slightly dramatic considering you’d known this man for less than forty-eight hours.
But still.
Chan adjusted the takeout bags in one hand before nodding toward you.
“Sorry again,” he said. “She’s decided privacy is optional.”
“I heard that,” Jia informed him.
“I know you did.”
You smiled despite yourself. “It’s fine. Honestly, I think I’ve learned more about you in five minutes than I did the entire month you lived here.”
“That’s because my roommate keeps violating confidentiality agreements.”
Jia looked delighted by this accusation.
Before he could start ushering Jia toward the house again, you crouched slightly to her level. “Well, Jia,” you said seriously, “I should probably introduce myself properly too.”
Once you told her your name, Jia stared at you for a second before slowly lifting the stuffed rabbit into view. “And this is Leebit.”
“Leebit?” you repeated carefully.
Jia nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable name for a stuffed rabbit. “She’s sensitive.”
“I understand completely,” you replied.
Chan laughed quietly behind her, softer this time. “Okay,” he sighed, finally steering Jia back toward the house before she revealed his blood type next. “Dinner before you expose anything else about this family.”
“Bye!” Jia called, already halfway up the driveway.
Then she stopped suddenly and turned back around. “Wait,” she gasped dramatically. “We forgot to say thank you for the magic lemonade.”
Chan sighed toward the heavens. “It was lavender, Jia.”
“That’s magic to me.”
Honestly? Fair enough.
You smiled, folding your arms lightly against your chest. “You’re welcome.”
Jia beamed at you one last time before finally allowing herself to be herded toward the front door.
He lingered behind for half a second longer. The porch light caught softly against the tired edges of his face, but for the first time since you’d met him, he looked lighter somehow.
“Sorry in advance,” he said quietly, glancing toward the tiny chaos already disappearing inside the house. “She gets attached to people fast.”
Your stomach betrayed you instantly. “That makes two of us,” you almost said.
Instead, you just smiled. “I think I can handle her.”
Chan looked at you for a second too long before finally nodding once. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chan.”
You spent the rest of the night trying not to think about them.
Which was difficult when your kitchen still smelled faintly like lavender and fresh lemons. Worse, every time you closed your eyes, your brain insisted on replaying tiny moments like an aggressively edited romantic comedy montage.
Chan laughing softly in the driveway.
Jia introducing Leebit with complete sincerity.
The way his face changed whenever he looked at his daughter.
By the time morning rolled around, you’d managed to convince yourself to act normal about the entire thing.
That resolution lasted until approximately 10:14 a.m. Because when you opened your front door to grab a package, Jia was sitting on your porch.
Alone.
Holding Leebit.
And coloring directly on your welcome mat with sidewalk chalk.
“Jia?” you blurted immediately, eyes widening.
She looked up from the chalk drawing completely relaxed, as if this had always been her porch too. “Hi,” she said happily. Leebit was tucked beneath one arm while pink chalk dust coated her fingers.
Your heart nearly stopped. “Why are you over here by yourself?”
Jia pointed vaguely behind her with the chalk, “Daddy’s sleeping.”
Oh.
“Jia,” you said carefully, crouching down a little, “did you sneak out?”
She gasped like you’d accused her of a serious crime. “No.”
A pause.
“I walked out.”
You pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing at the worst possible time.
“Okay,” you said slowly, “that’s still not something you’re supposed to do by yourself.”
Jia considered this information while drawing another aggressively pink line across the concrete. “Daddy was sleeping,” she explained again, like that answered everything.
Which, honestly, explained enough.
Your gaze flicked across the street toward Chan’s house. The curtains were still closed.
A tiny thread of concern tugged at your chest.“How long have you been over here?” you asked gently.
Jia shrugged. “Since cartoons.”
That was not a measurement of time.
“Jia,” you said carefully, “what does that even mean?”
She blinked up at you like you were the confusing one.“The blue dog cartoons.”
…Still not a real answer.
Your concern must’ve shown on your face because Jia suddenly held Leebit out toward you reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said confidently. “I know where my house is.”
“That’s not my concern, sweetie,” you said gently. “Some cars drive really fast around here. What if you got hurt?”
Jia’s expression faltered slightly for the first time since you opened the door. “But I looked both ways,” she defended quietly.
Your heart squeezed a little. “I know you did, sweetie,” you replied softly. “But you still can’t leave the house without telling your dad, okay?”
Jia looked down at the chalk in her hand.“…Okay.”
And suddenly the situation felt a lot less funny.
“Come on,” you said gently, standing back up. “Let’s get you home. I don’t want your dad waking up and panicking because he can’t find you.”
Jia’s eyes widened slightly. “He’ll panic?”
“Absolutely.”
She looked genuinely thoughtful about this revelation before quietly gathering her chalk pieces into a tiny pile.
Leebit was tucked securely beneath her arm again as she reached for your hand without hesitation.
And that tiny, instinctive trust nearly took you out on the spot. Crossing the street with her tiny hand wrapped around yours felt strangely domestic. Girl, get it together.
The front door of Chan’s house was unlocked when you gently pushed it open, calling out a cautious, “Chan?”
No answer.
The house was quiet in that heavy, sleepy kind of way that suggested someone had crashed hard after being exhausted for too long.
Jia immediately slipped off toward the living room like this was a completely normal morning adventure.
You followed after her just in time to see him asleep on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes. Phone still in his hand.
The television played softly in the background to absolutely nobody.
The second Jia climbed onto the couch beside him, Chan jolted awake so fast it genuinely startled you.
“So sorry for the intrusion,” you blurted out immediately. This was definitely not how you envisioned the first time stepping inside his house.
Chan blinked at you for a second, still visibly caught between asleep and awake, before his gaze snapped toward his daughter.
“Jia.”
Uh oh.
“I went to visit,” she explained confidently from beside him.
“Without telling me?” The panic in his voice was subtle, but there.
Real enough that guilt twisted in your chest a little on Jia’s behalf.
Chan sat up fully now, running a hand down his face before looking back at you. “Did she cross the street alone?”
“Technically…” you started carefully.
“I looked both ways,” Jia added helpfully.
Chan stared at the ceiling for a long moment like he was asking the universe for strength.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” you said gently. “I already told her that was dangerous.”
Chan exhaled quietly through his nose, some of the panic easing from his shoulders.
Jia immediately took advantage of this. “See?” she said proudly. “I got lectured already.”
“That’s not exactly something to be proud of,” Chan muttered. Still, his hand found the back of her head automatically, smoothing down her messy curls just to reassure himself she was there.
The tiny gesture did something weird to your chest again.
This was probably a terrible idea, but your mouth was already moving before you could stop.“Hey, um…” you started awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“If you ever need extra rest or need to handle stuff around here, I can hang out with her for a bit.”
Chan looked at you like nobody had offered him that in a very long time.
Jia, meanwhile, looked ready to adopt you on the spot. “Really?” she gasped.
Chan blinked once before rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t have to do that,” he said softly. But he sounded tired enough that it almost hurt to hear.
Before you could respond, Jia spoke up from the couch.
“Nana’s been busy lately.”
Chan’s expression shifted instantly. Not angry. Just… exposed, somehow. Like a private part of his life had been accidentally placed on the table between all of you.
Jia, completely unaware, kept talking while hugging Leebit to her chest. “So Daddy’s extra tired now.”
Your heart squeezed painfully.
Chan let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face again.
“Nana?” you asked quietly.
Chan glanced toward you before answering. “My mother,” he said softly. Something in his expression gentled when he said it, but the exhaustion never fully left his face.“She usually helps a lot with Jia, but work’s been keeping her busy lately.”
Jia nodded solemnly from the couch like this was a very serious family meeting. You looked between the two of them for a moment.
Chan sitting there barely awake on the couch. Jia curled against his side with Leebit in her lap. The quiet television humming in the background.
The lived-in warmth of the house despite the exhaustion hanging over it.
It hit you suddenly then. He wasn’t distant because he was unfriendly. He was drowning. Working, parenting, moving into a new neighborhood, fixing cars on his days off, surviving on what looked like four hours of sleep and caffeine.
And somehow still managing to be gentle.
“The offer still stands,” you said softly.
Chan looked up at you immediately.
“Even if it’s just so you can nap without worrying she’s gonna escape and start another neighborhood tour.”
“I did not tour,” Jia argued sleepily.
“You trespassed.”
“I visited.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.
Chan watched you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You barely know us,” he said finally.
“Yet,” you pointed out gently, “I’m kind of the only person you guys know in the neighborhood right now.”
Chan went quiet at that, because unfortunately, it was true.
The moving boxes still stacked near the hallway.
The unfamiliar street.
The exhaustion.
All of it suddenly felt a little heavier in the silence.
Jia leaned against his arm, already looking half-asleep again. His gaze dropped briefly toward her before returning to you. Something softer settled into his expression then. Not just appreciation, but relief as well.
“J-just let me know,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling very aware of how personal this conversation had become. “No pressure or anything.”
Chan’s expression softened even further at the stumble in your voice. “Right,” he said quietly. “No pressure.”
But he looked at you like the offer meant more than you realized.
Sensing the sudden shift into dangerously intimate territory, you started backing toward the front door. “I should probably let you guys get back to your morning,” you said lightly.
Jia immediately looked disappointed, and Chan, somehow, looked a little disappointed too. Which absolutely did not help your situation.
“Wait.” Chan stood from the couch before you could make it more than two steps toward the door.
Jia immediately flopped sideways into the cushions the second his arm moved away from her, completely exhausted from what had apparently been a very eventful morning.
Chan glanced toward Jia briefly before looking back at you.
“At least let me repay you somehow,” he said. “You returned my runaway child.”
“That sounds way more dramatic than what actually happened.”
“Does it?”
You smiled despite yourself. “You really don’t have to repay me.”
“Maybe I want to.”
And suddenly the foyer felt a little too small.
Chan leaned lightly against the wall near the doorway, still looking half-awake. Somehow, it only made him more unfairly attractive.
“You like coffee?” he asked after a second.
“That depends,” you replied carefully. “Are you trying to bribe me into future babysitting?”
A tired laugh slipped out of him. “Maybe a little.”
“Then yes. I love coffee.”
“Good,” he murmured. “There’s a café like ten minutes from here. She likes the cake pops and I survive off iced americanos.”
“A balanced diet.”
“Exactly.”
His smile lingered this time. “Come with us sometime?” he asked.
The question landed so casually it took your brain a full second to process it.
Come with us?
Not me.
Us.
And somehow that made your chest ache even worse. “Yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”
His shoulders loosened almost immediately, like he’d been oddly nervous about asking. Which felt insane considering this man looked like that while standing barefoot in sweatpants at eleven in the morning.
Jia suddenly lifted her head from the couch cushions. “Can I get two cake pops?”
“No,” He answered instantly.
“One and a half?”
“That’s not a real number of cake pops.”
Jia thought about this carefully. “Then two.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and he looked over at you again with that same softened expression from earlier.
Like he was quietly cataloging every sound you made.
“Alright,” you said finally, forcing yourself to continue toward the door before your feelings developed a mortgage in this house. “I’ll let you guys rest.”
Jia waved lazily from the couch. “Bye.”
“Bye, Jia. Bye, Leebit.”
The stuffed rabbit stared at you with the same emotional support energy as before.
He walked you to the door despite looking seconds away from passing out where he stood.“Thanks again,” he said quietly once you stepped onto the porch.
“For returning your escape artist?”
“For…” He paused briefly, glancing back toward the living room. “Being nice to us.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected.
Your chest tightened a little. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
He looked at you for a moment like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Still going to.”
After you parted ways, reluctantly, you walked back across the street trying very hard not to replay the entire interaction in your head.
In which you failed immediately.
By the time you made it back inside your house, your brain had already decided to obsess over approximately seventeen separate things.
Chan asking you to get coffee with them.
Jia holding your hand without hesitation.
The way he’d said us.
The fact that his house already felt strangely familiar after only ten minutes inside it.
Which was absolutely not normal.
You dropped onto your couch with a dramatic groan, staring at the ceiling.
“This is how people end up emotionally attached to single fathers,” you informed yourself aloud.
𝜗𝜚
The front door clicked shut behind you, leaving their house quiet again aside from the low murmur of cartoons still playing from the television.
Chan stayed standing there for a second. Longer than necessary.
“Dad,” Jia said from the couch, “you’re staring at the door.”
“I know.”
He scrubbed a tired hand down his face before finally locking it, though the motion felt pointless considering Jia had apparently started wandering the neighborhood at sunrise.
His heart still hadn’t fully recovered from waking up and realizing she’d walked out.
Across the room, Jia hugged Leebit tighter. “She’s nice.”
His gaze drifted automatically toward the front window, then toward the house across the street. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “She is.”
The thing was, he’d noticed little details long before the lemonade.
It was hard not to.
You watered the flowers along your porch every morning before the heat got too bad, usually still half-asleep and wearing clothes that looked thrown on five minutes earlier.
Your car was the little dark-colored sedan with a small dent near the back bumper.
Sometimes you sang absentmindedly while bringing groceries inside.
Sometimes you sat on your porch at night scrolling on your phone with your legs curled beneath you.
And sometimes, when he worked in the garage with the door open, he could feel your eyes on him from across the street.
Not in a creepy way.
Like you’d been trying to figure him out from a distance the same way he’d been trying to figure you out.
He hadn’t expected the neighborhood to feel this lonely.
New house. New routines. New streets.
Most days it felt like he was still unpacking pieces of his life that no longer fit together properly.
Then somehow, within forty-eight hours, the neighbor across the street had walked into his garage with lavender lemonade and looked at Jia like she mattered immediately.
He’s fucked.
“Dad?”
He hummed tiredly from where his head rested against the couch.
Jia tilted her head up at him.“Can we keep her?”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “You ask that like she’s a stray cat.”
“Okay.....then can she come over again?”
He glanced toward the front window again before answering. The flowers on your porch swayed lightly in the summer heat, bright against the white railing.
Your curtains shifted, probably from you moving around inside. And for some reason, the thought settled warmly in his chest.
“Maybe,” he said finally. Jia grinned triumphantly before settling back against him.
The room went quiet again after that, filled only by cartoons and the low hum of the air conditioner struggling against the heat.
His eyes drifted shut briefly. Only for a second, before his phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside him.
His mother.
He sighed before answering. “Hey, Ma.”
“Is Jia better?” his mother asked immediately.
Chan looked over at his daughter, currently half-asleep with chalk still smeared across one cheek. “She’s fine.”
His mother laughed softly through the speaker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help this weekend.”
Guilt hit instantly. “Ma, it’s fine.”
“Christopher.”
Ah. Full government name.
Chan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Seriously,” he murmured. “I’ve got it handled.”
His mother went quiet for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “You don’t always have to handle everything alone, you know.”
“Kind of hard,” he admitted quietly, “when you and Dad are basically my only support systems.” The words slipped out more honestly than he intended. Silence filled the other end of the call for a moment.
Then his mother sighed softly. “Christopher…”
He stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t meant it as guilt. Just fact.
Moving here had been necessary. Better schools. Better neighborhood. More space for Jia.
But starting over somewhere new while trying to hold everything together alone felt a lot heavier in practice than it had on paper.
Especially on mornings where his daughter wandered across the street while he accidentally passed out on the couch.
“You’re doing your best,” his mother said gently.
Chan laughed quietly under his breath.
“Yeah. Some days my best loses the kid before ten a.m.”
“And some days your best fixes cars until midnight and still makes dinosaur pancakes the next morning.”
His chest tightened unexpectedly at that.
Across the couch, Jia shifted sleepily against his side, still clutching Leebit by one ear. He smoothed a hand over her curls automatically. “I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want her growing up feeling like everything’s unstable all the time.”
His mother was quiet for a second before speaking again.“You know what she’s going to remember?”
Chan leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “What?”
“That her father loved her enough to keep trying even when things were hard.”
Well, that hit directly in the sternum.
He went quiet after that.
Because what was he even supposed to say to that?
His mother had always been unfairly good at reaching straight into the center of a problem and pressing on it gently until he stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.
“And,” she added after a moment, her tone shifting lighter, “your neighbor seems nice.”
Chan immediately frowned. “Jia talked to you already?”
His mother laughed outright this time. “Christopher, that child would leak classified military information for a fruit snack.”
Fair.
“She said the neighbor brought you lemonade.”
He stared toward the front window again before he could stop himself. “Lavender lemonade,” he corrected absentmindedly.
A pause, then, “You sound fond already.”
“Ma.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re definitely saying something.”
“Mm.” His mother sounded far too entertained. “And are you denying it?”
…Annoyingly, no.
“Christopher.”
He already didn’t like the tone of her voice.
“Don’t start planning your wedding in your head because a pretty neighbor brought you lemonade.”
“I am not planning a wedding,” he muttered immediately.
His mother hummed skeptically through the speaker. “You noticed she was pretty awfully fast.”
Damn.
“Ma.”
“I’m just happy you sound interested in something again.”
The teasing softened around the edges near the end of the sentence. Enough that his chest tightened a little. Because he knew what she meant. The last year had been survival mode.
Work.
Jia.
Bills.
Moving.
Rebuilding routines from scratch.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d stopped noticing things outside of necessity.
Then suddenly there was a woman across the street who sang while carrying groceries and crouched down to speak to Jia like she deserved full eye contact during conversations.
And apparently that had been enough to restart something in him. Which was terrifying, honestly.
𝜗𝜚
Three days later, Chan learned two very important things.
One: Jia had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed.
And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment.
“Dad,” Jia whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.”
He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it.
He barely had time to fully think and react before Jia started waving both arms aggressively from the cart.
“HI!”
Half the grocery store turned to look first. Then you glanced up in confusion before spotting them. And then you smiled.
God, that smile was becoming a genuine problem for him.
“Well,” you laughed softly as you walked closer, “there’s my favorite escape artist.”
“I didn’t escape today,” Jia informed you proudly.
“We’re aiming for growth,” Chan added.
Your eyes flicked toward him then, warm amusement immediately settling into your expression. “And look at that,” you teased lightly. “She brought her emotional support dad with her too.”
Chan stared at you for a second before an unwilling laugh escaped him.
Yeah. He was absolutely screwed.
"We ran out of dino nuggets," Jia explained gravely.
"Apparently it's a crisis," he confirmed.
“I can tell.” You dropped a few mangoes into your basket before glancing into their cart.
There were approximately six different snacks, apple juice, coffee creamer, and absolutely no actual dinner ingredients.
Your eyebrows lifted slowly. “Interesting grocery strategy.”
He looked down into the cart before sighing. “In my defense, she was helping.”
“I picked the Oreos,” Jia said proudly.
“Yeah?” A quiet laugh escaped you as Chan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was supposed to stop by after work yesterday,” he admitted, “but I got home late and we ended up ordering takeout instead.”
Your expression softened immediately. “You guys eaten today?”
Jia raised her hand from the cart. “We had waffles.”
“Chocolate chip waffles,” Chan corrected weakly.
You stared at him for a second.
Then at the cart.
Then back at him again.
“You know what?” you said suddenly. “Come over for dinner tonight.”
Chan blinked.
Jia gasped, “Really?”
“Only if you want to,” you added quickly, looking back at him now. “I was already planning to cook anyway.”
Chan hesitated for maybe half a second before Jia answered for the both of them, "We want to."
"Jia."
"What? We do."
You laughed softly.
"Seven okay?
He nodded slowly.
"Y-yeah. Seven's good."
The conversation moved on easily after that. Way too easy.
Like this was normal.
As if people invited him and Jia over for dinner all the time.
As if he hadn't spent the better part of last year feeling isolated in ways he didn't know how to explain to anyone.
Neither of you seemed in much of a rush to end the conversation, but eventually the aisle ran out before the talking did.
"Don't let her convince you to buy more snacks," you called lightly before turning your cart away.
Jia giggled as he mumbled a distracted, "Okay." He watched you leave for a second too long.
“Dad?”
"Yes, bug?"
"Why haven't we moved?"
He blinked, finally looking down at her.
"What?"
Jia pointed in the direction you'd disappeared. "You stopped walking."
𝜗𝜚
By six-thirty, you had already changed outfits three times. Which was ridiculous. They were your neighbors.
Not royalty. Not a date.
Definitely not a date.
And yet your kitchen somehow looked like you were preparing for a full dinner party instead of feeding a tired mechanic and his tiny accomplice.
You checked the pasta sauce simmering on the stove for the fifth time before groaning dramatically into your hands. “Why am I nervous?” you demanded aloud to absolutely nobody.
Because realistically, the worst thing that could happen was Jia not liking the food.
Or Chan thinking this entire thing was weird.
Or realizing halfway through dinner that you were getting emotionally attached to his little family at genuinely alarming speed.
Okay.
Maybe there were several worst-case scenarios.
- - -
“No.”
Jia gasped from the middle of the living room floor. “But Leebit wants to come.”
Chan glanced down at the growing pile of stuffed animals beside her.
“Leebit can come,” he agreed carefully. “The other six absolutely cannot.”
Jia crossed her arms immediately. “They’ll feel left out.”
“They’re stuffed animals.”
“They have feelings.”
Chan rubbed a tired hand down his face before glancing toward the clock again.
Why was he nervous?
It was dinner. Just dinner.
With the neighbor. The very pretty neighbor.
…Okay, maybe that was part of the problem.
His gaze drifted toward the unopened bottle of wine sitting on the counter. Was bringing wine too much?
Too formal?
Weird?
Did people even bring wine to casual neighbor dinners anymore?
He barely knew you, but somehow the idea of showing up empty-handed felt worse.
- - -
The knock at your front door came at exactly seven o’clock. Chan definitely seemed like the type to apologize for being thirty seconds late.
Your stomach flipped anyway.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself while smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your shirt. “Normal.”
Which immediately became impossible the second you opened the door.
Chan stood on your porch with one hand resting lightly on Jia’s shoulder.
Freshly showered. Dark curls still slightly damp.
Black t-shirt. Black jeans.
And somehow he looked even more unfairly attractive without engine grease smeared across his face. Which felt rude, honestly.
Jia, meanwhile, looked delighted to be there. “Hi!” she chirped instantly, holding Leebit up toward you like proof of life.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Your gaze flicked back toward Chan just in time to catch him already looking at you.
Something unreadable softened briefly across his face before he held up the bottle in his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know if bringing wine was weird,” he admitted immediately.
Your heart did something genuinely embarrassing inside your chest. “No,” you said quickly. “That’s actually really sweet.”
He looked weirdly relieved by the answer. “Okay, good,” he laughed softly. “I stood in the grocery store for like ten minutes trying to decide.”
“Daddy almost bought flowers too,” Jia announced helpfully as she stepped past him into the house.
Chan froze.
You blinked.
Jia blinked back innocently.
“Jia.”
“What?”
Heat climbed straight up Chan’s neck as he shut the front door behind them. “I was not going to buy flowers.”
Jia looked deeply unconvinced. “You stared at them for a long time.”
“That’s because I couldn’t reach the wine.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Chan immediately looked both embarrassed and relieved that you were laughing instead of judging him.
“For what it’s worth,” you smiled, “I think flowers would’ve been nice.”
He stared at you for half a second too long. “Yeah?”
Jia, blissfully unaware of the psychological warfare occurring above her head, wandered farther into your house with Leebit tucked beneath one arm.
“Do you have toys?”
He sighed softly. “Jia.”
“What? I’m just asking.”
“It’s okay,” you said, smiling. “I don’t have toys, but I do have markers and coloring books somewhere.”
Jia’s entire face brightened. “For me?”
“For you and Leebit, if she wants.”
Jia looked down at the stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
“She does.”
Chan watched the exchange quietly, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle. He looked like he wanted to say something.
Like maybe thank you again.
Like maybe something else entirely.
Instead, he just followed you toward the kitchen, after getting Jia settled. “Need help with anything?”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, “You’re a guest.”
“I’m bad at that.”
“At being a guest?”
His mouth twitched, “At sitting still.”
You still shooed him away despite it all.
Unfortunately, he turned out to be exactly as incapable of sitting still as advertised.
You’d barely finished setting plates on the counter before he was beside you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up slightly as he glanced around for something to do.
“What can I help with?”
“You can sit down and relax for more than five minutes.”
"That's impossible."
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you pointed toward the stove.
“Fine. Stir that for me.”
“See? This is why I offer help.”
He moved beside you easily after that, close enough that you became painfully aware of how little space your kitchen actually had.
Which had never been an issue before.
Now suddenly every movement felt catastrophically noticeable.
Especially when you turned at the exact same time he did.
He caught himself quickly, one hand bracing against the counter behind you to avoid knocking directly into you.
But it still left him close.
Very close.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s okay,” your voice came out quieter than intended.
Neither of you moved right away.
Then Jia’s voice floated in from the living room.
“Daddy, Leebit wants juice.”
Chan blinked like he’d temporarily left his body. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back again. “Juice. Important.”
You stared very hard at the vegetables in front of you while he disappeared into the living room.
Unfortunately, the universe apparently wasn’t done with you yet.
Because ten minutes later, Chan reached around you for the spoon on the counter at the exact moment you bent down to grab something from the cabinet.
His hand brushed lightly against your waist.
Both of you froze instantly.
“Sorry,” he said again, this time sounding genuinely flustered.
“You’re okay,” you answered quickly.
He lingered for half a second before stepping back again, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.
“Small kitchen,” he muttered.
“Apparently.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned back toward the stove like neither of you had just short-circuited over two seconds of accidental contact.
Neither of you spoke for a second after that.
The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, or maybe that was just you.
Chan busied himself with grabbing glasses from the cabinet while you focused very hard on stirring the pasta with too much force.
Which was ridiculous.
It was a hand brushing your waist.
Unfortunately, your nervous system seemed committed to disagreeing.
From the living room, Jia’s voice drifted toward the kitchen, “Daddy, Leebit needs to go potty!"
And just like that, the tension loosened slightly around the edges.
Chan let out a quiet laugh through his nose beside you. "Bathroom?"
"First door down the hall."
“I should probably go handle that crisis,” he murmured.
“Probably.”
You risked glancing up just in time to catch him already looking at you again, seeing something softer flickered briefly across his expression before he disappeared back toward the living room.
You started setting the table while Chan helped Jia wash her hands in the bathroom. It gave you something to do with yours.
After the kitchen incident, your body still felt a little too aware of him. The brief brush of his hand. The way he’d stepped back so quickly. The way neither of you had really known where to look afterward.
You set down plates. Then napkins. Then adjusted the forks even though they were already straight.
Completely normal behavior.
From down the hall, you heard the faint rush of water, Jia’s tiny voice, then Chan’s quieter response.
You couldn’t make out the words.
Maybe that was worse.
Because even without hearing him clearly, you could still picture the patience in his face. The tired curve of his shoulders. The gentle way he spoke to her even when he looked like he was running on fumes.
You exhaled slowly and reached for the glasses to pour wine.
Dinner. Focus on dinner.
Jia reappeared first, climbing into one of the dining chairs while Chan lingered behind her in the hallway for a second.
Your gaze lifted automatically.
He’d rolled his sleeves up slightly while helping Jia wash off the chalk, exposing strong forearms, which unfortunately did not help your situation at all.
He caught you looking for a second before your attention snapped aggressively back toward the plates. Great.
"This looks really good," he said quietly as he stepped toward the table.
The sincerity in his voice caught you a little off guard.
"I-it's just pasta."
"Still," he murmured. And for some reason, the way he said it feel like he meant more than the food.
Jia looked between the two of you briefly before narrowing her eyes. “You guys are being weird.”
Both of you answered at the exact same time.
“We’re not.”
Silence.
Jia gasped softly. “That was the same voice.”
He immediately dragged a hand down his face while you nearly choked on air across the table.
“Okay,” he muttered tiredly. “Can we play detective later?”
"Mhm"
Dinner settled into something more comfortable and quiet after that.
Jia swung her legs lightly beneath the chair while absentmindedly feeding tiny pieces of bread to Leebit between her own bites of pasta.
“Daddy sleeps on the couch when he works too much,” she said suddenly.
Chan went still for half a second.
“Bug.”
Jia frowned slightly, confused by his tone. “What?” she asked softly. “It hurts your neck.”
The concern in her voice softened something in your chest immediately.
Chan looked down at his plate for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose.
“I didn’t know you noticed that.”
“I notice,” Jia informed him simply.
And somehow, that felt less like a joke this time.
Your eyes lifted toward him automatically.
He looked embarrassed.
Not because Jia had exposed him, but because someone else had heard it too.
“You should probably sleep in your bed more,” you said gently before thinking too hard about it.
His gaze flicked toward you briefly. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”
Silence settled briefly around the table after that, not awkward; just quiet in the way good conversations sometimes became.
The kind where nobody felt rushed to fill every second.
Jia eventually went back to eating, humming softly to herself while kicking her feet beneath the chair.
Chan watched her for a moment before glancing toward you again.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “She overshares.”
“She gets that from you?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Definitely not.”
“Mm.”
Chan leaned back slightly in his chair then, studying you for a second over the rim of his glass.
“What about you?”
Your fork paused briefly. “What about me?”
“You know basically my entire life story already,” he said lightly. “Feels unfair.”
Warmth crept into your face immediately.
“I do not know your entire life story.”
“You know enough to ruin me in court.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you took another sip of your drink.
“Fine,” you conceded. “What do you want to know?”
Chan looked strangely thoughtful for a second.
Like he was trying to decide which question he actually cared about asking most.
You expected something casual. Favorite color. What you did for work.
Maybe whether or not you always invited near-strangers over for dinner after knowing them for less than a week.
Instead, Chan asked quietly, “Are you always this nice to people?”
The question caught you so off guard you actually blinked at him.
Across the table, his expression remained calm, but there was something careful underneath it now. Like he genuinely wanted the answer.
“I…” You let out a small laugh, glancing down at your plate for a second. “That’s kind of a heavy question for pasta.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t look away.
Jia hummed softly to herself beside him, completely absorbed in attempting to feed Leebit microscopic pieces of garlic bread.
You watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I guess I just think people should look out for each other.”
Your fingers traced lightly against the side of your glass.
“We stick together in our little corner of the neighborhood.”
The words settled softly between all of you.
Chan’s gaze held yours for a second too long afterward. Like maybe nobody had included him in something that gently in a very long time.
Jia yawned dramatically beside him a few minutes later, the earlier excitement of the evening finally starting to wear off.
Chan glanced down at her immediately. “You getting tired?”
“No,” she answered automatically.
Then she yawned again so hard her entire body folded forward.
You smiled into your drink while Chan shook his head softly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s convincing.”
Jia ignored him completely, leaning more heavily against his side instead. He adjusted without even looking. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
You watched them while your heart pounded at the sight. "You can lay her on the couch if you want," you offered softly.
He glanced up at you.
"You sure?"
You nodded as you got up from the table, "I'll go grab her a blanket."
He watched you disappear briefly down the hallway before looking back at Jia curled sleepily against his side.
Something in his expression softened.
Not just because you offered, but because of how naturally you did it. Like making space for them in your home hadn’t required a second thought.
By the time you returned with the blanket folded over your arms, Jia was already half-asleep against Chan’s shoulder.
He looked up as you approached, “Thank you,” he said gently.
The sincerity in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You handed him the blanket and watched him lay his daughter down carefully across the couch, making sure to tuck Leebit beneath her arm before pulling the blanket over both of them.
The sight felt almost unbearably tender. So tender, that you had to force yourself to look away before your feelings developed roots in your living room.
So instead, you escaped into the kitchen under the excuse of cleaning up. Which would’ve worked better if he hadn’t followed you with the dirty dishes a minute later.
“You know,” you said as he set them beside the sink, “most guests usually pretend to relax after dinner.”
“I told you,” he replied quietly, rolling his sleeves up slightly again. “I’m bad at staying still.”
The kitchen felt smaller now.
Quieter too.
Without Jia’s constant chatter filling the house, every little thing suddenly felt more noticeable.
The clink of dishes.
The brush of his arm beside yours.
The way he kept drifting close without seeming to realize he was doing it.
You tried very hard to focus on packing leftovers into containers instead. “Take these home with you guys,” you said, sliding one of the lids into place.
He looked over immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
His gaze lingered on you for a second before softening slightly. “You always do things like this?”
“Feed people?”
“Take care of them.”
The question landed quieter than expected. Your hands paused briefly against the counter. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a second. “I like making people feel comfortable.”
He leaned lightly against the counter beside you, close enough now that you could smell soap lingering faintly against his skin underneath everything else.
“That explains Jia,” he murmured.
Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. You busied yourself with another container before looking over at him again.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Why’d you move here?”
Chan went quiet. His eyes drifted briefly toward the living room where Jia slept curled beneath the blanket.
“Fresh start,” he answered finally.
The words were simple. But heavy enough that you didn’t push immediately.
Chan exhaled softly through his nose before continuing anyway.
“Things got messy where we were before.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And Jia deserved somewhere quieter than all that.”
Something in your chest ached a little at the honesty in his voice.
“You'd do anything for her,” you said softly before thinking too hard about it.
Chan looked at you immediately after that. Like the answer to that question was the easiest thing in the world.
“Without a doubt." The certainty in his voice settled heavily in your chest.
Your eyes drifted toward the living room automatically, toward Jia asleep beneath the blanket with Leebit tucked against her chest.
“She’s lucky,” you murmured.
Chan was quiet for a second beside you. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
Something about the way he said it nearly took you out at the knees.
You focused very hard on snapping another lid onto a container before your face betrayed you completely.
“You make it sound easy,” you admitted quietly.
“What?”
“Being there for someone like that.”
Chan leaned back against the counter slightly, studying you with an expression that had gone softer somewhere in the middle of the conversation.
“It’s not easy,” he said honestly. “You just keep choosing them anyway.”
Your hands slowed against the container in front of you before you glanced back toward him carefully. “What happened to her mom…” you asked softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Chan went still.
Quiet in a way that immediately made you wonder if you’d crossed a line.
“You don’t have to answer that,” you added quickly.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the living room again to watch Jia. “No,” he murmured after a second. “It’s okay.”
The kitchen felt smaller somehow while you waited.
Chan rubbed a hand slowly across the back of his neck before speaking again.
“She left when Jia was two.”
The words were calm, and straightforward. Like he’d repeated them enough times that they no longer sounded sharp coming out, but something in his face still tightened anyway.
“At first it was supposed to be temporary,” he admitted quietly, at least that's what it seemed like. “Then it just… wasn’t.”
Your chest ached instantly.
Chan laughed once under his breath, though there wasn’t much humor in it.
“I think I spent a long time trying to convince myself I could fix it if I just worked harder.” His eyes lowered briefly toward the counter. “Turns out relationships don’t work like cars.”
The honesty in his voice made something twist painfully inside you.
“Chan…”
He shook his head lightly before you could say anything else.
“It’s better now,” he said quietly. “Or at least… calmer.” His gaze drifted toward Jia again, softening immediately. “And she’s happy.”
The way he said it made it painfully obvious that Jia’s happiness had become the center of his entire world.
Even at the expense of his own.
Silence settled quietly between you after that. Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy in a way that made you suddenly very aware of how close he was standing beside you.
The sink ran softly while you rinsed out one of the pots, mostly just to give your hands something to do.
He stayed leaned against the counter nearby, arms loosely crossed now. Open in a way he probably wasn't used to.
“I didn’t mean to make things depressing,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before.
You looked over immediately. “You didn’t.”
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than expected. Like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe that.
“People usually get uncomfortable,” he admitted eventually. “Once they realize it’s just me and Jia.”
Your chest tightened slightly. “Why?”
He gave a small shrug, gaze dropping briefly toward the counter.
“Single dad thing, I guess.” A faint breath of laughter escaped him. “People either think you’re barely surviving or they start looking at you like you’re some kind of tragedy.”
You frowned. “That’s stupid.”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by how quickly you answered.
"I mean it," you continued softly. "You're a great dad, Chan."
He broke eye contact first, "I'm trying," he admitted quietly.
Something about the honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected, because he didn’t sound like someone asking for praise.
Just a parent who was tired.
The rest of the cleaning happened quietly after that.
Softer now, like something between you had shifted slightly without either of you fully acknowledging it.
Chan dried dishes while you put dishes away, the occasional brush of your arms still enough to make your heartbeat stumble embarrassingly fast. Neither of you mentioned it.
By the time the kitchen was finally clean again, the apartment had gone almost completely still.
Jia remained curled beneath the blanket on the couch, one tiny hand still wrapped around Leebit’s ear.
He glanced toward her before exhaling softly through his nose. “She’s out cold.”
“I think the pasta took her down.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes drifted toward the half-finished bottle of wine still sitting on the counter.
“You want me to head out?” he asked.
The question sounded polite, but not like he actually wanted to leave.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass before you answered.
“You can stay a little longer if you want.”
Chan looked at you then, something in his expression softened in a way that immediately made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, the two of you ended up back in the living room with fresh glasses of wine while Jia slept peacefully nearby.
The television stayed off.
Neither of you seemed to mind the quiet.
He leaned back carefully into the corner of the couch, one arm stretched loosely along the cushion behind Jia while you sat a little farther down the other end.
Close enough to talk softly. Close enough to notice things.
Like how his voice got rougher when he was tired.
Like how he listened with his full attention whenever you spoke.
Like how neither of you seemed in much of a hurry for the night to end anymore.
The conversation drifted easily after that.
Slower than before. Less careful.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Or maybe the two of you had simply crossed whatever invisible line existed between strangers and something else entirely.
“So,” Chan murmured after a while, turning his glass slowly between his hands, “how’d you end up here?”
You smiled faintly. “In this house specifically?”
“In this aggressively nosy neighborhood.”
A laugh slipped out of you softly enough that Jia stirred slightly beneath the blanket before settling again.
Both of your eyes immediately flicked toward her. Chan’s expression softened automatically once he realized she was still asleep.
It did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system.
“I grew up around neighborhoods like this,” you admitted quietly once the room settled again. “Everybody knowing each other. Neighbors bringing over food, or having neighborhood cookouts. Somebody’s aunt always watching from a window somewhere.”
Chan huffed softly into his wine. “That last part definitely tracks.”
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your glass.
“You’re never letting the spying thing go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
His smile lingered afterward. Softer now.
Less teasing than before. Like he’d relaxed enough to stop hiding behind it quite so much.
“I think I missed this,” he admitted after a moment.
Your expression eased slightly. “The spying?”
Chan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze drifted around the house briefly before settling back on you. “Just… this.”
The room. The conversation. The calm.
You understood immediately anyway.
Something in your chest tightened gently. “It gets lonely?” you asked softly.
Chan was quiet for a second. “Sometimes it feels like I only exist as somebody’s dad now.”
The honesty in the sentence settled heavily between you. He looked almost surprised after saying it out loud. Like he hadn’t meant to.
“Not that I mind being her dad,” he added quickly, glancing toward Jia again. “I just…” He exhaled softly through his nose. “I don’t know. Somewhere in the middle of work and bills and trying to keep everything together, I think I forgot how to be a person outside of taking care of everybody else.”
Your heart genuinely hurt for him then, because he said it so casually.
Like he’d gotten used to carrying that feeling around alone.
“Chan,” you said softly.
His tired eyes lifted toward you again.
The wine had loosened something in him tonight. Not enough to make him reckless.
Just enough to make him honest.
“You know what the weird part is?” he admitted quietly after a second. “I don’t even think I noticed how lonely I was until recently.”
Your chest tightened immediately. “Recently?”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his glass.
“Yeah.”
The single word landed warm. Heavy with implication neither of you addressed directly.
You looked down at your wine before smiling softly to yourself. “I think,” you admitted carefully, “sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget they’re allowed to want more than that.”
Chan went very still across from you. Like the sentence had landed somewhere deeper than you intended, or maybe exactly where you intended.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The house had gone completely quiet around you.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The soft ticking of your kitchen clock.
Jia breathing steadily beneath the blanket a few feet away.
Chan’s gaze stayed fixed on you longer than it probably should have. Not intense. Not even flirtatious, really. Just… searching.
“You always know the right thing to say,” he mumbled eventually, voice rougher now.
Warmth crept up your neck immediately. “No,” you laughed softly. “Most of the time I’m just hoping I don’t sound insane.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You don’t.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache unexpectedly.
Like he wasn’t just reassuring you. He genuinely meant it.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your wine glass.
You’re easy to talk to too,” you admitted quietly after a second.
Chan looked faintly surprised by that. “Yeah?”
You nodded once, tracing your thumb along the stem of your wine glass.“Most people don’t actually listen anymore. They just wait for their turn to talk.”
Chan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose at that, gaze dropping briefly toward the floor.
“Occupational hazard, maybe.”
“Mechanics are good listeners?”
“Single dads,” he corrected softly.
Something in your chest shifted at the answer.
Chan leaned back further into the couch afterward, looking more relaxed now than you’d seen him all night, or maybe just less guarded.
“I think I forgot what it felt like to sit somewhere and not feel stressed the whole time,” he admitted after a moment.
Your eyes lifted toward him immediately. He sounded almost confused by the realization himself.
Before you could think too hard about it, the words slipped out, “You can come here whenever you need a break.”
He looked at you. Holding that steady kind of attention that always made you feel like he was listening to more than your actual words.
Your pulse stumbled almost instantly.
“That’s a dangerous thing to offer me,” he said quietly.
Your breath caught slightly at the softness in his voice. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Chan’s gaze lingered on you for a second. “Because I think I’d get used to it.”
The confession settled between you gently. Not flirtatious. Somehow worse.
Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately looked down into your wine glass just to regain composure.
He seemed to realize what he’d said a second too late because a quiet laugh escaped him afterward, softer around the edges now.
“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “That sounded more intense out loud.”
“A little,” you admitted weakly.
His smile widened faintly. “The wine’s making me honest.”
“I think you were honest before the wine.”
Chan looked at you carefully after that. Like he was trying to figure out whether you understood how much he already meant every word he said to you.
The terrifying part was, you did.
Chan glanced away first this time, exhaling quietly through his nose before leaning forward to set his glass down on the coffee table.
“You know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Your eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Why?”
“Because Jia gets attached easily.” His gaze flicked toward the couch automatically. “And I didn’t want to assume…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head. “I don’t know. That we could just suddenly start showing up in your life all the time.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at the wording.
Showing up in your life.
Like he’d already been thinking about the possibility.
“Chan,” you said softly, "you guys are not a burden to me."
Chan looked down briefly, thumb dragging once against the side of his glass before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You say things like that so casually,” he murmured.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why do you say that?”
His eyes lifted toward yours again, “You don’t realize what hearing that does to someone.”
Your heart stuttered.
From the couch, Jia shifted sleepily beneath the blanket with a soft little whine.
Both of your heads turned automatically.
Chan checked the time on his phone and immediately grimaced. “Okay,” he muttered quietly. “I definitely overstayed.”
“You didn’t.” The reassurance slipped out before you could stop it.
Chan looked at you for half a second before his expression softened again in that dangerous way you were rapidly becoming too attached to.
“Still,” he said gently, pushing himself up from the couch. “She’s gonna be impossible to wake up for school tomorrow if I don’t get her home.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly as the reality of the night ending settled in.
Suddenly, the house already felt quieter.
Chan crossed the living room slowly before crouching beside the couch. “Bug,” he murmured gently, brushing a curl away from Jia’s face. “Time to head home.”
Jia squinted up at him sleepily from beneath the blanket.
“M’tired.”
“I know.”
“Carry me?”
Chan’s expression softened immediately. “Always.”
Your heart nearly folded in on itself right there.
Jia lifted her arms sleepily toward him while he carefully gathered Leebit and the blanket first before reaching down for her.
Like this exact routine had happened a hundred times before.
Jia curled against his chest almost instantly after he picked her up, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Half-asleep already.
“Tell your neighbor thank you,” Chan murmured quietly.
Jia peeked one eye open toward you. “Thank you for pasta,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Her eyes drifted shut again immediately afterward. Chan adjusted her slightly higher against his chest before glancing toward you.
“Sorry again for staying so late.”
“Chan.”
He stopped immediately at your tone.
“You don’t have to apologize for being here.”
Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Like hearing it still caught him off guard.
this is a hyunjin version of my original karina fic !! .✦ ݁˖
dividers by @suupersonic !!
Hyunjin is a hard worker, an over-doer if anything.
The kind of man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when they're of no use to anybody else, most people severely underestimate how control-starved Hyunjin can get. Desperate to touch and demand, grip and tell directions, sometimes he's so hungry for it that whenever the very taste of the control he craves so badly touches the tip of his tongue, it makes his nauseous.
That mindset of his applies to his job perfectly, the center of the group, the spotlight who's responsible for fluttering fan's hearts… but it also applies during sex — and at this very moment of fragility and wet smacking sounds, you knew it better than anyone else.
"Yeah, I know- oh… you're drooling all over my arms, pretty thing," Hyunjin sweetly reminded in a deep tone, making your stomach turn in all sorts of directions when you felt the ghost of his cocky smile touch your earlobe.
That small taunt, though it came from a place of pure adoration of your dumb self, felt so awakening and humiliating that it was enough to make you clench around his thick shaft, stuffed snug and belonging in your sticky hole, your arousal leaking down your damp thighs like honey.
"Hmp- mhh… Hyune, H-Hyunjin…" You could only pathetically whine as your eyes closed by pure reflection from how hard they were stinging, hot tears refusing to stop pouring down, you push your pelvis back into his despite your trembling legs, rolling your hips dumbly on top of his lap as he held your neck pretty and stiff in a tight headlock.
His big, angry cock pumping in and out of your messy warmth at a disgusting pace was all that you could hear, if it wasn't for the vulnerable position he kept you in, you're sure that your body would be trashing at all kind of angles from his rapid movements which somehow only felt faster as you came around his length again and again. Forced to sit there shaking on top of his strong body, pressed hard against the voluminous mass of his chest and convulsing against his torso as your back involuntarily bent into another painful arch from overstimulation, drooling all over your chin and his forearms until it's reaching your boobs — a mess, just the way he liked you.
Hyunjin's built muscles flexed against your neck again, he could feel every pulse and gag of your throat, you could hear his airy giggle whenever it matched the flutter of your abused walls, rewarding your slutty tendencies with a tighter hold of your breathing, just enough to make you struggle a little bit.
"You love it, don't you, doll? When… hmp- When I hold you like this?" he bits your earlobe and the disaster you had going on in your throat only worsened, choking on your own drool, stuck in a incoherent mess as Hyunjin left you cock-drunk and whining. His forearm pressed against your pulse one more time, you gasped as your eyes rolled to the back of your head and words just spurted out of your mouth with no business of making any sense.
"Lo-Love you… I love you, Hyune… mhp, mhhh- Love you, Hyunjin…" You tried sucking in more air, your brain begging for some sort of oxygen that lasted for more than one or two of your loud moans and never ending whining. Satisfied with your answer, he presses his arm just right to push your head back on his shoulder, hips never slowing down their pace at ruining your creamy warmth as his palm brushes against your puffy clit with every stroke, he kisses your cheek gently then. A mean reminder of how carefully he can love you when you behave.
The way his big body could cover yours with no issue whatsoever was doing wonders to making you dizzy with desire, fluttering in the way he held you as if it wasn't hard at all because for him, it really wasn't.
He could always make you feel so deliciously small, sat pretty and destroyed at his lap which was completely damp from your juices, his leaking length only filling you deeper, fingers teasing and prodding on that spot in your clit just right to make your head spin, keeping you basically bouncing on his lap from his hard thrusts.
His gasps and groans alongside the sounds wet splashes of skin slapping were reminding you of the most beautiful melody you've ever heard, slamming into your weeping womanhood while you trembled like a weak little thing, walls flexing roughly around his rough ministrations, you were almost there, could feel the relief you needed so badly at the tip of your fingertips, just out of reach.
Your nails clawed helplessly at the damp skin of his forearms, holding onto a small hope that he'd be done soon to convince yourself of not turning your head to the right and biting onto the beefy, delicious meat of his bicep. An uselessly broken sound rips from your throat and he catches it at the perfect time, swallowing your whimpers with a messy kiss full of teeth and tongue.
Every time he pressed onto that gummy spot, you felt like crying even harder, body convulsing harshly against his like you were being electrocuted by an entire thunderstorm and he didn't flinch even once. Used to the way his little toy moves around beneath his power, kissing the side of your face every time you gasped for air, smiled at your cheek every time he could hear every bit of your sweet struggle.
Finally, you came again, thighs shaking aggressively and quickly betraying the tears streaming down your face with a loud show of just how much you truly loved his brutal demonstrations of love, you can slowly but surely feel all of that ugly, persistent tension leave your frail body.
That's when you hear it.
"Want me to stop, baby? Wanna cum again?" Hyunjin's voice in your head — all too warm, dripping with the thinnest of sugars.
⍣ ೋ cw: soft pregnancy mention, implied smut, post-sex intimacy, emotional vulnerability, chris being extremely down bad, light humor, and overwhelming tenderness.
notes: in which you finally tell chan about your unexpected pregnancy.
The nausea comes in waves. Not sudden, but rising — quiet and cruel.
You slip out of bed on instinct, careful not to stir him. The room is dim, still painted in that pre-dawn blue where shadows blur soft against the walls. The floor’s cold under your feet, the silence heavier than usual.
You close the bathroom door behind you, but not fast enough to hide the sound.
You barely make it to the toilet.
Your body folds in on itself as you retch, one hand clutching the edge of the counter, the other pressed to your mouth. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. You’re trembling again, just like yesterday. Just like every morning this week.
And you know exactly why.
But you haven’t told him.
Not yet.
The door clicks gently, and before you can even call out, he's there.
“Baby?” Chris’s voice is thick with sleep, curls still mussed, but his worry is immediate.
He steps into the bathroom, barefoot and blinking against the light. You don’t turn around, can’t—your cheek is pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes shut tight, trying to keep the tears at bay.
You hear him crouch beside you. Feel the warmth of his palm, tentative but steady, on your back.
“Hey, hey…” he whispers, thumb rubbing soft, slow circles between your shoulder blades. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
You hate how kind he is. How easily he forgives the way you’ve been pulling away lately—your silence, the distance you keep curling between your bodies each night. You hate it because he still looks at you like you haven’t broken his heart in quiet, accidental pieces.
Like you haven’t been lying by omission.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, already standing. But you reach back blindly, fingers clutching at his wrist.
His movement stills the second you touch him.
Your fingers curl weakly around his wrist, barely more than a brush, but he stays rooted like you’ve anchored him. He sinks back down beside you without hesitation, knees to the cold tile, one hand steadying you while the other moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I won’t go.”
Your fingers slip from his wrist to his forearm, anchoring there. Not tight, not pleading. Just... needing something solid. He shifts closer, gently tucking you against him, and you let him—half-curled over the toilet, cheek pressed now to the curve of his shoulder instead of cold porcelain.
It’s shameful how good it feels.
How much you missed him.
How much he still makes space for you, without question.
You breathe him in. Warm skin, sleep-soft cotton, the scent of dreams not yet dissolved. His hand returns to your back, tracing the same slow circles, patient and gentle. He doesn't rush you. Doesn’t push. Just stays.
A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it back down.
“You’ve been sick a lot lately,” he says quietly. “And I—I didn’t want to push, but… I was starting to worry.”
You close your eyes.
Tighter.
Like you can hold the truth inside your chest if you just try hard enough.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” you manage, voice paper-thin.
Chris lets out a small, broken exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh. His thumb is still tracing that same small circle on your back, over and over like a ritual.
“Too late, baby,” he says. “You know me. I worry when you don’t text back for ten minutes.”
You breathe out a tremble of a laugh. It barely escapes you.
He pulls you in a little more, his shoulder now against your cheek, his arm curling around your waist, like he could take this ache from you if you just let him.
“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get off this floor, yeah?”
You don’t protest. You let him help you up, let him walk you slowly back to bed. He moves around you like instinct — pulling the blankets over your legs, smoothing your hair back, propping a pillow behind your back like he knows how this all goes. Like you’ve always been this breakable.
He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the kettle click on. The cupboard door. The soft clink of ceramic. It’s the kind of intimacy you never thought would undo you.
When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug. He sets the tea down, crawls in beside you, and tugs you gently against his chest. You go without hesitation this time. Your cheek finds his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady.
“Try to sip,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to the mug. “Ginger and honey. Helps settle the stomach.”
You take a shaky breath. Sip once. Then again.
He strokes your arm, still not asking what’s wrong. Still just being.
“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, the words too fragile to carry.
Chris doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just presses his lips to your forehead, eyes closed.
“You’ve got me anyway.”
You hold the tea with both hands, and before you can stop yourself, before you can weigh the moment, it falls out—
“I’m pregnant.”
A beat.
Then two.
His breath catches just slightly. You feel it in the way his chest stills beneath your cheek.
“Yeah?” he says, quiet.
He doesn’t sound shocked.
Not really.
You feel his hand pause where it rests on your arm. Not jerked away, not pulled back—just still. Still like he’s been waiting for this. Still like he already knew.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
His face is soft in the low light. No widening of the eyes, no sharp intake of breath, no panic. Just a quiet kind of calm. Like he’s been holding this truth behind his teeth for days.
You blink. “You’re… not surprised.”
Chris gives you a small, lopsided smile, and there’s something tired in it. Something knowing.
“I kind of figured.”
You freeze.
Chris shifts slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple.
Your fingers tighten around the mug. “You… what?”
“I’ve known for a little while,” he says, and there’s no accusation in it. Just fact. “Not for sure, but… yeah. I knew.”
You pull back slowly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes meet yours, gentle and tired and a little sad around the edges.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
Chris exhales through his nose, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready. And if you never were—” he swallows, voice thickening, “—I figured I’d wait anyway.”
You stare at him. Your chest aches. He’s holding you like you haven’t broken his heart a hundred times over by keeping this to yourself.
“You should’ve been mad,” you whisper. “I pulled away. I lied. I let you think something was wrong with us.”
He shakes his head, thumb still moving, like he’s trying to wipe the guilt from your skin. “You didn’t lie,” he says softly. “You were scared. That’s not the same thing.”
“But—”
“Baby.”
The word silences you.
He shifts closer, rests his forehead to yours. The kind of closeness that feels like home, like breath shared between ribs.
“You’re pregnant,” he says quietly, like he’s still wrapping his heart around the truth. “That’s huge. That’s life-changing. You didn’t owe me a perfect response to that.”
Your eyes fill again. The tears this time are different—no longer the kind that come from fear, but from the ache of being known, and loved anyway.
“I didn’t want you to be disappointed,” you breathe.
Chris huffs a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sigh. “Disappointed?” He leans back, just enough to look at you fully. “Sweetheart, I’ve been walking around for the last two weeks trying not to hope too hard. Every time you flinched at the smell of eggs, I thought I was going to lose it.”
You blink.
He smiles, slow and tender. “I started carrying extra granola bars in my bag like some kind of dad training simulation.”
A laugh breaks from you, wet and surprised and a little wild. He kisses the sound off your cheek.
You want to believe him. God, you do.
But it still claws at you — the weight of it. The impossibility. The quiet voice that’s been whispering the same thing over and over since the first test turned positive.
Your laughter fades as quickly as it came, and you drop your gaze, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.
“But your career…”
The words are quiet. Almost too quiet. Like you’re afraid of waking something up by saying them aloud.
Chris stills.
You press on, slowly. “You have enough on your plate already. The tours. The schedules. The pressure. I didn’t want to be the reason everything got harder. I didn’t want you to feel… trapped.”
His face folds in on itself, soft and stunned, like your words physically knock the wind from him.
“Trapped?” he echoes. “Is that what you thought I’d feel?”
You swallow hard, shrugging helplessly. “You’ve worked your whole life for this. And I know what it looks like from the outside — you, me, suddenly pregnant in the middle of everything. Headlines. Rumors. People blaming me for pulling focus. I just… I didn’t want to be a detour.”
Chris is quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that stretches with tension, but the kind that holds something. Thoughtfulness. Heartbreak. The ache of someone hearing what wasn’t said aloud.
Then, softly:
“You think I care about headlines?”
You open your mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“You think I’d let any of that matter more than you?” His voice breaks—just enough to make your eyes sting again. “I don’t care what the outside looks like. I care about you. About the way you’ve been hurting and hiding it. About how you’ve been carrying all of this alone.”
He sits up a little straighter beside you, pulling your hands into his lap, like he needs to anchor both of you to the moment. His thumbs rub over your knuckles, steady and warm.
“I didn’t spend all this time building something just to let it become a cage,” he says. “I built it so I could choose what matters.”
Your lip trembles. You want to crawl into his words and never leave.
“I want this baby,” he says simply. “And I want you. And if that makes everything harder, then so be it. I’ve never been afraid of hard things. Just losing you.”
You press a shaky hand to your mouth, trying to bite back the sob threatening to rise.
Chris leans in, gently tugging your hands away to cup your cheeks.
“I love what I do,” he whispers. “But I love you more.”
And then, softer still—
“Let them talk. Let the whole world think what they want. I’ll hold your hand through every bit of it. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if that’s what you need.”
You break.
You fall forward into him and he catches you instantly, wrapping you up in the kind of hold that feels less like comfort and more like coming home. He rocks you slowly, like you’re something precious, and murmurs nothing but love into your hair until the shaking stops.
Neither of you speak for a while. Not in words. Just the rhythm of breath shared, the way his thumb never stops moving across your spine, the quiet tremble of your body as it starts to finally release the weight it's been holding for too long.
Eventually, you shift just enough to look up at him, eyes red and swollen.
“You’re really not scared?” you whisper.
Chris smiles. It’s tired, but steady. Steady in the way he’s always been.
“Oh, I’m terrified,” he says with a soft laugh. “But I’m not scared of us.”
His words settle into the quiet like a promise, like a hand pressed to a wound. Not to hide it—but to hold it. To keep it warm. To let it heal.
“I’m scared of screwing it up,” he admits. “Of not knowing what I’m doing. Of forgetting diapers at three in the morning and dropping the car seat manual in a puddle.”
You huff out a shaky laugh.
“But I’m not scared of loving you through this. Of being here. I want to mess it up with you. I want the sleepless nights and the ugly furniture and the weird little onesies your mom’s definitely going to send.”
You let your eyes close for a moment, breathing in the space between you. The safety of it. The calm after the unraveling.
Chris shifts behind you, easing both of you down beneath the covers again. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, palm splaying gently over your stomach—hesitant at first, then firmer, like he’s grounding himself to what’s real.
To what’s already begun.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you murmur, voice muffled against the pillow.
“Neither do I,” he says. “But I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”
His thumb draws soft, mindless circles against your skin. You can feel his breath on your shoulder, warm and even.
“We’re gonna be so bad at swaddling,” you whisper after a moment.
Chris snorts into your hair. “Horrible. Absolute disaster.”
“They’ll probably pee on us within the first ten minutes.”
He laughs again, and it rumbles through you like something holy.
“You mean they won’t wait twenty?” he teases. “Already disappointed in our future child’s manners.”
You smile. Not because the fear is gone. Not because it’s easy now. But because he’s still here. Still him. And somehow, even in the dark—especially in the dark—he’s made space for all of it.
You roll slightly, enough to face him, and he meets your gaze instantly. His eyes are red at the corners too, but soft. So soft.
They’re tangled around your legs, half-forgotten, pulled low from where Chris tugged them back earlier in careful haste—like he couldn’t wait another second to feel you again. To love you the way he’d been aching to for weeks.
But it had been gentle. So slow. So careful it almost hurt.
He’d kissed you like he was scared you’d break beneath him. Like every part of you needed to be cherished differently now—worshipped not just because he loved you, but because you were carrying something he already did.
Now, the room is quiet again.
Not the sharp quiet from earlier—the kind lined with secrets and held breath. This silence is sweeter. Fuller. The kind that lingers in the air after closeness, after truth, after love has been made and remade and made again.
You lie curled in the sheets, his hoodie pooled beneath your head like a pillow, your body still humming from the weight of him—on you, in you, with you.
Chris is beside you. Propped on one elbow, hair a mess, eyes soft in the gold light pouring through the window.
He hasn’t stopped touching you.
His fingertips skim the slope of your stomach—slow, aimless strokes over skin still too tender. He traces the curve like it’s already changed. Like he can already see the future stretching beneath your navel.
“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, for the third—maybe fourth—time.
You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m okay.”
“Did I hurt you at all?”
You open your eyes again, shifting to face him more. He looks almost pained asking it—like he’s still afraid he was too much, even though every touch had been measured, every motion guided by whispered I love yous and soft gasps.
You reach up, fingers brushing through his hair—so soft, still sleep-mussed, still clinging to last night’s weight. His eyes flutter at the contact.
“You didn’t hurt me, Chris,” you say gently, your thumb sweeping across his temple. “You couldn’t have. You were…” You pause, cheeks warming. “You were so good to me.”
He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, nose nudging your palm, lips brushing the edge of your wrist. “I just didn’t want to rush anything,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to take from you.”
“You gave to me,” you correct quietly. “More than you know.”
His gaze finds yours again. And it’s so open—so filled with something fragile and gleaming that it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to be careful with someone the way I want to be with you,” he murmurs, hand still slow on your stomach. “Like every piece of you deserves a softer kind of love.”
Your throat tightens, eyes stinging with the tears you thought you’d already run out of. You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him—soft and close and wordless. A promise.
When you pull back, Chris smiles, all crooked and boyish, like it still surprises him he gets to kiss you whenever he wants.
“Do you think…” he starts, then hesitates, biting down on his lower lip in that familiar way he does when he’s about to say something that scares him. “Do you think they can hear me yet?”
You blink. “Hear you?”
He shrugs, flushing a little. “I don’t know. Maybe not hear, but like—feel me.”
You smile, hand still resting over his where it sprawls protectively across your belly.
“I think,” you say, voice soft with wonder, “if they feel anything at all, it’s love.”
Chris lets out a slow breath, almost like a laugh, almost like a prayer. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s all I want them to feel.”
And then he lowers himself again—carefully, reverently—so his face is level with your stomach, his curls brushing your skin. You feel his breath before his lips, warm and tender, and then—
“Hi,” he whispers. “It’s me again.”
You bite back a watery smile, brushing his hair back from his face. He doesn't look up. He’s focused, eyes closed, words blooming straight from his heart.
“You’re still tiny,” he says. “Probably the size of… I don’t know. A peanut? A lentil?”
You laugh softly. “A blueberry, I think.”
Chris grins against your skin. “Okay. Hi, blueberry.”
The tears return, but this time they don’t sting. They soothe. You let them fall.
Chris presses another kiss, slower this time. “Your mom is amazing. She’s strong, and patient, and really stubborn when she wants to be—don’t get any ideas—but she’s also the kindest person I’ve ever met. And she loves you already. So much.”
You can’t breathe. Or maybe you just don’t want to—don’t want to disturb the moment, the hush in the room, the way it feels like the world has paused just to let him say this.
“And I love you, too,” he adds, softer now. “Even if you’re already making her throw up every morning.”
You snort.
Chris finally looks up at you, face glowing with something boyish and stunned. Like he’s still adjusting to the weight of the word dad and how it might belong to him now.
“Do you think it’s okay to be happy yet?” he whispers. “Or is it too early?”
You blink, startled by the softness of the question. It’s not a doubt in you. It’s a doubt in himself—the way he was used to waiting for the world to collapse anytime something good entered the picture.
You tilt his face fully toward you, one hand on his cheek, the other still resting over his on your belly.
“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “We’re allowed to be happy.”
Chris leans into your palm, lashes kissing your skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Even if it’s early. Even if it’s messy. We’re allowed.”
A long breath leaves his chest. When he exhales, it sounds like something unknots inside him.
“Okay,” he says. And then again, firmer: “Okay.”
He kisses your belly once more—then your ribs, then your shoulder, and finally your lips, slow and sure and lingering like he’s learning the shape of this new beginning through you.
Your breath catches.
Because there’s something different in this kiss—less cautious than before, less tentative. Still tender, still full of awe, but threaded now with a kind of ache. A hunger not for your body, but for closeness. For reassurance. For the promise of you and him and this tiny, impossible future you’re building together.
You kiss him back. Let your hands curl into the soft cotton at his shoulders, let your mouth part beneath his. He deepens it without a word, like your response is all the permission he’s ever needed.
Chris exhales against your lips, the sound low, almost relieved. His hand slides from your belly to your waist, guiding you gently onto your back, careful not to press too hard, like he’s still remembering how much softer the world has become.
You pull him with you, fingers in his hair now, breath mingling as he settles between your legs, his weight familiar, comforting. Not heavy—never heavy. He’s holding himself up even now, even in this, like you’re precious. Like he can’t risk the smallest part of you going untouched, unnoticed, unloved.
His kiss grows slower. Deeper. Tongue brushing yours, mouth warm and open and wanting, but not hurried. Nothing about him is hurried. He maps you like he’s memorizing—not rediscovering your body, but learning what it means now, with the quiet miracle curled inside you.
His palm returns to your belly halfway through the kiss.
It lingers there.
Anchoring.
You feel his hips roll, subtle and restrained, like he can’t help it—but even that is tempered by reverence. He groans softly against your lips and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead to yours.
“I want you again,” he murmurs, breath catching. “So bad.”
You smile, brushing your nose against his. “We just had sex, Chris.”
“I know,” he groans, dragging his lips down to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—soft little kisses like he’s trying to keep himself distracted. “It’s not my fault. You’re literally glowing. Like… it’s actually not fair.”
You laugh, tilting your head to give him more space. “I think that’s just the sweat from me throwing up three times this morning.”
“Nope,” he says, grinning against your collarbone. “Sorry. Pregnancy glow. Hormones. Boobs. All of it. My brain’s broken. I’m ruined.”
You snort. “Are you seriously saying I got hotter now that I’m pregnant?”
Chris lifts his head to look at you, eyebrows raised, completely unapologetic. “Yes. Have you seen yourself? You’re radiant. Divine. A walking goddess with a baby growing inside her—my baby, by the way. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
You blink at him, stunned and absolutely flustered. “Chris—”
He groans dramatically and drops his head to your chest. “You don’t get it. I’m suffering.”
You wheeze a laugh, your fingers threading through his hair again.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely serious now. “Every time you move I want to pounce. But I can’t. Because I am a gentleman. A respectful, self-restrained—” he kisses the top of your belly, “—incredibly patient father-to-be.”
You grin. “Uh-huh.”
His hand slides up your thigh, just high enough to make your breath hitch. “But if you even so much as breathe wrong, I’m folding.”
“Chris—”
“I mean it. One little sound. A sigh. A whimper. I’m gone.”
Your laughter breaks loose then, full and warm and aching at the edges. He kisses you hard, almost like he’s trying to prove his point—like he's sealing the moment in his mouth before it gets the better of him.
His hands are definitely not innocent anymore.
“Okay—okay,” he says, breathless, forehead against yours again. “I have to get up. I have to. You need food. I need distance.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, not letting him go. “You sure?”
He groans into your shoulder. “I’m going. I'm going. But I’m leaving in emotional pain.”
You release him with a teasing little kiss. “Breakfast, dad.”
Chris smirks as he finally sits up, eyes sweeping over you one last time before he swings his legs off the bed. “Fine. But you better be decent when I come back or I’m canceling breakfast and blaming the baby.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
And with that, he trudges toward the kitchen in his boxers, muttering something about toast and torture under his breath.
You melt back into the sheets, laughing, heart pounding, belly warm—and for once, everything feels exactly, impossibly, beautifully right.
or: oh great. your roommate bailed on you right before the new month's payment, and you need to find a new roommate asap. lucky for you, chan came (literally) to your rescue. he's charming enough, and more importantly, pays rent on time. you've agreed to split rent by half, but rent won't be the only thing getting split in half, because he's hiding a big secret. and no, not just the one in his pants.
warnings: MDNI!!! contains heavy sexual content, camboy!chris x roommate!reader, porn with some plot, perv!reader, masturbation, piv, mānhandling, spānkïng, hāirpulling, too many kinks , kinda switch!chan but he's mostly a dom daddy dwdw, I'm a cocky chan truther so yk what's coming, a sprinkle of fluff and banter.
wc: 11k
a/n: loosely based off this drabble
"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.
Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.
I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.
Good luck finding someone else!
shit
Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.
You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.
You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.
it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.
Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.
Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.
You'd vibe.
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.
But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.
Fine. Give him my number.
Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.
He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.
The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.
Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.
You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.
There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”
You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.
Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.
He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”
“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.
Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.
“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”
The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.
By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.
“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”
The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).
When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”
You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”
Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.
It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.
Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”
“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”
You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.
A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.
~
The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.
he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.
When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.
You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.
And then there was the day you came home early.
You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.
The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.
You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.
Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.
you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.
The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.
Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.
You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.
The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.
You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.
When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.
she must've left early.
You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room
but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.
He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.
was he always this muscular?
and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.
"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."
Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.
"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.
"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."
Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."
The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.
but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."
he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.
“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.
“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.
Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.
“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.
The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”
You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.
he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.
The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.
"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.
"I wasn’t freaking out."
Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."
The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"
Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."
You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."
Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"
"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"
Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."
Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"
"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."
Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.
The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.
"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"
Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.
The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.
You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.
Home-y. Right. who even says that?
Stupid stupid stupid.
Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.
'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.
'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'
You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.
You look and feel ridiculous.
You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.
but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.
The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.
Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.
So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.
But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.
“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”
You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.
Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”
“I had to pee.”
“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”
You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”
he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”
“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.
“So it is about the towel thing.”
“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”
Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”
You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.
The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.
Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.
You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.
Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"
You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.
"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.
Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.
"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"
You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.
"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"
Your face burns. "No—that's not—"
His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"
You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."
Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"
You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."
Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"
it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.
You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."
Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."
The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.
You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."
~
The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.
He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.
once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”
You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”
~
Movie nights become a thing.
The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.
Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.
Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.
You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”
“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”
You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.
You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.
The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.
"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."
You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."
Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”
Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”
You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.
Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.
But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.
forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?
You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.
type back,
Seriously?
he answers immediately
dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.
You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”
Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”
Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”
Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”
You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.
too much for your first movie night.
~
just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.
You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.
Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.
Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.
His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.
apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.
that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.
Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.
You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.
You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.
A peak wouldn't hurt...
The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.
Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.
A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.
Oh.
Oh god.
Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.
Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.
You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.
you did not expect this.
His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.
Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."
You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”
Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.
Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.
Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.
he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.
You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.
Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.
Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.
They pause outside your door.
You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.
You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.
Holy shit.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.
you home early?
You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?
Just got back
You hit send before you can second guess it.
Cool. Dinner soon?
Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.
Gonna shower first.
Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,
Can I join?
You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—
jk. don’t use up all the hot water.
You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.
You're deeply fucked.
~
That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.
Onlychans? really?
you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.
Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.
Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.
Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—
You slam the laptop shut.
Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.
You open the laptop again.
It’s Curiosity. That’s all.
It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.
"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.
Then, sure enough, it spiraled.
You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.
And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?
you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.
The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.
your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.
You tap the notification.
Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.
"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.
His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.
Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.
"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.
It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.
A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.
The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.
The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.
His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.
You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.
You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.
"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.
Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.
He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.
His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,
"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."
He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.
"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.
slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip
sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3
Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"
With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.
You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.
you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.
~
Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.
You try to act normal, you really do.
But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.
Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.
it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.
till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.
the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.
then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.
He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.
this feels too domestic for your liking.
“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.
Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.
The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.
Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”
The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.
His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.
"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"
sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."
Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"
You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.
His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"
You shrug, "It’s just errands."
Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."
You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."
"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."
~
The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.
"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."
The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.
You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.
"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.
The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.
the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.
he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.
it feels like he's your boyfriend.
The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.
You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"
"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"
his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.
"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."
he snickers, "Debatable."
Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."
You nod, "Yeah. Okay."
You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.
The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.
The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.
You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.
When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.
"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.
"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"
You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."
Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."
You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.
"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."
"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."
Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.
"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."
You elbow him hard in the ribs.
"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."
You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.
Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.
"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."
You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."
The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.
You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.
Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.
You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."
Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."
His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.
His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.
Your breath hitches audibly.
Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."
You don’t.
His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.
Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.
The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.
"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.
He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.
Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.
His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.
Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.
You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.
his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.
Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”
Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"
His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.
You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.
Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.
"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.
You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.
"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.
Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”
Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.
“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.
His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.
gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.
Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.
He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.
Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.
“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”
Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”
You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.
You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.
“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”
You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.
Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.
Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.
“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”
You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.
“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.
His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.
“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”
Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.
Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.
he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.
"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"
You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.
His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.
“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”
You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.
Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.
“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.
"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"
Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."
You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."
The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.
"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"
You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"
"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."
You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"
Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.
"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"
You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"
"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"
You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"
he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.
You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.
he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.
Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.
Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.
His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.
You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.
His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"
His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.
Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"
You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.
Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.
Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.
The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.
The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."
You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"
Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.
“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.
You can take it. You do.
Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.
Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”
You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.
"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."
You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.
"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.
His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—
You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.
“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.
he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.
“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.
Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.
Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.
You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.
His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.
You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.
"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.
"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."
You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.
The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.
"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.
his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”
You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.
“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.
“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”
You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.
“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.
You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”
Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.
You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"
his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"
You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."
he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"
With mischief dancing about her eyes, Y/N padded over to where Chris was working at his desk, his legs parted casually as he tapped his feet half heartedly against the carpet. His index finger matched the rhythm on top of his mouse, and the soft click-click-click when he lifted and dropped his finger gently over and over made Y/N's face break into a grin as she stopped right in front of him.
He hadn't looked at her yet, but his plump lips twitched with amused acknowledgement. He gave his mouse buttons a few more clicks, his eyes following the cursor on his screen for a short moment before he slowly pushed back from his desk, his face finally tipping up to meet Y/N's eyes.
“Hi,” Y/N giggled, noticing the playfulness that had begun to bloom in the depths of his gaze.
Chris smirked ever so slightly. “Hi. Whaddya want?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Always you.”
“Well, I'm right here. Now what?”
Lips curving up further as another giggle escaped her, Y/N stepped closer, right between his parted legs. Chris's neck craned back to look up at her, and the way his eyes softened, with the top curves of them sloping downwards made Y/N's heart jump within the restrictive walls of her ribcage. She knew it longed to fly out and meet its twin inside of Chris's chest; she could feel it in the way it thumped hard against her own, syncing to the dull thud of his. His pupils slowly dilated until the mahogany brown of his irises flooded with starry black as he kept looking up at her, and his lashes fluttered when her hands slowly sunk into his hair, his chin resting against her stomach.
“Are you still working?” Y/N asked him.
“Mhm. Maybe. Should be, but … “
His words trailed off and Y/N pulled back again a little before pushing Chris's shoulders further towards the cushioned behind of his revolving seat. He watched her lazily as if he knew exactly what she was planning; his eyebrows were raised beneath the short curls falling over his forehead, his arms loosely falling onto each armrest, almost holding them out for her.
The seat was small, with just enough room for one person - yet Y/N still tried to climb onto Chris's lap, her knees coming up on either side of his thighs and digging in to the very edge of the seat - she squealed when the seat tipped a little to the side, but to Chris's growing amusement, she continued to adjust herself until she was lodged awkwardly on his knees.
She burst into a fit of laughter as she wriggled around, trying to tuck in her limbs; Chris too grinned like a fool despite the dramatic sighs and tutting he was keeping a constant stream up of, and his arms came up like a barricade around her, making sure she didn't fall.
“Baby … oh my gosh, honestly, what are you - “ Chris grunted when Y/N's forehead smacked the underside of his jaw, cutting off his incredulous words. They both groaned in pain, Y/N clutching her forehead just as Chris rubbed his jaw, mild exasperation written all over his face. His lips stayed spread out into a smile though, and Y/N started to giggle again just as Chris's hands clamped down onto the middle of her back. With one smooth movement, he tugged her towards him and her body collided with his, her legs slotting beside his and her arms automatically looping around his neck.
She laughed sheepishly under her breath. “I did it.”
“Yeah. After almost breaking my chair and my jaw,” Chris teased.
“Meanie,” Y/N huffed. She twisted a little. “Fine, I'll get off - “
“Oh no you don't,” Chris locked his arms around her waist until her chest was almost completely flat against his with how they were. “You're staying here. Break me and the chair - you're not going anywhere.”
At that, Y/N's eyes lit up. “Thought you were annoyed?”
“Says who?”
“Uh, your face?” Y/N pointed at his vaguely patronising expression. The same expression that made her insides coil together in a very addictive manner - and he knew it.
Chuckling, Chris squeezed her hips before his palms began to roam over the heated expanse of her back. “You can annoy me whenever you want. I love being annoyed by you.”
“Pfft … “
“‘Pfft’ all you want. Doesn't change the fact that it's true.”
Cheeks heating up in the dim lighting of his room, Y/N snaked her hands around from the back of his neck to his face, her fingers starting to caress his cheeks and the sharp curves of his jaw. She trailed them down his defined neck, and they stopped at the sliver of silver twinkling against his flushed skin.
She let out a little groan. The silver moved when Chris swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he cocked his head to the side in question.
“What?” He asked quietly.
Biting on her lower lip as she continued to toy with the thin chain settled perfectly above the dips of his collarbones, Y/N flitted her eyes up to his again. They were slitted as they watched her, and she felt her cheeks burn all over again. She dropped her eyes once more, and instead they landed on the heavy expanse of muscle stretching his black t-shirt across his chest.
Oh, God …
“Nothing,” Y/N cleared her throat. She traced her fingertip over the metal. “I love when you wear this.”
Chris's lips quirked up at the side. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she swallowed thickly. “It's my favourite.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What about the other ones?”
“I like them too, but … I like this one more,” Y/N gently tugged at the chain around his throat, the metal faintly tinkling as it slowly travelled across his skin. “The other ones are too chunky or too long. I like how thin and short this one is. You can barely see it until you move or if I'm close to you … and then it just … sparkles. Like little stars. And it sits at the perfect spot. It just … looks so hot. Your neck is hot. Fuck.”
Despite the newly crimson hue to his ears, Chris burst into soft laughter. “You okay there?”
“No,” she admitted. She breathed heavy. “You're just really hot and I can't take it anymore. You're too handsome … you … you bastard.”
“Wow,” Chris scoffed, his grin spreading. “A bastard, yeah?”
“Yeah. A ridiculously hot one.”
The blush on his ears travelled down his neck, deepening the flush on the skin that peeked out from his neckline. He pressed his tongue hard up against the inside of his cheek as he let Y/N's words settle inside of him; he was both embarrassed and flattered, and he tugged her closer.
“You seem to think about my chains a lot,” Chris opted for when all other answers seemed to evade him. He looked up at her, trying to meet her stare which was travelling down his relaxed torso and fixating on the waistband of his grey sweatpants. “Got nothing better to do?”
“No, actually. I like thinking about pretty things. Your neck is pretty.”
“My neck is pretty, or the chain is?”
“Both. They're both pretty. Double pretty.”
He grinned devilishly when he followed her gaze. “Oi. Eyes up here, princess.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because … if I keep looking at your neck I'll do something stupid.”
“Then look at my eyes.”
“No. They're really intimidating right now.”
Beneath her, Chris's warm, sturdy body shook with laughter. “I'm not intimidating.”
“You are sometimes. Right now you definitely are. The hotter you are the more intimidating you are. You need to stop.”
“I'm not even doing anything,” Chris chuckled. His fingers slipped into her hair and he gently tipped her face up to look at him. “You're killing me right now, you know that? You're being too cute.”
Eyes meeting his, she melted a little under his touch. They were quiet for a moment, just staring into each other's heated gaze, before she spoke.
“You have no idea how badly I want to mark up your neck,” she said under her breath, her fingers smoothing over the soft grain of his addictive skin. He automatically tilted his neck to the side at her touch, allowing her more access, and he leaned further back into his seat, his thighs spreading beneath her.
“It's all yours,” Chris smiled slowly, eyes hooded.
“I can't,” she suddenly whined. “I don't wanna accidentally give you a stroke.”
“What?” Chris spluttered.
“I read about it the other day,” Y/N huffed. “If you suck too hard near the carotid artery it could potentially cause a blood clot. That's scary.”
Blinking at the new piece of information, Chris anxiously rubbed at his neck. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. But … I mean … it did say it was extremely rare … “
“Well, don't suck too hard in that area and we'll be fine,” Chris grinned, squeezing her hip.
Anxious, Y/N shook her head. “Nuh-uh.”
“But you want to.”
“I do want to. But I don't wanna kill you.”
A soft puff of laughter escaping him, Chris locked his eyes on hers again. “What about biting?”
“I … biting is fine.”
“So what's stopping you?”
She stared at him. “Are you forgetting how hard I bit you last time? You literally banned me from doing it again.”
“Oh come on … that was a joke. I didn't actually mean it.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“You really think I can stop you from biting me? You're like a little vampire. I couldn't stop you even if I wanted to. Which I don't.”
At that, Y/N started to smirk. “Christopher Bahng, you sound like you enjoy me biting you.”
His ears deepened in colour. “... Shut up.”
Giggling, Y/N slid her arms around his shoulders and buried her face into his neck. She was rewarded by the secure lock of his arms slotting into place around her waist, his hands splaying out over her spine, gently rubbing up and down as he cuddled her back. His lips found the heat of her temple and he pressed tender kisses to the skin there, his fingers squeezing anywhere they could reach as she melted further into his body.
When he felt something hot and wet bloom against the side of his neck, Chris shuddered. “Fuck, baby … “ he peered down just in time to see Y/N's eyes glinting with a cheeky twinkle as she licked a long stripe from the base of his throat to the sensitive skin near his ear. Her infectious giggles were muffled against his skin, and he shook his head, preparing for the -
A low groan rumbled through him when the familiar bite of Y/N's teeth grazed his skin. She pulled away with rosy cheeks, and Chris looked up at her again, his face steaming as his skin throbbed with delicious heat.
“Unbelievable,” Chris muttered, tracing the indents on his neck with his fingers.
“You said I could!”
“Yeah, I did. You're still unbelievable.”
“It's not my fault you're so stupidly hot. I guess I'm lucky you're not wearing … “
Her voice trailed off as she turned around and looked at his desk, reaching out for something.
“Wearing what?” Chris frowned.
Finding what she was looking for, Y/N giggled. She unfolded the sleek legs, the four pointed silver embellishments at the corners winking at her before she settled the pair of browline glasses on his nose.
“Fuck … “ she wheezed, sitting back on his knees to survey the sight infront of him. She twisted her hands together, taking in the outline of his muscles beneath his t-shirt, his sweatpants that hung low on his hips and the dishevelled curls of his hair that now kissed the tops of his glasses.
And that damn chain …
“I feel like this is probably the most shallow I've ever been,” Y/N managed, making the man shake with more laughter. “But you just … I don't understand how you look this good. I want to eat you. Glasses and all.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Bursting into a fit of giggles, Y/N reached out and clamped his burning face in her hands. “Are you still working?”
“Fuck no,” Chris hastily slapped his laptop closed. “You're making it very difficult with the way you're looking at me.”
As if to accompany his words, he shifted a little underneath her, his breath stuttering at the feeling.
Snickering, Y/N looked down. “Chris?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Keep the chain on. And the glasses.”
His grin made her whole heart flip upside down as he stood up from his seat, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her away from the desk. She giggled when her back landed against the soft cushion of their bed, and he was immediately hovering over her, his dimples breaking through his cheeks and his fine chain swinging just a little, brushing against her nose.
“I think I like you being shallow right now,” he chuckled against her lips, his hands clamping down on the duvet on either side of her head. “It's doing things to me.”
“What sort of things?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Chris just chuckled before sealing his hungry mouth over hers.
summary: stays always talk about how chan is secretly their oomf on twitter, but they never stop to think that a member’s secret girlfriend could also be their oomf
a/n: part five is finally here!!! sorry for the wait i’ve been super busy and have not had the time to properly sit down and write anything for the past couple of weeks! tysm for waiting i hope you guys enjoy and ty for reading this series <3
MY BEAUTIFUL LOVELY APPLE @astrayapple EDITED THE CAST PICTURE FOR ME I LOVE HER TELL HER YOU LOVE HER TOO
suggestive duh, 69, han is needy, felix matches your freak, mommy & mama usage, pet play if you squint, headlock, pegging, booty bangchan (not ai bro i made ts)
